My official holiday for summer 2014 was a two day trip to Dartmoor with my Grandparents. Last year I went to Margate. I lead a glamorous life.
Jk. It was special and awesome.
Plus the bay (right word?) reminded me so much of the Hijikata movie 'Horrors of Malformed Men' that I spent the whole time being all:
And all the old fisherman dudes were like wtf is this shit.
The bed and breakfast place was creepy.
Shining levels of creepy.
[Though I think my super power in life is turn anything into a horror film situation.]
And if you drove for like two seconds everything turned into, like, the set of Maleficent, or something:
Socks and sandals with a novelty Shrek t-shirt from Primark (a birthday gift) as the ultimate forest witch ensemble.
Holidays in British are so terribly, well...British! Ice cream trucks in the rain may be a funny story in the 1940s, but now, they feel like a sort of parody of and in themselves.
The thing about holidays in the UK is that they could be at any moment in time, at any month in the year. How's that for time travel? This applies to all facets of 'British' cultural identity in all honesty.
We ate ham rolls in the rain to celebrate my Grandad's birthday, we were stalked by an orange man, which was funny at first, but then we all got freaked out and thought he was an escaped convict who was going to murder us all.
And the car interior looked like a face.
(the orange man's face??)
Skeletal ponies at Dartmoor which resulted in this disturbing exchange between my grandparents:
"Roger! Roger! look at the horse's penis!"
"Really, it'll only take a second Roger!"
Idk man, my Grandparents are weird.
I'm not sure if it was because I'd done an exam on 'Discipline and Punish' the day before, or because there an unspoken contract that holidays in the UK have to be Deeply Depressing but we ended up going to the prison museum in Dartmoor.
Which was ill-fitting and uncomfortable as we know someone in the actual Dartmoor prison.
It was a macabre and deeply unpleasant experience, which I suppose is an adequate reflection of how those on the 'outside' view those on the 'inside'. You could buy t-shirts and novelty mugs in the gift shop. Garden gnomes were also on sale, painted by people in the prison, people who don't have homes right now, let alone gardens. There was a glass cabinet of objects people had actually self harmed with, taken away and put on display. They called that part The Black Museum. And my Grandma kept joking that it was like Oxford (which was just no). She also accidentally hit me with the car door when we were leaving. So yeah.
H.M.Prison Dartmoor Eraser-80's indie song a la Morrissey or grotesque holiday souvenir?
See also this book in a church gift shop.
Now I've killed ur happy July vibezz have a mood board thing, of random postcards I picked up while I was away:
Caroline Appleyard, Egino Weinert, Last Supper, Dom Robert, The Sheep, Dom Robert, Chasing Butterfly, Dom Robert, Lamb.