Its difficult, writing non fictional events as if they were fictional without making them peacemeal, good fun though, even if the objective was not quite attained

There are 159 worn sandstone steps leading to the summit of St Mary's of Warwick. If your lucky somewhere between 90 and 120 the clock will chime its song across the East Midland countryside. The view from the summit though, does not live up to the promise of the tightly spiralled steps. Save for the distant castle the hazy pre autumn countryside is harshly dotted by various low buildings of industry.

We came to St Mary's innocent, while walking off the loss of an inch square of Prideesh knee skin, the result of a leaf like fall post turned ankle. We had been attracted by its proud demand for attention, almost forgotten in the high ground above the castle. Inside there was something captivating in those grand designs, of the intricate detail, erstwhile devotion through generations laid at the feet of silent gods.

Post St Mary's the streets took us to coffee in the precariously angled Lord Leycester Hospital, which at the time was receiving attention from the David Dimbleby camera crew. Following this the streets and alleys took us around the perimeter of the castle which promised for just under two score, a complete medieval experience. Evidence of this was visible in the suitably attired house wench we saw running across the road to partake in a quick fag.

Finally, we took a tour of the box square museum sat conspicuously mid-town square, probably the sincerest of the attractions. We learned of the geological foundations of Warwick, of the volcanoes and subsequent ice age just 25,000 years ago that shaped it, of the great tusked mammoths that roamed this same tundra, proud fossils of which lay behind freshly polished glass.

A span of almost two hundred minutes and a similar number of miles saw us magically transported North and some way West to the rolling green velvet of Cumbrias Lake District and the glass like Windermere. Oh the magic of early afternoon travel via the M6 toll road.

Being unusually laid back on the whole accommodation front I.e. Had nothing booked, we had ambled through and beyond Bowness passing tired lodgings and high turnover guest houses thinly disguised as Hotels. Soon though, via an auto dial telephone lost in a deserted booth next to a ferry, we were led to the freshly laundered bed upon which I now type this entry. The bed itself sits inside a building atop a long slope the locals refer to as the struggle and opposite a grounds containing lots of howling dogs. The howling we were assured was not the sort that only made itself known on moonlit nights, low cloud prevented any furtive checks on lunar status.

A very pleasant evening then, was spent reading Vladimir's Lolita in a trendy little student bar set amongst slate walled buildings and streets. Once more though we were forced to rush at the late hour of nine to locate a vendor that was prepared to trouble themselves in the matter of serving cooked food. We ended up in the overly contrived Lucy's before a night cap in the wine bar and a relaxed if slightly breathless walk back up the struggle.