Like coals to Newcastle

Taking the bees to Aberystwyth wasn't really anything like taking coals to Newcastle at all.

Get 3 experienced beekeepers in a row & ask them a question; they will give you three contradictory answers. The one exception was asking about taking two hives from Leeds to west Wales: "You'll be fine", I was told by all. In fact, they were right, but I lost some sleep over it.

Preparation? Fly mesh is good - they sell it at Spence's at the bottom of Wellington Road. They look at you a bit oddly if you only ask for a couple of feet since they sell it by the mile, but that was all I needed. Then I liberated some drawing pins from work and had implemented a home made travelling screen.

Moving day: I wake at an absurd time to get some serious early worrying done. My noble friend Tracy couldn't be dissuaded from helping me load: I offered him protective gear but he preferred to dress as a Leeds 6 hoodie. He showed no fear as we loaded them into the back of the transit (Oh yes, too late had we spotted ventilation from the van into the cab: Heath Robinson appeared with a copy of the Leeds Weekly News and some gaffer tape). Katey Slater appeared mid-operation to give much needed moral support ("You're not putting them in there are you?").

Fate intervenes: at this precise moment, LCC send two operatives to flush a colony out of a neighbour's chimney (no no, not a swarm of mine or Katey's - honest Guv). Is this an omen?

We embark. My good friend Peter is riding shotgun on the understanding that he does not have to have anything to do with bees. He is solicitous of my mental health and tells endless funny stories to take my mind off the fact that fear is making me drive like the most cautious of pensioners (5 hats). Aberystwyth is a very long way at 35mph.

We reach Manchester Services. On advice, I have brought some sugar water spray. "Peter, just keep an eye out while I check them, will you?". We have parked remotely from civilisation and I am pleased to open the van and not be overwhelmed by bees. However, on top of hive #1 is a solitary bee: she looks at me and says "Shall I go and get the others?"

Head down, drive to Oswestry. Call over shoulder "We're in Wales, girls - nearly there now" (but they know I am lying). Pull over at the Thrill and Grill truck stop (they won't mind) to repeat the spray protocol. There are now two bees looking at me from the top of the mesh: what would you do? Cup of tea, doorstep ham sandwich, back in the van.

We actually pulled up in Rhoshendre 5 hours after starting. The Königin of the Aber BKA had most kindly provided two stands, and the Frau enthusiastically helped me unload - "Should I put my suit on?" she asks. "I'm going to", I reply.

It was deplorably easy, actually. Took away the entrance block and then was the air full of bees. "Eyup Gladys - where's he brought us?". Or "Eyup Blodwyn - ble mae'n dod â ni?", as the Welsh have it.

So that's it: beekeeping novice to seasoned international traveller in under two years. Big thanks to the LBKA for getting me started, being endlessly helpful, and always having a rich variety of answers to my questions, many of which worked.

They're getting on great. "Gwenyn yn hapus", as I said to the Frau.

Bridge

We went on a nice walk to Bishopthorpe, that afforded two really nice under-road bridge views.

There was a welcoming notice as well

Canal

Peter said "There's an awful lot of Manchester industrial nastiness I have yet to see." Well, a little less now.

Five train journeys, no ticket inspection on four of them: good augury. By foot, Manchester Picadilly to Stalybridge up the Ashton and Huddersfield.

Some highlights:

1. Byelaw 41. We never encountered 1-40.
   
2. Leisure facility - just a sample, there was more. They had drained the pound, which was a headache for the pensioner couple attempting to get a boat in ...
   
3. Bicycle rack, working well.
   
4. Notice of the day: Pedestrians diverted from A to B, cyclists diverted from A to C.
   
5. Communist: Droylsden library is an art deco gem.
   
6. Roger Hannah (yada yada).
   
7. Chimney up; chimney down. Many chimneys. Many fewer than once.
   
8. Be 28.
   

Foiled on my [second] attempt to visit Ashton Museum ... closed on Mondays. Chip shops used to close on Mondays.

More footage available, including pictures of heritage.

Void

On Monday March 7th 2011 at 9.15am, in Birminham New Street station, we found 23 rail tickets stamped void.

	Here they are
	These are the same tickets, arranged differently

Motorcade

So we go on a trip, driven by the inestimable Charles (Charles is a driver by profession, but in a dream God showed him an orphan school, which he is now saving hard to build. We didn't quite know what to say - fits with current Tory policy I suppose). The trip involved a long and interesting drive to the Kakum National Park (rain forest, canopy walk), and then to Cape Coast castle old slaving centre.

The Park is fun, & the canopy walk suitably wobbly ("It is tested every morning. It can carry two elephants" - how do they know?). We fall alongside a party of Germans and Ghanaian government people who have been "doing trade" - good thing, as I missed my German class and I could amuse them with simple sentences about things being feucht. One of the bigger Ghanaians sports a shiny belt buckle emblazoned with the word "Versachi" - is that how you spell it?

The journey from the park to the Coast is hectic ... rutted road, busy, busy. Charles pushes on, until a police siren is heard behind us. A motorbike flashes by, followed by two cars flashing their hazard lights, and a third car full of Big Men with Guns (pedantically, Very Big Men with Very Guns). "Good", says Charles. He ignites his own hazard lights and falls in behind the motorcade which is travelling fast and ignoring all traffic regulations, lights, etc etc. Maggie and I are not sure about this.

After a scary couple of miles, the car into which the Men with Guns are squeezed drops back. Windows are wound down & there is aggresive shouting. Charles declares his harmlessness and friendship with the men, pointing out that his passengers are best mates with the illustrious occupants of the motorcade ... yes, the Germans. It appears we have netted an Ambassador. The men look hard at me in the front seat, and detect that I am distinguished. Smiles all round, & please join the procession. So we travel the rest of the way to the castle at top speed as honorary German diplomats.

When we exit the car at the castle, big hugs and hellos among the Ghanaians. The Germans are very polite to their new recruits.

The Cape Coast Castle was truly shocking, all the more so as we got the full-on tour laid out for the German dignitaries. This place and its cousins accounted for more death and misery than Auschwitz etc., by our reckoning.

More pictures

Coffins

So a South African man tells me that I can travel just a short way to see the Ghanaian speciality of novelty coffin carving. "Grand", I say, "Where?". "'Tishoo", says the man. "Gesundheit", say I (it must be similar in Afrikaans). "No", he said, "that's the name of the place. Or something like that".

Mr Google, on being asked "accra coffins tishoo", tells you that Teshie Nungua is the place. My map of Accra (a consistent liar) suggested it was about 6K east of the town centre. Easy.

Maggie and I summon a taxi and tell him we want to see the coffins in Teshie. "Jump in", he says. Approved protocol is to negotiate the price first: he suggested a fare about 9x the usual - I got it down to 6x, after which the lure of novelty coffins made me give in.

The man drove a really long way through amazing traffic & roadside scenes. Maggie and I scanned the scenery for novelty coffins without joy. Eventually, we see a roadsign announcing "Teshie Nungua" - hurrah, this is now easy.

Except T-N truned out to be vast. And the driver had quite misunderstood why we had made the trip. "Shall I take you to the beach?", he asks. "No no - we've come to see the carving". He lights up - Ghana is full of tat carvers. "Coffins", I say. "For dead people", says Maggie helpfully. We are beyond the limits of his English.

Some time later he gets the hang of what we are asking - he looks deeply sceptical but stops to ask a likely local. We now do this:

1. Stop taxi, ask likely local
   
2. Listen attentively
   
3. Jump back in taxi & say "I have it" (or similar)
   
4. Drive off fast (sometimes along the road we have just travelled)
   
5. After N minutes, begin to look uncertain: return to step (1)
   

many many times.

Ultimately, & no exaggeration, we are about to exit the town along the same road we had entered it a long time ago. He stops confidently & points upwards - we see a display of novelty coffins. "I will arrange this with the man", he says, and scurries in.

The driver returns, and says that if we give the man GC10, we can inspect the workshop and products. "But he will accept GC5", he adds.

Well worth all that we went through. Photographers are getting buried in cameras, school-bus drivers buried in buses, farmers buried in chickens (with hinged wings), ... big business. The owner said there were two or three companies in the game.

Next dinner party here will include the game "What do you want to be buried in?

More pictures

Accra Street Academy

When we go away, we all have a small set of people for whom we bring back presents. There are four large females and one small male in mine.

So in Accra, I went with Maggie to the National Arts Centre, a grand name for an extensive collection of tat shops. A bit unfair as the tat was largely well crafted & unlike much you can buy in Leeds. Nevertheless, nothing too functional & H forbad me to buy jewellery.

After getting something suitable for Oliver, we had moved a long way from the entrance to the market & it became rather less well organised (that’s a kind of joke); then we saw two Victorian-era school desks in the sun and heard yound children chanting in response to their teachers. This was the Accra Street Academy where Jamestown street children were brought to a level that the junior schools would later accept: reading, writing, 'rithmetic.

What these people were doing with only charitable effort was breathtaking: locals, and a horde of German volunteer students. We were shown the boxing ring and the skills centres, and saw the children getting their square meal of the day.

Isaac is seen in the picture stood in front of the new skills centre - he is the 2-i-c, and a product of just such a school himself. At age 26, he has devoted his life to children who would otherwise have 0 (none).

We watched batik being fashioned as a useful skill for the children to learn, and I knew what this would cost on the tat market: when we asked the lady her price, she was torn between raising the price by a factor of 10 (what you do with a European tourist) and telling the truth (what you do with new friends). She told us the real cost so we bought quite a lot and rounded the price up. It was cheap - it's what I've brought back for my nearest 'n' dearest.

But I've got Isaac's address and other details. I'll send him my surplus Ghanaian Cedi, and try to find a way of supporting the school tangibly and regularly. They need pretty much everything. More to be seen here.