Lancashire 3 - Preston / the trip home /Samlesbury Hall/black pudding fritter/a free visit to a beautiful property

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Where in the world is Gabby the motorhome? Nowhere exotic that is for sure. She is parked up on our drive waiting for her next trip away. I have though gone ahead of myself. Let me take you back two weeks. We are still in France, Morning is breaking over the country and we are setting out from our campsite heading for the tunnel and the journey home. It is still dark as we leave and we both say the same thing. Let's not stay here again. The journey to Calais takes us 15 minutes and we see not one migrant. What we do see are acres of high fencing. I swear the fencing has grown in size and quantity with each year that passes. Razor wire atop the fencing. The economic migrants have moved on chancing their arm somewhere else. The deep moats repel any illegal boarders as do the guards with their dogs. Silly Sat Nag directs us to the boarding area. As we arrive we both feel a sense of dejavu. We have the same conversation every time we approach from the french side.

It goes something like this GLENN " Why does the french side always feel more complicated than the British side?" JEN " Don't know but it feels like a snake chasing his bottom" GLENN "Where am I going? " JEN " Same place as last time" GLENN "That is not useful - where am I going?" MY response "Over there" with arms waving like a banshee. GLENN "Where ? " The conversation continues as I point in the general direction of the right. I have a problem with my right and left as Glenn tells me in no uncertain terms that I am pointing to the middle and shouting right. We do end up at the booking machine despite my problems with directions which in my eyes are perfectly fine. Any woman would understand them perfectly. The machine welcomes me enthusiastically with a cheery Hello Mrs J. Is this you? I have realised over time that this question must be thought about for a while and answered slowly. A poke from my finger a little too high or too low creates confusing and renders the screen unable to recognise me. Feeling cold and shivery it is not easy to poke it in the sweet spot. "Would you like to go on an earlier train at no extra cost ?" my friend the machine asks me. It offers me the 6.50 a slot that a few hours ago cost 169 quid more. I don't have to think for too long. My overloaded brain just thinks why didn't your human friend offer me that in the first place. Not being able to argue with a machine I just poke it again and my coathanger like a snake slithers out.

Climbing into the cab I beam" Guess what ? We are going earlier" We should be able to do this part of the journey blindfolded but more arm waving occurs as I point to the French customs guy who sits there with a bemused look of indifference on his face. No amount of arm waving on my part induce him to put his hand out and check our passports. He just about cracks a smile - "Over there" pointing to British customs. They of course are much brighter, more cheerful and take our passports with a smile. This ordeal over we are directed to the woman with the bat . The bat that looks like she is off to compete in a table tennis match. She waves it over the steering wheel, over the drivers door . I want to say practicing my Gallic shrug - No drugs today then. After this more arm waving , more directions to go over there, or round there, past the hut , round the roundabout. As always we end up in the right place and find ourselves heading off for the train and homeward bound.

We always feel despondent when we get on the train. It has a completely different feeling than going in the opposite direction. Coming home from a holiday is very different to going on one. We listen to the dulcet tones of John Humphries telling us what to do if there is an emergency on board. 35 minutes later the train rolls into Folkestone and we head off up the M2. Traffic as always is heavy, nose to tail, traffic jams and the thought of going round London on the M25. The M1 is little better and we pull up at the services we need diesel but cannot get any due to the police, the Revenue and Customs and the motorway police checking weights and whether vehicles were taxed. We left the pandemonium without any diesel commenting that French service areas are not like that. French motorways are nothing like that. Arriving home we felt thwarted. A holiday over before it even started.

The next few days were a haze and flurry of activity We had no time to remember our holidays as our brains were full of conversations with the local hospice, a special bed was delivered which rippled and pulsed like a water bed. The care was increased. In spite of all of this we still managed to get out for a trip to a company near Preston who fitted solar panels. Over our few weeks away we had made our minds out that we needed a second gas cylinder, we wanted an extra solar panel and a B.B.Q point. We made our minds to drive over the Pennines to Lancashire to sort out prices. The journey was very different to coming home from the south of England. The Pennines always appear low but this is an illusion due to our starting point which is high up anyway. The fields looked green with stone walls bordering them. Too high for crops the only farming to be seen were sheep and cows. Hardy creatures that can survive the harsh winters.

Before we set out I had trawled through the English Heritage sites and the National Trust ones locally to the area and found nothing. Two were open but not today. So it down to Plan B which was to find another place to visit . A garden, a private house or castle but for once it was stumped. I found nothing until I came across the little gem of Samlesbury Hall. It lay 6 miles east of Preston and was built in 1325 by Gilbert de Southworth , It was the home of the family until the early 17th century. It may have been built to replace an earlier building destroyed by the raiding Scots in1322. In 1925, when it was saved from being demolished for its timber, it has been administered by a registered charitable trust and was free to enter. You don't get many free places to visit so this was going to be a pleasure.

Parking was easy as the hall caters for weddings, for shoppers to their waffle or honey shop . There was a restaurant on site which we planned to call into for a slap up lunch. There are many black and white halls in Cheshire, Lancashire and Shropshire. Samlesbury Hall was a typical example with every inch of its external walls black and white striped like a magpie. The hall had a solar which faced east to catch the morning sun. The big door was closed. Inside we expected someone at the desk to welcome us. The hall with its Elizabethan furniture was empty. The sound of piano music drifted from room to room. There were four or five rooms downstairs all decorated in the appropriate style of the period, Chairs, tables, a kitchen filled with copper pans, a hall with wooden roof and huge table. All set out for weddings. What a setting it would be for a wedding. Upstairs were further rooms decorated as a schoolroom or filled with artifacts from the First World War. An eclectic mix but one that caught our attention. All the time we kept thinking we are not paying for any of this.

Lunch was taken in the restaurant. We were served by French speaker who greeted us and offered us the drinks menu followed by the food on offer. Glenn chose his usual chicken with vegetable and I chose the soup and a roll. Thinking this would not be enough I chose a black pudding fritter. Black pudding is an acquired taste. The young would turn their noses up at black pudding. They would not fancy something made of blood but I grew up in a family who ate fried black pudding for breakfast with our egg and bacon. Each mouthful reminded me of home, of childhood mornings with the smell of the cooking. Not only had Salmesbury Hall delivered on every level. Good to look at, food to drool over and a perfect middle to a perfect day. What next ? A price for the panel and a night in Southport . We were in search of the sea. The holiday might have been cut short but today was a good antedote to wanting to be on the road . The weather wasn't marvellous but if you think of the weather this way then it seems less important . " Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storms but to add colour to my sunset sky"

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