It has been thirty five years, no less, since we last saw each other. Mary Kay from Cleveland had stumbled across my 1976 diary posts and got in touch last week. This prompted me to find Shôn who is now living less than half an hour from me!

It was an almost surreal experience. We were the same people; we shared the same vivid memories of Cleveland and our road trip. Yet we have more than half a lifetime of not knowing each other. Neither of us has entirely escaped the ravages of time, and we are now both clean shaven. So we don’t look the same as those two students way back then.

It was nice – a bit like rediscovering an old pair of shoes at the back of the wardrobe. Shoes which are familiar, easy to slip on, yet which feel strange. Comfortable but different.

Carol from Cleveland is visiting the UK soon. It would be great if there was a way for the three of us to meet up once more.

Q: Which town is not only the birthplace of Baroness Bakewell, but is also the home of Lottery Street and Hollywood Towers?

A: Stockport! Its inclusion in Crap Towns: The 50 Worst Places To Live In The UK is therefore clearly a travesty.

The Rock looms majestically as you step off the aeroplane, just as the warmth hits your skin. A heart-lifting double whammy; a confusing, delightful product of air travel. This place is only 2½ hours from gloomy Manchester!

[I had switched on my satnav during the flight. After a few minutes' delay it happily acquired satellites and showed me we were over Valladolid travelling at a speed of 916 kilometres per hour!]

I walked out of the airport onto Winston Churchill Avenue where a British bobby (complete with tall hat) was standing. I got on a bus and paid 60 pence to go to the cable car station. The passengers were chatting in vernacular Spanish, we were at the southernmost tip of Europe, a kilometre from Spain and only 21 kilometres from Africa – yet this was part of the United Kingdom!

The view from the top was breathtaking. Immediately below was the harbour where the Orsova must have docked all those years ago. To the north was ‘the rock’ itself with the Spanish town of La Linea lying just beyond the airport runway which straddles Winston Churchill Avenue and extends into the sea at one end. To the east, the Mediterranean Sea and to the south, the Atlas Mountains of North Africa on the hazy horizon.

What kind of unthinking adherence to safety advice results in this absurd risky behaviour from four presumably rational people?

“Quick, get out!”
“Er, but it’s raining.”
“Get out! Get out! It’s not safe.”
“Hmm. I see what you mean. Another vehicle could leave the carriageway and plough into our car.”
“Exactly. So get out and stand next to it. Then you will be invincible.”

HELP POINT – inside BT Telephone

Nice to know help is always at hand.

They are even more helpful at Levenshulme station in Manchester. The station name is actually shown in Sign Language.

Dave and I were ready for breakfast by the time we returned, but once again we were frustrated; breakfast at the Saracen’s Head was served to residents only, and the landlord refused to be persuaded otherwise – even though there were plenty of empty tables.

Back at the campsite office we asked where we might eat. It was as if we were the first explorers happening upon a community isolated from the rest of civilization. ‘Nowhere round here.’ But then the lad helpfully made a phone call to the Royal Lodge further up the road and pulled some strings. The hotel served a great veggie breakfast and even let us bring Ella inside.

Our misgivings about the campsite, the less than picturesque buildings and their unnecessary signage, and the difficulty of actually obtaining meals, were made up for by the helpful and willing young staff everywhere in Symonds Yat East.

We broke camp and got our canoe and equipment back down the steps and into the water. We could hear the rapids close by and, as this was my first time, I was a little apprehensive. What were Grade 2 rapids going to be like? What if we capsized and Ella was swept downstream? We knew the main thing was to not approach them sideways (!) and to both keep paddling through.

He also gave us a safety briefing and instructions for dealing with various hazards and features along the river. It was a lot to take in, and one person in another group was so fazed she changed her mind and decided not to canoe.

We packed two watertight barrels and dragged our canoe down the bank and into the water. Ella jumped in, and we were off!! The gentle current helped us along and we enjoyed paddling down the river which was crystal clear. We saw no fish, but lots of gently swaying fronds of weed which must have been two or three metres long.

At Lower Lydbrook we stopped for a lunch break. This meant dragging the canoe onto the mud bank already occupied by several others. Steps led up to a grassed picnic area and across the road, The Courtfield Arms.

Inside, this has the quiet comfortable ambience of an up-market hotel, with a menu to match. We didn’t want to pay £5.50 for a posh baguette after our hearty breakfast so we just sat outside with a drink. We watched with mild curiosity as two detectives got out of a police car and spent some time investigating something further up the road.

A quick walk around Lower Lydbrook – which we felt was a little run-down – and back to the river. We passed Welsh Bicknor Youth Hostel and church, then paddled under an old cast-iron railway bridge. Mark had told us to ignore the painted sign here and keep to the centre of the river, not to the left.

This time I took the train, a direct service from Stockport to Hereford where Dave picked me up. We drove to Ross-on-Wye and pitched our tents at the White Lion once more.

It was a warm, sunny afternoon and the river level had dropped by about two metres since our last visit. We had a pleasant evening eating, drinking and watching the sun go down over the river.

We were rather frustrated to see parties of canoeists – school trips I imagine – safely enjoying the stretch of river denied to us.

The walk took us up through the woods to the remains of a folly at the highest point. We stopped for a rest and took in spectacular views across to Wales in the west, and Goodrich Castle to the north – built in the 11th century to keep the Welsh at bay.

Back at the castle car park there was a line of twelve Morgan cars (some from France) and their enthusiastic owners very happy to engage in conversation. Eleven Morgans were the traditional design, but one, looking like a Batmobile, was an Aero SuperSports and only 90 minutes old! Its new owner excitedly lifted the bonnet to show us the impossibility of removing the oil filler cap without dismantling the front of the car.

A quick sandwich at the café and it was time for Dave and me to part company and leave this beautiful part of the country.

So we packed everything away and waited to be collected, a bit despondent. Back at Lucksall where we had left the cars, Ady didn’t want to charge us anything, although we insisted.

We picked up a walking leaflet from Lucksall Caravan Park reception and set off on a 9 km walk. At Fownhope we didn’t fancy either pub so we pressed on through Cherry Hill and down into a large old orchard. At Mordiford the only pub, the Moon Inn was shut (our own fault – we had been warned they were moving) so we ate crisps bought from the old post office whilst sitting in the Norman churchyard.

Back at the caravan park we broke out the stove and made some noodles, thinking we had better have some food before setting off for home. Dry for the first time, in the pretty caravan park setting with lunch inside us, our spirits began to lift. “If only there was a pub near here, I’d be tempted to stay tonight.” I said. So Dave rang the White Lion pub in Ross on Wye to see if its campsite was still full. Luckily, they had spaces so that’s what we decided to do.

The ‘campsite’ is in fact a grassy riverbank beyond the beer garden walls. Actually a great spot provided you didn’t imagine the river rising still further in the night and washing the tents away. The landlord and landlady were friendly and the food good, washed down with local cider.