Rural Postal Services

As, I suspect, is happening all around the world small rural and urban post offices are closing down as more services (such as pensions) are paid into bank accounts, use of snail mail diminishes and private companies compete for the lucrative parts of the traditional business (such as parcels and even urban delivery of letters). The UK remains, I think, one of the few (and perhaps the only) country where the Royal Mail is charged with delivering mail everywhere in the country and, generally, to the door of the recipient's dwelling six days a week and at a standard rate of postage.

I do wonder how long such a wonderful service can continue.

As recently as a couple of years ago there were two sub post offices within a couple of miles of my house. Now the nearest one is in Stornoway 7 miles away. However, in Stornoway, there are many post office services available at at least one of the two sub post offices (the main post office keeps more conventional hours) from 7am until 11pm 6 days a week. I've never come across service times like that before although I presume that it happens elsewhere.

I recently discovered, too, that we now have a mobile post office which comes around to various rural locations on a regular basis as well. It visits Lower Bayble twice a week on a Monday and Tuesday for an hour on each day.

Add to that the fact that I can post a letter at a post box about 700m from the house which is emptied at 10.30am 6 days a week and I have absolutely no cause for anything other than praise for our postal service.

My local post box (Photo thanks to my brother).

The White Horse, Cilcain.

When I was a child my father used to take me (and later me and my brother) walking in the hills of North Wales. One of our favourites was Moel Fammau (of which I have blogged previously including this one). We often ended our walk at Cilcain. Later in life I used to drive there for lunch with friends or for an evening out. When I was staying with CJ and his Partner Who Loves Tea we went to North Wales one day and stopped at The White Horse for lunch. It had hardly altered since my last visit perhaps 30 years ago although I don't recall tables out at the front in those days.

The Apostrophe

One of CJ's favourite places for breakfast in Heswall near where he lives is a rather lovely café which calls itself Isabelles (sic).  We went there for breakfast when I was staying with him a few weeks ago.

Last time we went there was last year and I got into trouble for inserting an apostrophe on the place mats:

Under strict instructions not to disgrace myself this time I'm afraid that I was unable to resist.  They didn't throw me out.

A Car's a Car For A' That

(With apologies to Robert Burns).

I’m sure it’s not that I just can’t forgive myself for parting from my beloved Nighthawk. I’m sure that I’m sure - surely.

I just haven't become close to the Volvo yet. Why on earth would that matter? It’s a car for heaven’s sake not a friend. However I spend more time with it than I do with almost any other thing with which I have a relationship except my home.

My first Volvo was, in fact, called VOOVO. The car had been incorrectly badged on the bonnet (hood) because the letters were, as on my current car's boot (trunk) separately attached. That car was made in 1965 and I’m sure no such thing could happen now. We were together for 80,000 glorious miles. I’ve had two more Volvos since that time. Each served me well.

Voovo on Honister, English Lake District,  c 1970 with my Dad

I want to get close to Volvo. I really do. It’s a very comfy means of transportation and we’ve already done 4,000 miles together in two months.

One problem is that the salesman (in the London dealer from whence the car was sourced) and I really didn’t get on. I never met him but I know that if I had I’d not have bought a car from him.

The other is that the car was beset by vibration squeaks and rattles from the dashboard area. The technician (mechanic to people of my age but now he probably has a degree in applied electronics) at the superbly helpful Volvo dealer Taggarts in Glasgow  sorted the first one I identified in the sensor housing on the windscreen which had obviously been removed at some time but that still left some more in the floating centre console. I never had a squeak from the Nighthawk in 13 years (except one of my own making). I seem now to have managed to cure them all but I am still living with the fear that they may return.

Hopefully in a while I'll feel comfortable and Volvo and she will develop a personality and acquire a name.

Volvo below The Clisham on Harris

Volvo by the Forth and Clyde Canal