Is this motorcycle too smart for its own good?

Today I took my motorcycle to the dealers because the information display said that a light had blown, but when I checked they all seemed to be working.

They checked it for me and all the lights WERE working.

So what's happening - faulty display? No, apparently the system works on electrical resistance and a bulb can change its resistance, especially when it's about to blow. So I don't have a blown bulb, but my motorcycle knows that I soon will have.

Is that clever, or is that just a waste of time?

Me and my fiendishly clever motorcycle.

Watching nature from my garden

I have spent a lot of time watching nature this year, mainly from my patio. It's surprising what you can see from your own garden.

For a start, we see a lot of buzzards. These magnificent, big birds have only been around for the past 10 years, recolonising the countryside after years when numbers declined due to gamekeepers and pesticides.

They are now very common and I can see them most days. They spend their time zig-zagging across the terrain looking for carrion or easy prey. Earlier in the year, I witnessed the rookery's early-warning and interceptor system spring into action when a ranging buzzard came too close. The rooks nesting in the large horse chestnuts on the old A47 saw the buzzard getting closer and closer to their roosts. I don't think it had baby rook on the menu, but they weren't taking any chances and dispatched an interceptor to harry the buzzard and drive it away.

Last week I watched a replay, but with a difference. I was in the garden and heard the distinct "mew" of a buzzard. It was over the bypass, quite low (less than 100 feet) quartering the ground and heading south towards the rookery. I expected a robust response, but there wasn't a flicker, the buzzard flew right across their trees and not so much of a caw from the rookery. Obviously, all the young have fledged some time back and were probably out in the fields feeding, so the rooks couldn't care less about Mr Buzzard.

As well as buzzards, we get a few red kites. These are very common a little to the west, in Rutland, and also on the rubbish dump at Eye, where they scavenge alongside the gulls, but they don't venture as far east as Thorney very often. They are easy to tell apart as the kite has a distinctive forked tail.

Watching buzzards carefully, I have seen this manoeuvre repeated several times and I guess it's a means of moving across country very quickly. The bird will catch a thermal and soar higher and higher until it's almost lost from sight. It will then take a bearing and begin a long, shallow dive, arrow straight and increasing in speed until the bird is really flying very fast; so fast that it quickly disappears from view. It's a very efficient way of getting from A to B as it expends little energy, using rising air like a glider and then taking a fast route to the next thermal (exactly what a glider does, in fact, although the buzzard certainly thought of it first).

Summer is chugging along, the wheat in the field next to our house was harvested last week and the straw was chopped by the combine-harvester and left lying on the ground to be ploughed in later. Wheat straw is much shorter than it was 30 years ago. When we came to the fens, we'd see fields of corn flattened by heavy rain and this rarely happens now, the wheat (and barley) stands neatly with the field crossed by tramlines where narrow-wheeled tractors have sprayed the crop. I can remember crop-spraying from aircraft and one year, a helicopter was used to spray the fields right next to our house. I much prefer the new method.

Longer wheat straw on older varieties meant more straw to dispose of. Farmers would leave this in lines where the combine had harvested and then burn it. Four three or four weeks in August the air would be full of smoke and it was really quite unpleasant, even if we did get some magnificent sunsets. Straw-burning was outlawed on environmental grounds and so our late summer air is now much cleaner.

Anyway, the harvested wheat field seemed to be attracting some insects and that, in turn, attracted a large flock of house martins, which are busy fattening themselves up for their journey south. They spent a good 20 minutes swooping and twisting over the field and it's amazing to watch. The small birds are so skillful, using their stubby, forked tails and short powerful wings to execute amazing turns.

As I was watching them, there was a loud, rumbling roar above. This was two RAF Tornado fighters practising dog-fights high overhead. This is a very common noise and not always welcome on an otherwise peaceful, sunny day but this was a clear morning and I could see the two planes very easily against the blue sky. They were executing some amazing tight turns and making an enormous din as the afterburners kicked in on full-throttle climbs. The Tornado is one of the most manoeuvrable planes in the sky thanks to its computer-aided, fly-by-wire technology, but for low-altitude work (and fly-catching) nothing beats a house martin.

I have made a determined effort in the past couple of years to create an environment that is good for insects. They have repaid me by caterpillars eating all my solomon's seal and mizuna, but there has been a definite increase in insect life and frogs/toads.

One of the things I've done is plant many more flowers which are good for pollinators and it's been interesting to see what "customers" the different flowers have attracted. honey bees love blackberry flowers, also cosmos and sedum; butterflies get really excited by buddleia; hoverflies have enjoyed the verbena bonariensis and bumble bees have fallen asleep on the heady nectar of the teasels. The flowers that have been most interesting to watch have been the globe artichokes at the allotment. Bees hurl themselves at the flowers and burrow down into the mass of soft petals to get at the nectar. They almost disappear from view and emerge covered in pollen, like an unpopular politician hit by a flour bomb.

Bees collecting nectar from the Globe Artichoke flowers. They hurl
themselves into the bed of petals and swim down to the nectar.

When I built the summerhouse, I made it as hedgehog-friendly as I could. Max and I even constructed a hollow chamber within the concrete base where a hedgehog could hibernate. I've seen the odd hedgehog in the garden since then, but they've hardly been beating a path to my door. A couple of weeks ago, Bert and Irene's granddaughter, who volunteers for a hedgehog rescue group, brought two hedgehogs for release back into the wild.

We lodged the open box to allow them to "escape" under the decking and I've not seen them since, although I am putting down water and some hedgehog food. There was a male and a female and the male was a large chap. I'd like to see hedgehogs in the garden, but they will choose where they want to live, not much I can do about it.

Footnote: I'm pleased to say that on August 25, I let Holly out before coming to bed and there was a hedgehog on the patio, probably one of the two released a couple of weeks previously, although I can't be sure.

Moving out of London

It has been a busy weekend for me and for Max and Inna, who have decided to make some major life changes.

Max has given up his job teaching geography at Dulwich College to return to university to study for a Masters degree. Inna has given up her job as accountant for a large property management company and is seeking work in Leicester.

As a parent, you want your children to be happy, healthy and financially secure (probably in that order), so it was a bit of a shock for us to hear that Max was no longer happy teaching and was going to give up his job to return to university. He wants to do a Masters in environmental studies and work in nature conservation.

He's found a course at Leicester University and they will live with Inna's parents in Wigston for a year.

Once Max qualified as a teacher and seemed to enjoy the challenge of teaching, I expected him to stick at it until retirement, especially after landing a job at Dulwich, one of the country's top private schools. When he told me his plans, I did give him a bit of a talk - are-you-sure-you're-doing-the-right-thing sort of talk - but his mind was made up. Living in London was making him depressed and he wasn't enjoying his job any more. He also pointed out that his career change was just that - a career change: he was going to study at university, improve his qualifications, fatten his CV - it wasn't as if he was going to join a New Age Travellers' commune and live in a converted bus.

So this weekend, I hired the biggest van I could find and helped to move their belongings from Penge in south London to Wigston in Leicester, with the overflow sitting in my loft and my sister's garage in Thorney.

I've only moved three times in my life - from Northwich to Warrington, Warrington to Bretton and Bretton to Thorney. This is Max's fifth move and probably Inna's sixth and when I asked Inna if she felt sad leaving Penge, she said that it had been OK, but she wasn't sad to leave - she never expected to stay there very long.

There was a bit of moving hassle even before the move began. I'd booked a van from Thrifty Van Hire in Peterborough and it had all seemed nice and straightforward. However, they didn't take a deposit, card details or e-mail and something made me a little suspicious, so I made a note to call on Thursday (the day before the van was to be collected) to check the booking was still OK. When I called, they had no booking down for "a Mr Rayner" and had no van they could offer me. It seems they had booked it for the previous weekend and I hadn't shown up - of course I bloody hadn't, I'd booked it for this weekend! The chap said he'd see if he could find me something and ring me in the morning, but I knew very well that he wouldn't, so I got busy (at 5.15pm on Thursday) to see if I could book something for next day. I thought it best not to tell Max.

Actually, it took only about five calls to find somewhere with a suitable van at an OK price and the new company - Nationwide Van Hire - also dropped off and picked up the van. So on Friday afternoon, there was a massive white Mercedes van filling (absolutely filling) our drive.

I left at 6am to be in Penge for just after 8am. I like driving vans, I enjoy the view and the respect you get from car drivers, who know most vans are driven by time-short psychos who won't hesitate to cut you to pieces. It was a lovely morning and I was set for a nice drive, listening to the radio, but then the oil warning light came on after 15 miles. The van was a Mercedes and having owned a Mercedes I knew what the problem was. Mercedes cars (and vans it seems) don't have dipsticks. The oil is checked via an electronic sensor and the idea is that it's so easy to check the oil, that you'll do it regularly. Of course, that doesn't happen - when you get in the car (or van) you want to be driving away, not running through an oil-check sequence. Also, because there's no dipstick, the service mechanic has to measure out the oil and add just the right amount. Mechanics are used to glugging in a can-ful and then topping up until it's at the right level on the dipstick, so this is something of an alien concept to them. On my Mercedes car, there was also conflicting information from the manufacturer on exactly how much oil to add, so once Andy Bunyan added a little too much and the oil warning light kept coming on to tell me that.

I guess that's what happened to this van. The warning light came on every 10 miles or so and I soon worked out how to switch it off; then the "service due" warning popped up! It made a change from the oil warning, so I let it be (I couldn't work out how to get rid of that). I thought the van had cruise control and was looking forward to a nice relaxing drive, but it turned out to be a speed-limiting system. You can set a speed and once switched on, it won't let you exceed that speed! I guess no-one ever uses it.

I arrived in Penge about 8.15am, turned round in Victor Road and pulled up outside Max and Inna's with one wheel on the pavement. I couldn't have a cup of tea (everything packed) and I couldn't have a wee (Bathroom full of boxes) so we got straight on with it. Damo (Max's friend) was coming to help, but for the time being it was just the three of us.

There were two big challenges - the big, L-shaped leather sofa unit and the bed/settee from the upstairs bedroom.

We started with the leather sofa, which we have put in our lounge until they need it again. The people who delivered it said it wouldn't go through the front door and porch, so they lifted it over the wall into the back yard, then through the kitchen, dining room and into the lounge. Max and I got it straight out of the front door - easy! If that was easy, the sofa bed was less so. It's not especially big, but the stairs are steep and narrow and have a 90-degree turn at the top and bottom. We got jammed at the bottom

Max and Damo had manoeuvred the thing up in the first place and it had nearly finished the pair of them - it had to be easier going down. We tried several different approaches, all largely the same, but it kept getting jammed at the bottom. In the end, a little bit of extra force got us round the corner and it was plain sailing after that.

The van was piled quite high by the time we'd finished, but everything was in and sorted for about 10am, which is when Damo turned up. We finally left at about 10.30am with me leading and Max following in the Fiesta. The first stop was Leicester and my sat-nav wanted to take me somewhere there was a toll. I can't think where that would be (the London Congestion Charge doesn't operate on Saturdays), but in any event I went the way I thought best and the sat-nav kept telling me to turn off or turn around until we got to the Market Harborough turn-off on the A14 and then, at last, we were in harmony.

It took about three hours to get to Wigston and for the first half I was entertained by commentary from the fourth Ashes Test match against Australia from Trent Bridge. It was the third day and England won by an innings within the first hour. That means we've regained the Ashes, but to be honest it was something of a hollow victory. There have been three Ashes series within the last three years and I'm sick of playing Australia. I enjoyed the New Zealand tests at the start of the season much more.

Michael, Inna's dad was waiting for us in Leicester and I think that he and Marina (who was working) will enjoy having Inna home again. We'd packed the van as scientifically as we could, but we still had to take some boxes out to get the stuff we needed. it was unpacked pretty quickly and, after some lunch on the patio (it was a lovely sunny day) we set off for Thorney. Actually, by the time we reached Thorney, all we could think of was beer and barbecue, so we left everything in the van and unpacked the next day.

Tom, Lucy, Emilia and Julia were there, so it was best to do it next day when they would be at the cathedral in Peterborough, organising Julia's Christening.

We'd got some space in my sister's garage and also in our loft, while the big leather corner unit was to go in our lounge for "active storage". We'll get a new suite when Inna and Max are ready to reclaim it. Holly is under strict instructions not to sit on it, but I went through into the lounge this week and found her full stretch. I think that's been the only transgression.

It will be good to have Inna and Max closer; we saw them fairly regularly, but I hated the drive to Penge (we always found ourselves in a traffic jam somewhere - normally the Blackwall Tunnel). Leicester should be close enough for a quick visit.

Cars I have owned - No 13: VW Polo Mk 2 1.0 L

This was the first new (brand new) car I ever owned and it was the first time we were a proper two-car family. Margaret had learned to drive only a couple of years earlier so that she could take Sam and Claire London to the nursery in Whittlesey and at this stage of our lives (about 1988), the children were getting older and Margaret wanted a car to get them to places while I was at work.

It was a time when I was doing quite nicely, I had a better-paid job, a company car and I was running my motoring editorial business on the side, so we splashed out on a new VW Polo. It was almost the first Polo, a Mk 2, and was powered by a 1093cc engine with front-wheel drive and a four-speed gearbox. For a supermini, it was quite spacious, only three doors, but it had a very square back and had a decent amount of luggage space.

They were pretty popular cars, you saw a lot of them about because VWs (largely on the reputation of the Golf and Beetle) were considered pretty bulletproof and a cut above the Metro and Fiesta.

The Polo was well engineered, but it was a simple, unsophisticated car. For example, there were no electric windows, no central locking, no power steering and - most memorable - no servo-assisted brakes.

The Polo Mk 2 was the last car I remember that didn't have servo brakes and it was memorable because you forgot it at your peril. My first car - that side-valve Ford Popular had rod-and-lever brakes and you really had to stand on the brake pedal to get the thing to stop.

The Polo wasn't that bad, but it did require a firm stamp on the pedal. The number of times I jumped in it and, used to a power-assisted brake, got to the junction of Chestnut Drive and Station Road and brushed the brake pedal only to suffer heart failure as it seemed the brakes had failed. Just in time, I'd remember there was no servo, stamp on the pedal and stop just in time.

We had the Polo for about three years, then because the freelance I used to write my motoring column decided to quit, I had to take the writing back on myself so I had a string of test cars and wasn't putting the miles on my company car.

I gave the Polo to my dad, who was very pleased, not so much because he liked the car, but because he knew that I was doing well enough in my work to be able to afford to give him a car. He'd bought a Mini for me when I'd just started work and my Bedford van reached the end of its days and he'd also bought me an electric typewriter when I was getting my motoring business off the ground, so it was nice to give him something back. I'll always feel good about the Polo for that reason, although soon after I gave it to him, it needed an MoT test and needed new bushes on the front suspension struts. I think he got landed with a bill for about £180.

When dad died, my sister Margaret took the Polo so it came back to Peterborough and she used it for a number of years.It even survived a crash at the Dog in a Doublet when a car pulled out in front of her.

Also see:

Ford Popular - click

Bedford HA Van - click

Morris Mini - click

Vauxhall Viva HC - click

Citroen GS Club - click

Morris Marina 1.3GL - click

Talbot Horizon 1.1 LS - click

Vauxhall Cavalier 1.3L - click

Datsun Stanza 1.6GL - click

Vauxhall Cavalier 1.6L - click

Peugeot 405 STi - click

Ford Escort Mk IV 1.6D L - click

Mother Nature is doing her own thing

The trouble with nature is that it has a mind of its own – it is very difficult to get it to do what you want it to!

For example, when I built the summerhouse base, I constructed a magnificent underground hedgehog house, plus lots of space underneath the raised decking. I thought the hedgehogs would be fighting to be first to take up residence, but there’s not been so much as a sniff.

I’ve also constructed lots of insect-friendly areas (woodpiles, holes drilled in old tree trunks, logs left around to rot) and planted flowers which are good for bees and butterflies.

I’m sure my efforts haven’t been entirely in vain, but Mother Nature does pretty much seem to have bypassed my worthy attempts to manage her activities and done her own thing.

I was checking out my flower border at the beginning of the month and was surprised to see a big clump of Solomon’s Seal has been reduced to stalks. Any remaining leaves were swarming with grey/green caterpillars with little black heads. When I looked at the other clumps, they were nearly all the same. Some had already been eaten pretty much completely.

I wondered what magnificent butterfly would rise from the devastation, but I couldn’t identify these caterpillars in any of my books. As ever, Google found the answer – not a butterfly, not a moth, they were the larvae of the Solomon’s Seal Sawfly. I’d never heard of a sawfly, but they are related to bees and wasps and at least they have the good manners not to eat my Solomon’s Seal until after they have flowered. I think the plants will be robust enough to withstand this setback and the insect population of my garden has been increased, which is good for birds and other predators.

Sawfly larvae happily munching through my Solomon's Seal

Eating out in Jersey

For a small island, there are plenty of places to eat in Jersey.

On our brief stay in June, we did our bit for the country's restaurateurs and here's a quick round up.

We started at the top - Ormer is one of Jersey's four Michelin-starred restaurants and it's run by someone called Shaun Rankin, who is a very famous chef (so I'm told). I might have heard of him, but to be frank, I don't really follow all this food porn on television and the glossy supplements.

Anyway, Ormer has a Michelin star and everyone was very excited about the prospect of eating there, so what's not to like?

Ormer is an interesting name. It's a type of sea mollusc (a little like an oyster). It comes from French "oreille de mer" (a sea ear) because the open shell looks like a large ear. In the Channel Islands, they love them and there are ormering tides when the tide goes out a long way and people dash down onto the exposed rocks to collect them.

They are rare, cost a lot of money (around £10 each) to buy and are considered a delicacy. We asked if they had ormers on the menu at Ormer and the head waiter said they didn't because they were rather tough and they'd never keep their Michelin star if they served them.

It seems a bit odd to call your restaurant after sea food that you wouldn't put on the menu.

The place was pretty quiet for a Saturday night, but we had chosen to eat fairly early (7pm). There was an Australian girl (with an older chap) wearing an incredibly short skirt and halfway through her meal she started a long Skype call with someone on her iPad. It was (just) too far away for me to eavesdrop, but the couple on the next table clearly thought it bad form and asked to be moved. It was an interesting social/class interaction. One couple had perhaps come out for a special occasion and thought it very vulgar to start a Skype conversation in the middle of a meal at a Michelin-starred restaurant; the other pair treated Ormer with not a slightest wisp of respect - like most of the proletariat treat McDonalds.

We started off with cocktails in the bar while we chose our food and I thought they were a little too keen to get us seated and served. I almost had to neck my negroni! I chose crab as starter and fillet steak as my main. They don't ask how you'd like your steak, they tell you it will be rare and ask if that's all right. I have quite a high tolerance of steak from rare to medium, so I was happy enough, but should a restaurant tell you how your food will be cooked? I guess that ultimately it is up to you to vote with your feet and leave and all this "how would you like your ..." is a bit unnecessary. They should probably just cook it how they think it's best and most of us would get on fine.

Our table was situated so that we could see into the kitchen - no heads, just torsos moving about behind the hooded counter. There are a lot of people in there and Margaret was very interested in what was going on. It looked just like one of the reality restaurant shows she likes - Jamie Oliver could have swanked in at any moment and started poncing about.

I thought the food was very good - rich (of course) and small portions, very nicely presented and with interesting flavours. The steak was tender and nicely cooked; the waiters attentive and very pleasant without being ultra formal. Margaret had some Jersey Royals and thought they were a little too scrubbed and therefore lacking in flavour.

To finish, I had a cheeseboard and it was very good, a really nice selection and served at just the right temperature with a slice of quince jelly. There was the added entertainment of a stray ant that had hitched a ride with the cheese and spent the rest of the evening running around the table in a very confused state. If I'd been a Michelin inspector, that ant might have cost them their star!

Once the food was done, the waiters left us alone and were a little tardy bringing the bill, but I'm nit-picking because of the high standards the restaurant sets itself. I had a really nice meal. Total bill was just shy of £400 for the four of us (Sam's treat).

We were staying at the Royal Yacht on Liberation Square, a four-star hotel that's quite lively at night. St Helier is a strange mix. In some ways it is a market town version of London with a mini Canary Wharf finance centre attached. It's cosmopolitan, but compact and it has a seaside feel to it - a nice place to live (apart from the rush hour traffic and the parking).

The Royal Yacht's bars and nightclub seem to attract the young-to-middle-aged party set. It's not Cardiff on a Saturday night, but there were lots of high heels; short, plunging dresses and a good deal of sexual tension. Tattoos are much in evidence among the women and there were a lot of smokers. The warmer climate allows outside bars and so it's much easier to social smoke than it is back home.

The Royal Yacht hotel was quiet, spacious and comfortable. There was no noise in our room, despite the party going on five floors below. Breakfast was the usual Full English or Continental and it was nice to be able to eat on the first-floor balcony. It didn't get the morning sun, but some gas heaters dotted around made it more than warm enough. Jersey doesn't seem to worry about global warming. It buys its electricity from France (nuclear) and there are no wind turbines or solar panels. Almost every cafe, bar or restaurant has an al fresco area, but its literal meaning (cool air) is always warmed by countless gas heaters.

The Hungry Man (and woman) at Rozel

On Sunday, we had a walk with Skipper the collie dog (who belongs to one of Sam's partners) along the coast from Bouley Bay to Rozel. The north coast is up and down and the granite cliffs very pretty. It was a lovely warm day with a fresh breeze and lunch was at The Hungry Man in Rozel. This is a gaily painted shack with tables around the quayside and it does a roaring trade, with people queuing half an hour for food.

We let Sam do the queuing, while we sat at a table and enjoyed the sun and scenery. I'd offered to help, but then forgot, so he had to carry everything back on his own. There's a steady stream of cars driving down to the end of the quay hoping for a parking space and then having to turn around and drive back when they find there's none free. I've never seen so many disappointed drivers.

I had a crab roll, the house speciality, and it was good. That's crab twice in two days! Lucy likes nothing more than a bacon-and-egg roll with lots of sauce. Later, we drove round to St Ouen's Bay, which has a massive beach stretching for five miles. It's west-facing and catches the afternoon and evening sun, so was very pleasant in spite of a brisk wind. There's a beach bar called Watersplash that was pumping out a reggae beat at high volume carrying for miles along the almost-deserted sands. I'm surprised they get away with noise-polluting such a beautiful beach, but the tourist board seems to want to create the image of a surfers' paradise, so that means loud music and you can park your VW Camper on the slipway without being fined. I sound grumpy, but actually I didn't mind the music too much.

After enjoying some sea and sand we wandered back to a cafe called El Tico to see if we could eat. Sam, Lucy and I had breakfast there the last time we came to Jersey and it was very good. On Sunday evening, the place was pretty busy, but most people wanted tables inside and so we got a nice spot outside in the sun. Sheltered from the wind, it was really warm - who would want to sit inside when you could enjoy the sun and look out across the sands? El Tico is a safe bet for food; I had a salad in a desperate last bid to get a couple of my five a day.

We're gobbling down the calories, but we are getting plenty of walks.

Monday started with another "Full English" and then we met Sam to collect some paintings he'd ordered for his consulting room. Margaret put her foot in it by telling him she didn't like one (typical!) so he didn't ask her views on any of the others. We then drove out to Plemont, which is a lovely little cove and beach on the rocky north coast. The Plemont Beach Cafe is highly rated and is very nice. We'd already had a large breakfast so I just had a hot chocolate (very good), Sam went for crab (again) and Lucy might have had a bacon and egg roll. It was just (only just) too cool to sit outside unless you were in the sun and so we went inside. The cafe overlooks the beach and there's a lifeguard station on its roof.

From Plemont, we walked around to La Greve de Lecq, which is about three miles along the coast. There was a strong, cool  wind blowing but it was sunny (quite good walking conditions). The coast here is very up-and-down but the path is good, narrow in places, but with steps cut into the steeper inclines. Lucy is doing a round-the-island walk in a couple of weeks time and the north coast will be the toughest section. The walk is just over 50 miles, so quite an undertaking.

There are supposed to be puffins nesting along this section, but we didn't see any. There are good views of the other Channel Islands though. You can see Sark, Little Sark (which is joined to the main island by a narrow isthmus), Herm and Guernsey. The missing one (Alderney) is way off to the north.

Above La Greve de Lecq, Sam said he'd run back along the road to where we'd parked the car and pick us up in the village. We walked down to a nice pub called La Moulin de Lecq, which is a converted watermill with the wheel still in place. I tucked into the beer (it's nice not having to drive) while we waited in the sun for Sam to arrive.

Cocktails at Banjos.

In the evening, we were to eat at Banjos, which is a restaurant and cocktail bar housed in a former gentlemen's club in St Helier. We'd planned a meal there last time we were in Jersey, but weren't able to eat because Margaret was feeling unwell. This time, we almost missed it because I took a wrong turning and ended up half a mile from where we should have been, so we only just made it in time for cocktails with Sam and Lucy before sitting down.

I'd promised myself a fillet steak (another one!) because that's what I was having last time. Unlike Ormer, they give you the option of how you'd like it cooked, but I got the impression that they wouldn't have looked upon me kindly if I'd asked for it "well done". There was almost a food disaster when the waiter delivered a steak to my plate and then asked who was having the other. We said no-one else is having steak, so he took it back to the kitchen. In a couple of minutes he came back and said he'd brought it to the wrong table, so my steak was whisked away. Fortunately, I hadn't sliced a little taste off the end, but Margaret said the people on the table behind me who were getting a 'second-hand' steak didn't look very pleased (and I can't say I'd blame them).

Banjos doesn't have a Michelin star and the food isn't as theatrical or as well presented as Ormer, but it's a nice place, the cocktails are good and the building is splendid. It's owned by the Jersey Pottery group, which has a number of cafes and eating places around the island. I like the pottery (Sam and Lucy bought us a piece when they were living in London, years before they ever thought of moving to Jersey) but it's a shame that the pottery is made abroad, not on the island. Even if some of the smaller, cheaper pieces were made in the far east and some had been retained on Jersey it would have been better. As it is, I think it's a dangerous game to jeopardise the integrity of a brand. Of course, they're not alone - Portmeirion is doing exactly the same thing and I won't buy any of their new stuff for exactly that reason.

Corbiere lighthouse - at the start(and end) of the railway walk.

I'm not sure if Sam thinks we need to get fit or whether this was part of Lucy's training regime for the round-the-island walk, but he had planned a number of walks for us. We were supposed to be going on a boat trip to Les Ecrehous today, but the wind was too strong to be able to land there, so it was cancelled. Instead, we did the railway walk that was planned for another day. Jersey had only one railway and it ran from St Helier, along  St Aubin's Bay and out to Corbieres. If they'd kept it open, a steam railway might have been Jersey's most popular tourist attraction, topping the Nazi War Tunnels and the Battle of the Flowers, but they didn't. All of the tracks have been removed, but the section from St Aubin to Corbiere remains open as a footpath. It's a very gentle downward gradient from Corbiere, but the views are not great (in fact most of it is through woodland, suburbs and a golf club).

So it's a pleasant, if unspectacular path, much favoured by dog walkers, with a cafe half-way along. The only problem (and it's one which many paths suffer from): cyclists. They are more polite in Jersey than they are in the UK, but walkers and cyclists don't mix - dogs just add an extra dimension to any problem, of course. There's a cycle-hire shop in St Aubin at the end of the path and it's an obvious thing to make a trip to Corbiere your first target. Fortunately, most of the tourists don't cycle much faster than I can walk.

At the end of the track you're in St Aubin, which has a pretty harbour and a collection of shops, houses and hotels. We had lunch in the Boat House, which overlooks the harbour; very nice decor, very friendly and efficient service and a nice view. You can site outside, but it was far too windy today. Margaret and I had tapas, which was OK. To finish the day, we went to Ransome's Garden Centre, which may also be part of the Jersey Pottery empire (or perhaps it's just the cafe). The cafe is renowned across Jersey and, by the time I'd walked back to Corbriere, I had made room for a cake. I think garden centres make more money from their cafes and restaurants than they do from selling plants. This one should do - it was very busy, packed with middle-class mums and their noisy children. I have quite a high tolerance of noisy children (having had three myself), so this wasn't a deal-breaker. Service was good and the tea/cakes were also good (if a little pricey).

On Wednesday, we visited Jersey zoo, or the Durrell Wildlife Park, to give it its proper name. It came highly recommended and we were told to be sure to watch feeding time for the large primates. I'm never very happy with animals having to perform and, although the chimps’ tea-party fell into disrepute years ago, even the prospect of gorillas being thrown food made me a little uneasy.

Spot the animal - favourite game at Jersey zoo.

For a small island, Jersey zoo is very large. The animals, mostly, have large enclosures, which means that the indignity of being stared at while you eat is probably not such a problem. In fact the biggest problem is finding an animal to stare at and demean. The Andean Bear enclosure was notable for its lack of Andean Bears, the orang-utans were merging successfully into the background (which is quite hard because they’re orange and the background is green) and even the meerkats were a little backward in coming forwards.

There are animals in Jersey zoo, trust me, it's just that it takes you a while to learn how to spot them. Once you've got your eyes accustomed, you can normally find some kind of creature within half an hour or so. It's a very pleasant place to spend a day even without animals, so look upon a sighting of the tip of an otter's tail disappearing under the water as a bit of a bonus.

Sam in the observation bubble in the meerkat enclosure.

We eventually saw more than two meerkats (I think the sight of Sam appearing in the observation bubble scared them all to one end) and we found the Andean Bears in their underground enclosure indulging in a little afternoon hanky-panky (well foreplay at least). The orang-utans put in a brief appearance and the gorillas appeared fleetingly for feeding time and the gorilla talk by a zookeeper. The menu today comprised lettuce, which the zoo grows itself and which is lobbed into the undergrowth in the gorilla enclosure so the animals have to forage (as they would in the wild). You'd think a gorilla would need more calories than is contained in a lettuce, but they don't seem to be underfed. The highlight of a zoo trip for me (like any child) is seeing an unusual animal doing a poo. In Jersey zoo, we saw a gibbon hanging by its long arms from a steel wire (strung like a clothes line for his amusement and exercise) to relieve himself. First he (or she) did a long wee and then the creature forced out a long poo. The gibbon and the poo hung there for a couple of minutes before it dropped (the poo, not the gibbon). I've never seen that before, although if I were a gibbon, I'd definitely try it. There was also a bonus in the fruit bat enclosure. These are amazing creatures, wonderful to watch. When they're not flying or pooing they hang upside down - think about it, you can't do a poo upside down, it would make a terrible mess. So what the fruit bats do is turn over, hang the right way up, get the business done and then go back to hanging the right way (wrong way) up.

It's a well-known fact that Margaret is very fond of pizza, so Sam and Lucy planned a trip to Pizza Express at St Brelade in the evening. Sam had wanted to book a table by the window and after some difficulties had been promised one, but we'd arrived a little early and had time for a walk on the beach and a drink before eating.

St Brelade is a nice place and overlooks Ouaisné Bay (another of those Jersey place names which is quite hard to get your tongue around). There are two wide beaches intersected by a rocky outcrop which you can walk around on the sand when the tide is out. When the tide's in, there's a path up and over it. We walked the length of the beach to the Old Smugglers Inn and then back to Pizza Express. The place was absolutely packed, it was doing a roaring trade! Of course, there wasn't a table by the window, I think they'd forgotten our booking and we were squeezed in, then had a long wait for the pizza to arrive and mine had a soggy bottom - they were just too busy to do a good job. The after-dinner drinks were no better - Lucy ordered a mint tea and got greenfly floating on the top, I ordered an Irish Coffee which didn't taste of coffee or whisky and was crowned by a massive blob of squirty cream. We complained and they gave us some money off.

Exit this way - inside the mound at La Houge Bie

Thursday was our last day, we were flying out that evening and we started the day at Bouley Bay where there's a little beach shack called Mad Mary's. Lucy is fond of their bacon-and-egg baps (the best on the island, I'm told) but I'd already had bacon and egg (plus toast, black pudding, a sausage and tomato - I'd resisted the hash brown and baked beans), so I settled for Mad Mary's other speciality - hot chocolate. Mad Mary didn't look very mad, but she did give me a perplexed look when I said "no thanks" to squirty cream on my drink. What is it with squirty cream - you can't avoid the bloody stuff in cafes these days.

Sam and Lucy know I like nothing more than a day with a prehistoric mound, so they took us to a place called La Houge Bie, which is claimed to be the finest passage grave in Europe. It's Neolithic, dating back to around 3,500 BCE and it is a really amazing place. You can crouch and walk into the chamber and at sunrise on the summer solstice, the sun shines directly through the entrance and onto the back wall. The place has been knocked about a bit - the Christians built a church on top of the mound (which is about 30ft high), then some rich Victorian guy built himself a mock palace (which was later pulled down) covering part of the mound, then the Germans used it as a communications and command bunker during the Second World War.

It's amazing what bad care we have taken of prehistoric monuments over the years - it's amazing there are any left. The Christians were the worst, they pulled them down, built churches on them ... At Avebury, we built a village on the most amazing Neolithic stone circle in the world.

In spite of its trials and tribulations, La Houge Bie has survived and it retains an ancient, special feeling. There's a good museum, you can go inside the chamber, you can climb on top of the mound and go inside the tiny church. The WW2 command centre is open and has been converted into a memorial for the forced/slave labourers who died on the Channel Islands during the war. The Channel Islands was the only part of the British Isles to be occupied during the war and the Germans spent much effort in fortifying them (all using slave labour). In the end, the Allies invaded France and left the Channel Islands alone until the German surrender by which point the garrison (and a lot of the population) were starving.

Well we certainly weren't starving on Jersey and our holiday came to an end in typical British seaside tradition - fish and chips in the pouring rain. We'd driven to Grouville and the plan was to have a mooch about, a walk on the beach and then grab some chips to eat on the beach before catching the plane home. As we were driving from La Houge Bie, a few spots started to appear on the windscreen, then it was pouring down, then it was thundering. We had a drink in a pub instead of a walk and chips (from Entwhistle's, I think) were consumed inside a steamed-up car.

Meeting my new granddaughter

I'd forgotten how small new-born babies are. They really are tiny!

I became a grandfather on Friday, June 26, 2015 at 2.10am and I met my granddaughter, Julia Elena, for the first time about 11 hours later.

I feel as if I should be writing something really profound, but I've already deleted half a dozen sentences, so no Chinese philosophy for life in this blog. It's also a Kahlil-Gibran-free zone!

Tom texted on Thursday morning to say that Lucy's waters had broken during the night, so the baby was on her way - we already knew the sex and the name had been chosen (so there were no surprises). I thought the baby would be born fairly quickly, but Lucy was sent home from hospital and told to come back when contractions were every three minutes.

She spent a pretty uncomfortable day at home and when I called for an update, they were still there at 10pm, joined by Max, Inna and Sam (Sam had come across from Jersey for a course in minor surgery). Contractions were getting more intense, so I guessed the baby would come overnight.

I got a text from Tom at 2.30am to say she'd been born 20 minutes earlier and that she weighed 2.7kg, so I woke Margaret to tell her the news. In the morning, Margaret was planning a trip to London on Saturday and had arranged dog-sitting duties with my sister, but I thought we should see Julia on her first day, so we packed Holly into the car and headed to London.

Only a few hours old - Julia Elena

June 26, 2015, was a lovely sunny day with temperatures around 28 deg C. We thought Lucy, Tom and Julia would be at home, but we got a call just as we neared Catford to say that they were still at Lewisham Hospital and we should go there. While Margaret got the sat-nav out, stuck it to the screen, caught it when it dropped off and then tried to programme it to find the hospital, I followed signs to Lewisham and came to the hospital in the High Street. Fortunately, it's really easy to find.

Max and Sam met us in the car park and took Holly for a quick walk while we went in to see the baby. I have to say I was very impressed by Lewisham Hospital, it's a fantastic place and they had a massive delivery room with birthing pool. It's a lot different from the drab, functional room in Peterborough Maternity Hospital where Tom was born almost 34 years ago.

Lucy looked tired, but happy; Tom looked shattered. Baby Julia was wrapped up in a merino wool blanket and cap with little mittens on to stop her scratching her face with her sharp fingernails. She is tiny, but with perfect little hands and feet. She has black hair (like her mother) but everyone says she looks like Tom.

I have no wisdom to impart and no advice (except never have a tattoo), but welcome to the world Julia, have a long and happy life and thanks for carrying a few of my genes into a new generation.

Footnote: Julia was called Julia because a July birth was predicted. Her early arrival might have meant a name change to June, but Tom and Lucy have stuck with Julia. Elena is after her great-grandmother Luisa Elena Cadeno Gallo, who will be 100 years old in February.

Sleep when you can - there will be a lot of disturbed nights.