Preparation

This post has been devised so that it may only be read by bloggers who make up the first wave of emigrants to Blogland . Remember we leave next Wednesday and you should report to the main information desk in your designated airport by midday in order to pick up your tickets. Don't forget your passport.

As well as packing your cases and buying summery shirts, shorts, flip flops, sun cream, bathing costumes and other personal stuff, you need to listen carefully to the following instruction.

It is important that you create a small bank of "typical" blogposts  with staggered publication dates so that while in transit to Blogland and indeed while settling in to your new life, the outer world is blind to what has taken place and imagines that our dull lives are just trucking along the same as ever. If we don't do this we may find that other less desirable people will follow us. Remember what happened with America? A small bunch of settlers went there on "The Mayflower" in  1620, others followed and now that country is like a huge colony of ants with 313 million inhabitants.. We don't want the same to happen in Blogland. So to repeat - create a bank of posts that will publish automatically as dated.

If blogstipated, here are a few suggestions for "ghost" posts:-

Jenny - The History of the Eisteddfod, Wrexham Football Club and Successful Dog Training.
Jan Blawat - How to make a pineapple cheesecake, Sacramento Mountain Lions and American gun laws.
Shooting Parrots - Car Maintenance, Was Bessie Braddock a Sex Symbol?... and Why Manchester people talk in nasal monotones
Rhymes With Plague -  My Swedish love child, Peach recipes from the Peach State, Looking after your organ.
Daphne - Swimming in The River Aire, The ancient roleplay game of "doctors and nurses", preparing tripe and onions for dinner guests.
Earl Gray - Nursing injured starlings and badgers, "If You Look Good You Feel Good" - the history of British tailoring, Why a brand of tea was named after me.
Arctic Fox - Cosmetics for men, Geocaching for beginners, Life without meat.
Libby - Obsessional Home Security, Libby's canned meats including Chicken Vienna Sausages, Alcoholism via red wine.
Katherine - My Secret Muffin Recipe, The History of Cricket in New Zealand, Ode to Edmund Hillary (A poem).
Brian - Dancing the Fandango with a Catalonian Senorita, The real reason why I was expelled from Britain, Famous Brians.
Helen - What I loved about Aussie schools, Cooking with koala meat, Tony's most irritating habits.

Have I missed anybody out? Honestly, I'm starting to feel like Captain Kirk assembling the first crew of the Starship Enterprise... "to boldly go where no man has gone before".

26

Walk 26 - Eyam, Bretton Clough and Eyam Moor - 9 miles. Well that was the plan but in the event I reduced it to around five miles because there was a lot of drifted snow all over the place and the going was sometimes rather tough. This British climate is quite incredible. A week ago I was walking in sunshine without a coat or jacket, beads of sweat on my brow and a cooling pint of shandy on the pub bench in front of me. Today, I was wearing my lined trousers, gloves and waterproof boots and at one point found myself scaling a six foot snowdrift on Sir William Hill Road. 

I parked by the church in the plague village of Eyam, nipped inside to take a photo and chatted to the old lady who was on guard duty there. Then I hiked over the fields, crossing Linen Dale to the pretty limestone village of Foolow, then up on to Hucklow Edge and along to the hamlet of Bretton. I was tempted to enter "The Barrel Inn" but pressed on to Sir William Hill. A farmer with a JCB digger was clearing the road. Soon afterwards, I cut across the fields back down to Eyam but before I could get there I did an impromptu impression of a sack of potatoes being chucked off a lorry. Whoop! Slam! I'm down on the snowy deck expecting an invisible audience to laugh themselves silly. The last time I fell I cracked a couple of ribs but today all was well and fortunately I had just zipped my new camera back in its case.

Statistically, I have worked out that I will probably have a significant fall every two hundred and fifty miles. Perhaps I should invest in one of those padded sumo suits to prevent serious injury.

Walk 26 Gallery:-

St Lawrence's Church in Eyam

Houses in Foolow

"The Barrel Inn", Bretton

Veteran cars parked at "The Barrel"

Snowdrift on Sir William Hill

Rissoles

Up in Yorkshire we love our puddings but we do eat other things too. Here's a recipe I have devised for mince (ground beef). I'm passing it on to you free of charge. Why not give it a go?

Take 500 grammes of lean steak mince. Place in a large bowl and break up with your fingers. Wash hands. Take a medium-sized onion and chop finely. Then fry in olive oil  with a dollop of butter till soft and golden. Season the mince with salt and pepper. Add a little sprinkling of mixed herbs or "Herbes de Provence" - not too much. Then break one and a half beef  "Oxo" cubes into the bowl. Next break an egg into the bowl. Pour in the fried onions and mix it all together with a wooden spoon.

Then put a handful of plain flour in a dish and spread some greaseproof or baking paper over a chopping board. Dust your hands with plain flour and dive into the mixing bowl. Bring out a small handful of the mince mixture and squeeze and shape into a patty. Put the patty on the paper and make four or five more just the same. Let them rest on the paper. These mince rissoles can be fried, grilled or baked in the oven but I prefer to fry them in the same pan that was used for the onions. Add a little more oil and butter and then fry on a medium heat, turning over two or three times till fully cooked.

Eat with whichever accompaniments you prefer - rice or fried potato chips and maybe some buttered green beans or salad. Mmmm...lovely.

Warning

It was a quiet road. We had just driven across New Zealand's South Island and were within two miles of our accommodation, just south of Greymouth. After the roundabout at Kumara Junction, we found ourselves behind a battered old pick up truck as we headed along the Taramaku Highway. The driver slowed down to little more than twenty miles an hour and waved me on but I stayed put until the next corner. I looked down the long gentle hill to the bridge at the bottom and saw that there was nothing in sight on the three lane road so I decided to overtake - which manoeuvre was completed safely within the flash of a kiwi's eye. Oh - the one fact I forgot to mention is there were double yellow lines on the edge of our downhill lane. 

Next thing I know, zooming out of his roadside hiding place, comes a New Zealand traffic cop with his blue lights flashing. After Taramaku Bridge, I pull into a gravel driveway and the little fellow writes me an infringement notice. Apparently, I am going to be fined $NZ150 - around £75. It had been a long drive and I was tired and even though the pick up truck was travelling slowly and even though its driver had slowed down to encourage me to overtake and even though the road ahead was clear, I knew I was in the wrong.

However, we Yorkshire folk are even meaner than the Scots so to try to reduce my fine I wrote to the New Zealand Police in Wellington, apologising and explaining the circumstances. Hearing nothing and with the deadline date looming I decided to pay the fine anyway - avoiding any further repercussions. However, a few days later I received this letter - via Brunei for some odd reason:-

Click to enlarge

And now in our online bank account I notice that they have refunded the whole fine. I have never been a big fan of police forces anywhere but may I say a big public thank you to the New Zealand Police. I accept their formal warning and should I ever be lucky enough to visit that faraway land again I will be even more respectful of their basic road rules.

Subliminality

The British government intend to monitor everything that happens over the internet. Consequently, I have this message for the boffins at GCHQ, Cheltenham. It contains a highly sensitive subliminal message which will be useful to fanatics everywhere so it is vital that you unravel it. The Western World is depending on you! :- 

Natooraltissimississippimentay! Linkwa, pink dama, arf armoneea. Moozheek. Rintintintinnabulation! Epp Unamunda arf da melodeea looniversahl! Porky alla da peepholes enda voooold – alla de peepholes enda looniverse cargo a shlong enda hartz.

Now work that one out chaps! Chocks away!

It is an enormous relief to think that soon a handful of bloggers - myself included - will be beginning a new society remote from all such nonsense - like a modern day Swiss Family Robinson - "far, far away from the mad rushing crowd."

Sponsorship

Bloggers who signed up to become the first residents of Blogland will be pleased to learn that The Development Committee have managed to secure almost US$2.2m in sponsorship. This will help us to launch our new society and ensure that there is a seamless transition from our old lives to the new lives we shall commence very shortly. Most of the sponsorship has come from two anonymous donors, one based in Wales and the other in Nebraska USA. I have contacted them personally on your behalf to thank them for their astounding generosity.

Anyway, the upshot is that one way travel to the island will now be entirely free for all emigrants! We shall all depart for Phuket in Thailand on the same day. Then a fleet of cruisers will whisk us across the Andaman Sea to our final destination - a veritable paradise on Earth - Blogland. Ah! I can hear those turquoise waves beating on those silver shores even now. All accommodation is finished, a team of servants and other ancillary workers (e.g. Thuza)  has been recruited and everything seems to be in place ready for our arrival. The Burmese workers are learning the national anthem - "Island of Dreams" though their pronunciation needs improvement and a large Blogland flag is already fluttering from the mast adjacent to our luxurious social club.

Thuza - recently appointed
as my personal  assistant

Emigrants should report to the main information desk at their nearest international airport by midday on Wednesday April 11th. There your business class tickets will be available for you to pick up. Please remember your current passport:- 

From Britain - Jenny (& Keith), Libby, Earl Gray, Daphne, Shooting Parrots report to Manchester Airport

From USA - Mr & Mrs Brague report to Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta

From USA(2) - Jan Blawat (and Bob?) report to San Francisco International Airport

From Australia - Helen and Tony report to Brisbane International

From NZ - Katherine (and friend?) report to Auckland Airport

From Catalonia - Brian (with Senora Brian) report to Madrid International (Sorry Brian! Barcelona all booked up)

Have I missed anybody out? Please let me know as soon as possible via the Comments facility and your onward travel tickets will also be arranged.

Blogland

Bloggers who missed the sign-up deadline for emigration will be pleased to know that an extra four villas are available, set back slightly from one of the main beaches in a tropical clearing, less than a hundred metres from the social club. Thatched in palm, each villa has a bamboo verandah and through the spindly coconut palm trunks of the native forest you will catch glimpses of the Andaman Sea sparkling under a silvery moon. I doubt that there is anywhere on this planet more beautiful. All you have to do is to indicate your interest in the "Comments" section.

To repeat...The travel date is Wednesday April 11th. Your tickets will be waiting for you. Remember your passport!

Magic

This is a page from Shirley's 1964 Rupert annual. He's on Pleasure Island with a gang of happy "coons" who all look the same. What a contrast with Rupert and his chums - all individual and from a range of species. Still the "coons" seem happy in their self-imposed exile. The strange colouration is because this section of the annual was for "Magic Painting". My then five year old wife must have got a pot of water and a paintbrush then carefully washed over the picture. Please note I did not marry said wife when she was five as that would have been an arrestable offence! 

Page 65 Rupert annual 1964 - please click to enlarge.

Rupert

The real Rupert - born in 1920

On a British geographical photomapping site to which I contribute, they have a weekly photograph competition. The idea is that the previous week's winner will pick the new winner from the current week's shortlist. Most weeks over 6,000 new photos are submitted to "Geograph" so it's quite a thrill if one of your photos is chosen as the winner. There are comments sections where members can remark on photos or raise associated points.

A couple of weeks ago, a gentleman with the first name Rupert was picked as the winner but he remained silent and inactive with regard to judging the new winner. A moderator asked, "Has anyone heard from Rupert?". Mischievously, but not maliciously, I added this comment: "Last time I saw him he was with Edward Trunk and Algy Pug down in Nutwood."

My "Geograph" censor

This caused a mixture of hilarity and, rather incredibly, hostility. After two or three days my comment was removed and so I left another comment that basically said - Why? I have received seven separate emails from other members of the site supporting my right to make light-hearted remarks and there has been much debate within the site about censorship and what's allowable and what's not. I certainly never expected all this fuss over a harmless quip.

I realise that non-British "aliens" from less cultured corners of the planet may be bemused by my initial response to the question "Has anyone heard from Rupert?" so I guess I need to fill you in. Rupert the Bear is an iconic English comic book character who lives in the pastoral haven of Nutwood with his other animal friends including the white elephant Edward Trunk and a pug called Algernon or Algy for short. There's also Podgy Pig and Rupert's best friend Bill Badger. The characters are anthropomorphic. They all walk on their hind legs and wear clothes from the 1920's which is when Rupert was first created in the mind of Mary Tourtel for the "Daily Express" newspaper. 

A rather menacing Rupert (1959)

Rupert is also a male Christian name that plebs like me associate with  our country's ruling class - the landed gentry that includes our current prime minister and his privileged inner cabinet. When naming male babies, English working class families would only ever pick names like Rupert, Randolph, Claude, Cecil or Clarence as a sort of joke and you would have to pity any ordinary lad lumbered with such a label for life. He'd invariably be a laughing stock just because of his name.

Anyone born in Britain in the nineteen fifties, as I was, is sure to remember Rupert the Bear. We received Christmas annuals in which Rupert and his friends got up to all manner of woodland adventures. The whole concept of Nutwood was rather bizarre and the way in which Rupert and his pals communicated with each other seemd to capture some of the essence of Middle England. We read these annuals but were also bemused by them. I found it hard to really "like" Rupert the Bear. His world was so twee and innocent but even in modern times Rupert hasn't disappeared. He has been transformed, turned into an animated cartoon, made into a cuddly toy and you might even pick up a Rupert costume from a fancy dress shop.

Transformed modern Rupert

Here's the beginning of the first story in the 1964 Rupert Annual:-

Rupert is coming home across the common. "What a frisky butterfly! Why is it dancing like that?" he thinks. "Is it excited by those gorse flowers? There's certainly something odd about the gorse scent. It smells more like violets. I wonder why." Feeling puzzled he continues homeward and notices a small figure standing alone. "Hello, there's Gregory Guinea-pig staring at the sky," he murmurs. "What can he be looking at?" Arriving at his cottage Rupert finds Mrs Bear. "I say, Mummy," he calls. "I've just seen a gorse bush that seems to smell of violets." "That's queer!" says Mrs Bear. "There was a smell of violets here too...Whatever can be causing it?" etc.

Riveting stuff, eh?

Masefield

Sea Fever

I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sails shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the sea again, for the call of the running tide 

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

By John Masefield (1902)

Whitby Harbour  1880 by Frank Meadow Sutcliffe

Some poets write in a sort of academic and intellectual isolation - divorced from the real world. Others are very much involved in the hurly burly of their societies, acquiring experiences that nourish their writing. You might say that these latter poets are at "the front line" while the former are in field camps set comfortably well back from the action. I  note with approval that as a very young man John Masefield sought adventure at sea. Perhaps he was escaping from the disappointments of his childhood - the deaths of his parents and his unhappy schooling in Warwick - but anyway  he worked aboard transatlantic trade ships, mingling with rough and ready mariners. 

As he looked out, he wasn't just imagining the sea, he was experiencing it firsthand and it's that genuine feeling for the sea that marks this poem - written when he was still only twenty four. It's like a lot of his poetry - accessible, clear and a little predictable - rarely appearing to wrestle with slippery esoteric notions or to dance on undercurrents of meaning. What you see is what you get with Masefield. Some have said he was more of a storyteller than a poet but in his day he was feted as a poet on both sides  of the Atlantic, becoming Britain's Poet Laureate in 1930 - a position he held until his death in 1967.

Two

Walk Two - "Winster and Birchover" - 4 miles (2 hours). On an untypically hot March afternoon, I undertook this walk with my friend Mick. We drove south to the village of Winster - west of Matlock and south of Chatsworth. My oh my - what a delightful village Winster is with a mixture of limestone and gritstone cottages - some of which date back to the sixteenth century. In its heyday, it must have been an important regional centre - when people's lives were lived in small circles and to get anywhere you travelled by horse and cart. There was also a lot of lead mining thereabouts.

Soon after parking, we were mooching around and I snapped a couple of pictures. A lady of mature years rushed out of the nearby village shop. I thought she was going to complain about me taking pictures but she wanted to know if we'd like to go in the village museum above the ancient Market House. This we did and after reading about Winster's history, we spotted several small tortoiseshell butterflies in an upper window.

Small tortoiseshell in The Market House, Winster

Winster Village Shop

A sunny gennel in Winster

"The Miners Standard" pub, Winster

We walked up The Limestone Way then cut across to the village of Birchover where we guzzled pints of bitter shandy in "The Red Lion"  before heading back to lovely Winster. A downside of this country ramble was that the battery on my new camera packed up so I didn't snap many pictures. I won't make the same mistake again. The charged spare will always be in my camera case from now on. Silly me!

Foxy

"I'm a 6 foot skinhead from Huddersfield. I'm old enough
to know better, but too stupid to care". 

Bloggers come and bloggers go. When they've gone, they rarely return - lost somewhere in the ether. For a good long while I used to follow the illegal shenanigans of a fellow Yorkshireman who goes by the name of "Arctic Fox". He has spent some time at Her Majesty's pleasure in Armley, Leeds where blogging was prohibited by the warders but more recently he has been indulging in regular physical manipulations with a beefy Polish lady  -  activities that drained him of the vital energy required for blogging. So he's back. See him in the photo above - snapped while in hiding from the cops on the moors above Huddersfield. To view his blog, click here.

This post was funded by The Arctic Fox Rehabilitation Society, Huddersfield, Yorkshire.

Eleven

Walk Number 11 - "Ashford in the Water and Monsal Dale" -  6 miles. The weather was glorious today so I just had to get out there again. I parked near Holy Trinity Church in Ashford:-

Then headed northwards and along Pennyunk Lane, passing this magnificent old limestone barn:-

Soon I came to Monsal Head with a magnificent view of the dale and Monsal Head railway viaduct erected in 1863:-

Down in the dale, some people were relaxing in the sunshine:-

I passed this weir:- 

After another mile I was out of Monsal Dale, trudging up into Great Shacklow Wood then back down to the River Wye where I came across this old bobbin mill:-

Then back to Ashford where I bought a pint of milk from the village shop and glugged it down before heading back to Sheffield where I stopped to photograph these daffodils at the entrance to Bingham Park:-

Coin

Last night we had a lovely meal at the nearby "Kitchen" restaurant on Ecclesall Road. It was Shirley's fifty somethingth birthday and Frances managed to get back from Leeds to join us. One of the waitresses goes to Shirley's "Zumba" exercise-dance classes and the other was in Frances's class at primary school. I hadn't seen her since she was eleven years old. 

"Kitchen" is a snug little establishment but the food is delightful. I had chicken liver terrine with various tasty accompaniments, a medley of fresh fish with garlic potatoes and fresh greens followed by a tower of meringue, cream and soft fruit. Mmmm...

Later in the local pub I was given this twenty pence piece in my change. Please note - the image is magnified. British people don't stumble around with their pockets weighed down by massive coins. As you can see, it is a Falkland Islands twenty pence piece with our beloved monarch on one side and my pet sheep Beau on the reverse. Seems that the Falkland islanders revere Beau like a goddess.

Roger, the pub's landlord, thought it might be interesting if all coins had chips in them and we could follow their movement on the internet. If this particular coin could speak, its journey might be worth hearing about. Was it brought back to England by a soldier? Had it crossed the counter of  "The Capstan Gift Shop" in Stanley, the small capital of the islands. Was it tossed to settle a dispute? I don't remember ever being given a Falklands coin in change before. 

This little outpost of our former empire is 8,000 miles from England and, by the way, over four hundred miles from envious Argentina which mischievously likes to call these islands The Malvinas. They were in British possession long before Argentina was even a country and they were never inhabited by Argentinians. Apart from soldiers and other military personnel on tours of duty, the Falklands has a permanent population of only around 3,000 people. They can't have many twenty pence coins in circulation can they? Perhaps I should send it back and I guess I might do were it not for the image of Beau.

Nineteen

The way to Chrome Hill

Even though it is always close to us, the geology of our planet is as mind-boggling as outer space. For Walk Nineteen I had to drive right over into Staffordshire to the village of Longnor. Well, I call it a village but before swift communication by road and rail it threatened to become a regional centre - a proper little town with a market place, market hall, schools, a large parish church and several hostelries for travellers.

How pleasant it is to park for free. No parking attendants lurking in Longnor. The local farmers would probably drive them out with pitchforks. I found a space on the old cobbles of the market square and set off hiking, over the ridge and into the Upper Dove Valley. The title of the walk is simply "Chrome Hill" even though the route was six and half miles long with various other sights to see. Chrome Hill, a toothy mass of limestone, guards the top end of the valley. Here the word "chrome" has nothing to do with the metal of that name. It is believed it comes from an Old English word - "croom" meaning both "curved" and "crooked".

View of Dowall Hall from Chrome Hill's summit

What is quite astonishing and probably as hard to take on board as the breadth of our universe is the geological history of Chrome Hill. Around 340 million years ago - give or take a couple of million - during the Carboniferous Age, Chrome Hill was submerged beneath a warm tropical ocean. Over thousands of years, it grew tiny animal by tiny animal to become a massive coral reef. Yes - a coral reef! Geologists, palaeontologists and indeed observant walkers have found much calcified evidence of ancient reef life on Chrome Hill. And yet it sits in the middle of England, miles from the sea.

Limestone cave on Chrome Hill

I saw a limestone arch and a cave where sheep will sometimes shelter and I thought of the ancestors of marine life we know today - swimming or lying in wait amidst these rocks - millions of years before human beings  evolved from apes. We've only been around about 200,000 years but Chrome Hill - well it was a jagged hill, high and dry for a long, long, long time before the first caveman said "Ug!". Mind you, current evidence suggests it was most likely a cavewoman!

Natural arch or an eye looking back 340 million years

Budgie

Millionaire Osborne this morning with budgie concealed in handbag

Today, our esteemed and beloved Chancellor of the Exchequer - The Right Honourable George Gideon Oliver Osborne delivered his budgie to the nation. The budgie was taken to parliament in a red handbag that went well with Georgie Boy's stilettos but seemed  an inappropriate container for a frightened showbird. As you can see from the picture above, there were no airholes in the handbag even though an airhole was carrying it.

Osborne, who hails from the Welsh seaside resort of Royal Rhylington Spa, advised assembled parliamentarians that there would be plenty of budgie seed for noble landowners "born to rule" and very little for the nation's seething mass of whining serfs. When his pet budgie was released from the Vivienne Westwood designed handbag, it did not say "Who's a pretty boy?" to its master. Instead it flew around the chamber for a while before splattering its blue-blooded owner with creamy budgerigar droppings. A direct hit! This was greeted with loud cries of "Hear! Hear!" from the opposition benches.

Meanwhile pundits and newspaper columnists are struggling to come to terms with the implications of the budgie which is pictured below:-

Osborne's budgie Sir Peter is named after his father.

Seventeen

Last week, I had a very painful right foot but by yesterday it was pretty much better so with clement weather promised, it was time to drive over the border into Derbyshire once again for another gorgeous country walk - Walk 17 from my "White Peak" Pathfinder Guide. I parked in the high Pennine town of Tideswell with its noble fourteenth century parish church and its multitude of limestone cottages - once upon a time the homes of quarrymen and lead miners.

The walk was sub-titled  "A Five Dales Walk" and it was six and a quarter miles long. The dales in order were Tansley Dale, Cressbrook Dale, the beautifully named and indeed beautiful Water-cum-Jollydale, Millers Dale and finally Tideswell Dale. Such variety, such views, such history soaked into in the very landscape. Unfortunately, the skies were not always as blue and sunny as the BBC weather forecast had predicted. But I didn't mind. It was just good to be out there again, striding along with camera in hand singing an old Fifth Dimension number:- 

Rhyl, I love you so, I always will

I look at you and see the passion eyes of May

Oh, but am I ever gonna see my wedding day

I was on your side Rhyl when you were losin'

I never scheme or lie Rhyl, there's been no foolin'...

Oh come on Rhyl

Oh come on Rhyl

Marry me Rhyl... 

And so to some pictures from Walk 17:- 

Tideswell

Early lambs at Litton

Ravensdale cottages

Giant water vole in Tideswell Dale

View towards Wardlow Mires

Apology

Regarding the proud Welsh seaside town of Rhyl, my satirical humour may have got the better of me when I blogged about it on Saturday. I received many abusive comments from offended Rhylians which I had to delete given the many Welsh expletives used and general standards of English exhibited. So I hereby wish to make a heartfelt apology to all of the townsfolk of Rhyl and to the current mayor Councillor Win Mullen-James - pictured above. To redress the balance of my lofty derision, I shall now post a few photos that capture the true essence of this gem of the north Wales coastline in all its glory. I mean, why visit Llandudno, Prestatyn, Colwyn Bay or Bangor when you could choose Rhyl instead?

A view of Water Street                       © Copyright Eirian Evans 

Former church - now computer company
© Copyright  David & Rachel Landin  

The promenade                                       © Copyright Dott Potter

View from the Sky Tower                  © Copyright BrianP

Amusement arcades                     © Copyright Eirian Evans  

Bank Holiday Monday in Rhyl              © Copyright Eirian Evans 

And please remember, as the official town website boasts:-

A fresh new look railway station and bus terminus, at the 

heart of Rhyl's promenade, awaits your arrival.