Svalbard Diary, Day 9: "Longyearbyen, Longyearbyen, that toddlin' town..."

Tuesday dawned, grey and chilly, and it was with some trepidation that we prepared for the day's first activity, a perimeter walk. Hitherto, our walks had all been guided. A perimeter walk is as it sounds - an area of ground is marked out with little orange flags, the expedition team (all armed) patrol the boundary. We were like guillemot chicks, expelled from the nest and left to fend for ourselves.

And so we rambled around Alkhornet, studying the reindeer, avoiding the skua nest - they nest on the ground in the absence of predators, and are quite happy to attack anything that comes near. And then we saw a pair of Arctic fox, somewhat hidden amongst the rocks.

They're rather attractive creatures, with longish brown and white coats, and we were close enough to see them clearly, yet not so close as to disturb them. They were entrancing.

We were heading back towards the landing point when something landed on the ground in front of me - hard. It was a Brünnich's guillemot chick, whose first flight hadn't quite got it to the water. I shooed it off of the cliff before any harm could befall it, whilst its parents sqwalked in the sea below.

It was time to go. Civilisation beckoned...

Longyearbyen is not a one horse town, with its population of more than 1,250. Actually, there don't appear to be any horses, but there are plenty of snowmobiles. We arrived at the harbour, enthralled by the possibility of retail opportunities, having not seen a shop of any kind for a week, and even more importantly, phone reception. Trust me, if you want a digital detox, there is little to beat bobbing around in a small cruise ship  around the waters of Svalbard.

However, we had been told that the Svalbard Museum was worth a look, with some interesting exhibits, and so, restraining the urge to give the debit card an airing, Ros and I paid it a visit. It is, almost certainly, the second most northerly museum in the world, with an excellent collection of stuffed animals (if you like that sort of thing) and some interesting historical information. If you're ever in the area, I'd drop by if I were you.

A short walk takes you to the Radisson Blu hotel, the world's most northerly four star hotel, before you reach the main 'street' with its coffee shops and bars, a supermarket and wi-fi! Yes, it was time to upload the 350 pieces of mostly useless e-mail that had come in over the previous eight days...

We walked around a bit, bought crisps at the supermarket - sea salt and black pepper flavour - and wandered about a bit more. We found the most northerly ATM, the most northerly Thai restaurant, the most northerly nursery school, and weren't eaten by a polar bear, which was a good thing. I do not mock though, polar bears are known to stray into town during the winter, and guns are mandatory beyond the town limits all year round.

We could have stayed for dinner, but the free wine and the massive discrepancy between bar prices in Longyearbyen and those on the ship drove us back to the Hebridean Sky. It was an excellent choice....

Svalbard Diary, Day 8: in which your gallant correspondent develops an unexpected yearning...

It was surprisingly warm, which for anyone who had packed as if auditioning for a remake of "Scott of the Antarctic" was likely to be problematic. Me, I was dressed as if for a gentle stroll across the fields to Tesco at Stowmarket. And, of course, apart from the absence of polar bears, the conditions are pretty similar.

Our morning excursion was at Hornsund, at the south-western tip of Spitsbergen proper, in search of the auk colony. This meant hopping into the zodiacs again. I've made this sound pretty uneventful, but perhaps I ought to explain how it works.

A zodiac is a smallish inflatable vessel, which holds up to fifteen passengers and is powered by a 50 hp motor (in our case). Here, they are boarded from a platform at the rear of the vessel. We, the passengers, are required to wear waterproof jackets and trousers, plus a life jacket which should, apparently, automatically inflate if we fall into the water. You don't want to fall into the water - life expectancy is measured in minutes given the temperature of the sea. We also have waterproof boots, which are totally unstylish.

The zodiac is lashed to the marina deck by the Filipino crew, whilst we transfer one by one, holding the zodiac driver using the 'sailor's grasp', where you hold each other by the forearm - this reduces the risk of slipping, they tell me.

And then off we go, re-enacting the Normandy landings (albeit without hostile Germans, mines and underwater obstructions), as the zodiac glides onto the beach. Mostly, we make wet landings, where you exit the vessel into about six to eight inches of water - thus the need for waterproof boots. We then splash ashore for our educational stroll/hike.

As already mentioned, we were in search of auks today, and these nest in the crevices formed by jumbled rock at the bottom of cliffs. They weren't very co-operative, it must be said, but it was a pleasant enough walk nonetheless.

Whilst we were at lunch, the Hebridean Sky repositioned itself to Recherchefjord, where we were off for another stroll. Our prey, the Svalbard reindeer.

The landing point, or as I'd termed it by now, the human haulout, was by an abandoned hut, propped up with bits of wood. Because of the permafrost, you can't easily dig foundations for buildings, and the effect of constant freezing and thawing plays havoc with the integrity of walls.

We walked. The reindeer chewed in a thoughtful way, as if mentally doing sudoku puzzles in their heads. The sun shone. It was all curiously tranquil. And suddenly, I had a yearning for a bag of crisps. I hadn't seen any on the ship, and asked my fellow zodiac passengers, who confirmed the absence of potato-based snacks.

We mused over the possibility of reindeer and lichen, or kittiwake and seaweed flavours, before concluding that, like hedgehog crisps, they'd probably be a bit of a disappointment. I only had to resist the cravings for a day though. We were headed for the big city...

Svalbard Diary: This one's for you, Sabine...

In my capacity as a member of the Financial Advisory Committee of the ALDE Party, I have the great pleasure of working closely with Sabine Dechamps, Head of the Administration Unit.

And so I was intrigued to discover from our map of Svalbard that there is an area on the eastern side of Spitsbergen called Sabine Land. It is utterly unlike Sabine though, in that it is bleak and austere, covered in rather a lot of ice and totally unpopulated.

It must be nice to have somewhere named after you, even so...

Svalbard Diary, Day 7: I think that I shall never see, a poem lovely as a walrus...

I may have mentioned my enthusiasm for walrus(es) already. Indeed, when I grow up, I want to be a walrus. There were more walrus in our future, as we headed for Cape Lee and the known walrus haulout there.

Into the zodiac again, and off we went. "Walrus off of our bow!", someone shouted. The walrus bobbed below the surface... We scanned the water. And then, it reappeared... eight feet away, so close you could count its whiskers. I was enthralled. Our guide wasn't so keen. Apparently, walrus are known, in their enthusiasm, to puncture zodiacs with their tusks, and Colin wasn't taking any chances. We sped away...

The good news was that there were six walrus asleep on the shore, next to some huts built by an ill-fated Dutch expedition. The scientists had concluded that being armed was unnecessary, which was fine until a polar bear turned up, caught one of the scientists in the open, and mauled him to death.

The walrus were still asleep when we got to them, and we were able to get very close, before setting off down the beach towards the carcass of a dead polar bear. It clearly hadn't been dead that long, although what had actually killed it wasn't obvious.

Next, we walked across a slope in search of reindeer, and found an excellent male example. Svalbard reindeer have relatively short legs by reindeer standards, but given the lack of predators, they don't need to be that quick. This one didn't seem to have a care in the world.

Onwards and upwards we went, until suddenly a wide valley opened up below us, with more reindeer. It was truly majestic. But we had to get back, as the ship was due to sail on, and we set off back to the landing place.

Everybody else was off looking at reindeer, but I only had eyes for the walrus, and so I persuaded one of the security team to accompany me back to them. You must have security on Svalbard, armed security, at all times. Polar bears can appear out of the water, or from behind rocks, when you least expect them, and so before the passengers are allowed ashore, the area is scanned and a perimeter established.

But Chris and I went back to the walrus and stood watching them in quiet admiration. Their life is a simple one - eat, sleep, eat some more. Their blubber is so thick that even if a polar bear catches one, it can just drag itself, and the bear, down the beach and into the sea and safety. Yes, the bear can swim, but it can't really dive. Me, a man with a rifle, and half a dozen enormous walrus. It brings a tear to the eye just thinking about it...

In the afternoon, we were out on a zodiac cruise when the word went round that a polar bear had been spotted on the sea ice in front of the glacier at X. Eight zodiacs edged cautiously through the brash ice - small lumps of floating ice no larger than a small car - bringing us closer and closer to the bear.

Eventually, it slipped off of the ice floe and swam a little way further back before hauling itself onto another floe which seemed to suit it better. We continued to edge forward so that everyone could get a really good look at a healthy polar bear in its natural environment of the sea ice. It was truly incredible.

You think of the Arctic as bleak, silent. And it is, sort of. But as you glide through the brash ice, you are accompanied by a persistent cracking sound as the ice breaks around you. And the ice itself comes in a range of types. I pulled an ice dagger out of the water, the ice absolutely clear and the perfect murder weapon, leaving no trace as it melted. Luckily, I was in a benevolent mood, merely holding it so that fellow passengers could photograph it...

Svalbard Diary, Day 6: The ice shelf and the kittiwake

We awoke to a rather gloomy picture, with temperatures below freezing and a stiff breeze from the north. However, we were passing the rarely seen ice shelf on the southern shore of Nordtauslandt, the second largest of Svalbard's islands. It's rarely seen because the pack ice seldom allows access, and even if you can get there, impenetrable fog often obscures the view.

Mile upon mile of ice cliffs, facing south, represents an impassable barrier. It was time to turn south.

We were heading for an area known as Kittiwake Canyon, where a crease in the hillside has created a perfect nesting sight for, yes, you guessed it, kittiwakes. Now I must admit that seabirds have not traditionally been a core fascination here at "Liberal Bureaucracy", but there is something curiously relaxing about a bunch of nesting birds, scattered across a cliff face. And the kittiwake seem pretty relaxed about us too, allowing us to get surprisingly close to them.

Apparently, kittiwake chicks have an innate sense of where the cliff ledge ends and the sheer drops starts, and early scientific researchers tested this in a way which seems astonishingly cruel nowadays. Different gull chicks were placed in kittiwake nests and inevitably fell to the deaths, demonstrating just how unique kittiwake are. Not a piece of knowledge with tremendous potential for application elsewhere, I'd have thought, but what do I know?...

Svalbard Diary, Day 5: Dances with walrus

The temperature had dropped to zero, albeit that zero is rather mild for that latitude, and we were heading for Nordauslandt (which, I'm told, is the size of Wales, as a surprisingly large number of places seem to be) in search of walrus, or walruses, or walri. Me, I was hoping for many walrus. Many, many walrus...

The morning activity was a walk, starting at a camp on the shore, before heading up the various levels of former beaches before at the crest of the slope, we encountered four Svalbard reindeer, two male, one female and a calf. They didn't seem terribly bothered about us, given that they have no natural predators - the biggest shore-based carnivores are arctic foxes. Indeed, the two males grazed towards us unconcerned.

It was a pleasant stroll, making up for the lack of exercise the day before. And that's important given the number of meals I'm eating each day...

But the day's highlight was to be the walrus. We boarded our zodiac and made our way to the designated landing spot before heading to the place where the walrus had been spotted. Stealthily, or as stealthily as a bunch of old people in wellington boots can be on a shingle beach, we crept up on the pile of walrus in single file, before stopping just fifty or so feet away. The walrus studiously ignored us, as we're no threat to them. Given that even polar bears offer little threat to an adult walrus, this shouldn't have come as much of a surprise.

The walrus didn't do much. That suited me just fine, as it made them easier to film. But sadly, we had to leave only too soon. After all, it would have been a pity to miss afternoon tea...

But the day wasn't over. One of the finest sea bird colonies to be found anywhere is Alkefjellet, home to 60,000 breeding pairs of Brunnich's guillemots and, higher up the cliff, a similar number of kittiwake. Interestingly, nobody seems to know who Brunnich was, which is a bit of a shame. Usually, they are seen from the zodiacs, but our captain took advantage of the remarkably calm sea conditions to cruise so close that we could study them from the club lounge on the ship.

It's tough work, studying the wildlife...

Svalbard Diary, Day 4: Adrift on the edge of the pack ice with only a light snack for sustenance

Above 80 degrees North, you begin to run out of geography. Or, more accurately, land. We're north of Spitsbergen, cruising slowly along the edge of the pack ice in the hope of spotting seals and polar bears. They're out there, somewhere...

Occasionally, there is an announcement over the public address system, "there's a group of harp seals off the port side at 10.30", and people grab their binoculars to seek a better view. But most of the day is spent either preparing to eat, actually eating, or digesting what you just ate. I have a nasty feeling that I'm going to be the size of a house by the end of this trip.

The day starts with breakfast between 7.30 and 9, with lunch served between 12.30 and 2. Afternoon tea is served from 4, with pre-dinner canapés available before dinner at 7.30. Of course, you can grab a cookie or two between meals if you feel the need. My suspicion is that anti-social fellow passengers are fed to the polar bears, once suitably fattened up...

The food is pretty good, and well-presented if perhaps not quite "haute cuisine". Unlike a lot of cruises, there is nowhere to pick up supplies on this trip, so if it wasn't loaded at Tromsø or Longyearbyen, it isn't available. But the menus are varied, the wine free-flowing, and they do cater for dietary requirements to a surprising extent.

My sense is that it's a bit like being on the floating equivalent of a country house hotel, somewhere up in the Scottish Highlands, where the mist has descended and there's nowhere much to go. It's very congenial though...

Svalbard Diary, Day 3: Encountering the luckiest polar bear in the world...

It's an increasingly tough life as a polar bear. Climate change has caused a reduction in the amount of sea ice upon which they rely as a platform for catching seals, their staple diet. And sometimes, in high summer, they're forced to make a choice - rely on the sea ice as it retreats northwards, or stay on land and hope to be able to scavenge enough to keep body and soul together.

We were supposed to be heading out on the zodiacs to making a landing near a walrus haulout, but the tide had turned unexpectedly, and the last boat was diverted in the opposite direction, where a whale had recently washed ashore. Bad news for the whale, but the equivalent of a winning lottery ticket for a nearby polar bear, who we found on the scene. Off we went, and we were able to get incredibly close, close enough to watch it rip a huge chunk out of the carcass and get a good feed.

The bear, his appetite clearly sated, decided that a nap was called for, so we set off back to the walrus. My love of walrus knows no bounds, so I was perfectly happy. And we were in time to find a group of them in the shallows, wallowing around. Graceful is not a word often associated with walrus, even in the water, but they are attractive in a whiskery sort of way, and I got some good pictures before we had to return to the ship.

The afternoon was spent on a nature ramble at Rautfjord. The flora of Svalbard is not dramatic - the height of the trees can be measured in millimetres, and lichen are big here. Well, I say "big", but I suspect that you know what I mean. Clinging to every little opportunity, every slightly sheltered spot, life is somehow sustained.

The expedition team includes a range of expertise, birds, mammals, geology, and there is much useful information imparted. I now know about hairy lousewort, and purple saxifrage, and could, at a pinch, identify a Svalbard poppy. Delicate, yes, but surprisingly pretty. And the reindeer need to eat something, I suppose...

Svalbard Diary, Day 2: To be honest, I probably wouldn't start from here...

Ålesund is a charming town on the Norwegian coast, famous for its Jugendstil architecture. Ny-Ålesund is not going to win many architectural awards, and there's not much to do unless you're a research scientist, but it is the site of Svalbard's only railway and, more notably, the jumping off point for a number of insane acts of polar exploration.

It was thought that the easiest way to reach the North Pole was to fly, and the absence of aeroplanes didn't restrain the first attempts. In 1896, Auguste Andree and two companions inflated their hydrogen-filled balloon and set off, never to be seen again. At least, they weren't seen again until 1930, when the remains of a camp were found on the remote island of Kvitøya. Amongst the items found were their camera and some film, which was still able to be developed, and their diary, which told of an epic journey after the balloon crashed.

Americans, Norwegians and Italians came (and failed), but eventually success was achieved. Admittedly, there is still some argument about who was actually first, but now that people have driven there, it's probably not such an epic proposition.

Ny-Ålesund has the world's most northerly post office, and is possibly the world's most northerly permanently settled community. It also has a surprisingly good gift shop, and we bought the mandatory Christmas bauble, two mugs and a pair of fridge magnets.

Back aboard the Hebridean Sky, we were off to the Fourteenth of July Glacier, named by a Prince Albert of Monaco in honour of France. There is no shortage of glaciers here in Svalbard - Spitsbergen is 60% ice cap - but it was nice to get one in early.

The day ended at our anchorage for the night, Lilliehöökbreen. The next day, we were really heading north...

Svalbard Diary, Day 1: 'Twas on the Monday morning, just as the sun was rising...

Dawn broke, somewhere near Stansted Airport. It was fearfully early, not a time of day I am familiar with, but the flight was scheduled for a 7 a.m. departure, and there really wasn't an option of taking a later one and having a lie-in.

And so, I hauled myself somewhat unenthusiastically out of bed, into (and out of) the shower and into some clothes. Thanks to Ros's enthusiasm for being early, we took a gentle stroll around the hotel to ease my daily quest for my ten thousand steps, before boarding the coach to the Inflite Corporate Jet Terminal, tucked away on the far side of Stansted Airport.

On arrival, it was clear that there was a problem. The absence of an aircraft should have been a giveaway, really. Apparently, a part was needed, and we weren't going anywhere until it was found and fitted. What this meant was that our scheduled afternoon explore of Longyearbyen, Svalbard's capital, was likely to be lost, and with it the walking opportunity I had been counting on. There was no choice but to walk laps of the rather small lounge. Lots of laps...

But we did eventually set off on the four hour flight. It is slightly hard to credit that, in such a short time, you can be somewhere so remote, but that's the wonder of modern flight, I guess.

Longyearbyen Airport is not a thing of beauty. Interestingly though, there is no customs or immigration check - you collect your luggage from the carousel and go. We were bussed to the ship and welcomed aboard with a glass of something sparkling and vaguely grape flavoured. It was going to be alright...

Nadia Cenci learns a valuable lesson just too late...

And so, as I suspected, it came to pass that Nadia Cenci's tenure as Leader of the Conservative Group on Ipswich Borough Council came to a sorry end. It didn't take very long, her resignation coming on Monday without much suggestion that it wasn't inevitable.

Her apology was a fulsome one, and whilst only Nadia knows whether or not it was sincere, she might hope that it doesn't necessarily mean the end of any political aspirations she has much beyond being a Borough councillor.

I fear that she is, however, done for in that sense, because the other problem with the internet, beyond the risk of saying something you wouldn't normally put into the public arena, is that it never goes away. Search engines are entirely unforgiving like that and, if she ever puts her name forward for anything, it will be there, and used as a stick to poke her with.

I am also reminded that, only too often, those describing themselves as outspoken are, ultimately, usually found placing their privilege above their principles, as a former Leader of the UK Libertarian Party did a few years back in a particularly sorry example of the genre. When his job was under threat, he rowed back only too rapidly from his often vile attacks on opponents.

Funnily enough, with freedom of speech comes the freedom to accept the consequences, which is why one has an obligation to consider the implications of one's words and actions beforehand. That's because, as Chris Mounsey found out, the consequences don't just necessarily fall upon you, but on those around you - family, friends, work colleagues, for example, who probably weren't consulted first.

In this instance, can Nadia be trusted to look after the interests of the council tenants of Ipswich? Are her views those of her fellow Council Group members? More importantly, what do those council tenants think? They have votes too, and I wouldn't be surprised to see Ipswich Labour activists use this against the Conservatives in the months to come.

This Committee isn't working like I'd hoped. Can I start over, please?

And so, I've just spent an evening at Federal International Relations Committee. Not one of the organisation's finest hours, although by no means a painful one. However, it isn't going as I had hoped, nor is it achieving what I think it might. What is its secretariat to do?

But what do I think is wrong?

First, and I can see the irony here in what I am writing, the Committee is too bogged down in process, leaving too little time for the creative part of our role, advising on policy, considering ideas. The notion that policy might be squeezed into a ten minute slot at the end of the meeting when time is against us does seem to me to be a bit of a nonsense.

Second, there is not enough discipline. It is no use submitting a written report to the Secretary by e-mail forty-one minutes before the meeting starts. Effectively, that means a verbal report, and they're always a problem - I've never yet heard a verbal report which didn't run on beyond the time taken to note a written report, especially if those receiving the report are required to do something.

So far, my entreaties for written reports have been taken as a request to be ignored or, at best, the deadline is treated as optional. Which is fine if your Secretary has nothing better to do. Sadly, I do have other, better things to do. In other words, your inadequacy is not my problem.

What I would like to do, therefore, is find ways to reduce the process stuff and increase the intellectual stuff. So, more written reports, submitted in advance, perhaps seeking approval of the minutes online, rather than at the meeting. More papers that suggest ways of progressing matters rather than attempting to address them on the hoof. More collaborative working by the Committee, new sub-committees perhaps to deal with the  process stuff.

Hmmm... sounds like I might be talking about a revolution. Although, given my role in this, let's call it an evolution. I know, let's call it "building a better walrus". It worked for me, so why shouldn't it work for Federal International Relations Committee?

So much lack of organisation, so many choices...

Given what I tend to end up doing for the most part, it often surprises people to discover that, not only do I find bureaucracy a bit tedious, I find process a bit restrictive. I am a bit of a grasshopper, in that I like to hop from task to task, doing whatever appeals to me at the time. That does not, obviously, engender absolute reliability, in that tasks tend to get done when I remember them. Fortunately, I have a very good memory and a willingness to do things at unusual times (normally between midnight and three o'clock in the morning.

It isn't, to put it mildly, always the most effective use of my time. I rely on a keen memory to get me by.

Ros, on the other hand, being outcome focused, has tried, tested and efficient systems to ensure that important things get done. And so, I am encouraged to find my own system, one that works. I've got one for work, and it does work quite well, I think, but it wouldn't be right for the rest of my life.

Luckily, in the modern era, there are plenty of people who want to organise your life for you, and I'm trying one out at the moment. Only time will tell if it works, but what harm is there in trying?

Dyb, dyb, dyb, in coastal Dorset...

It would be fair to suggest that noting that I have been on a day trip to Poole today would not obviously be the prelude to a tale of enjoyment. You wouldn't rank Poole that far up the chart of non-attractions in Dorset, let alone on a regional or national scale. Perhaps that's fair, but not necessarily accurate. Yes, Bournemouth has beaches and seaside fun, Swanage has a certain quirky charm, and Lyme Regis has the romance of the French Lieutenant's Woman, amongst other things. Poole, on the other hand, has ferries to the Channel Islands and France - a place to connect rather than stop.

I'd never really been there, apart from a few days when I stayed at the then Holiday Inn to save money on the cost of a hotel in Bournemouth. I didn't actually explore Poole at all.

The railway station is not a great gateway to the town, surrounded by ugly concrete buildings, some of which are only too obviously derelict. And the route to the Old Town and the Quay is not as obvious as it might be, leading you towards an overpass of unfortunate ugliness. But stick with it, and you soon find yourself in the High Street, heading towards the waterfront.

Keep going, and you'll find yourself in amongst some rather more interesting architecture, before turning left at the museum and reaching the Quay.

Time for a boat ride. Get the Brownsea Island ferry, because whilst Poole itself is alright, it's when you get on to the water that you begin to appreciate the charms of its setting. Poole Harbour is the second largest natural harbour in the world, offering sanctuary to an armada of small boats, plus plenty of kayaks, jet skis and dinghies.

And then you get to Brownsea Island itself. Not huge, but big enough and nowadays maintained by the National Trust and the Dorset Wildlife Trust. So, what's special about Brownsea Island? It is the spiritual home of the Boy Scout movement, where Baden-Powell held his first camp for young men. Even today, Scouts, Guides and the plethora of age groups come to the island to camp and learn skills.

I was never a Scout. It wasn't really me, and the idea of camp never appealed. Lots of people would disagree with me on the subject though, and who am I to argue?

We could probably all agree, however, that red squirrels are a thoroughly good thing, and they're one of the many animals that live on the island - some two hundred of them, apparently. We didn't see any, because they tend to stay in the cooler upper branches on hot days.

There's an interesting visitor centre, a fine Victorian church and a decent little cafe, as well as some nice walking opportunities.

Once you've finished your visit, the boat takes you back to Poole by completing the circumnavigation of the three main harbour islands - Brownsea, Furzey and Green. It's a pleasant ride and you get to see the northern shore of the Swanage peninsula.

In the sunshine, it was all rather lovely, and an excellent day out. I've also spotted a potential hotel for Federal Conference in September...

I wonder what other surprises Dorset has been keeping from me?

An Ipswich Tory has a social media misadventure...

I have to admit, I don't pay as much attention to local politics in Ipswich, our county town, as I might. Whilst I work in the heart of the town, and thus am there five days of each week, I can't say that I have an attachment to it which is anything other than functional. The shopping isn't as good as that of Norwich, or even Bury St Edmunds, and you just sense that it hasn't always been well-served by a County administration that is dominated by people who don't live there.

And, in truth, those of the town's politicians who are on social media often come across as unnecessarily aggressive and confrontational. It's the sort of politics that I was happy to leave behind when I left London nearly a decade ago.

But, bits and pieces of the online debate do cross my timeline, and, on Friday, I noticed that Nadia Cenci, the leader of the Conservative Group on Ipswich Borough Council, had made a comment about the survivors of the Grenfell Tower disaster which was, at best, grossly insensitive and, at worst, downright unpleasant.

Reaction was instantaneous - it tends to be when there's blood in the water - and hostile too. Nadia defended herself. It was a mistake, she'd meant to refer to the left-wing activists causing trouble, an interpretation which didn't have much to commend it. And then, she was gone. Six years of tweets deleted at a stroke.

Given that in her Twitter bio, she described herself as "outspoken female", it seemed odd that she'd simply bolted for the hills like that. After all, if you are outspoken, you stand by your comments, unless they're factually inaccurate, I'd have thought. Admittedly, 'outspoken' is a word used instead of the more accurate 'rude', 'unpleasant', or even 'callous', and whilst it may not reflect who Nadia really is (and I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt here, Nadia), I was reminded that, surprisingly often, Twitter is a window into people's souls.

Nadia had a series of choices to make when this incident blew up. First, to apologise or stand by her initial thought. She did neither, instead trying to weasel out of it with the old "it was badly worded and I meant something completely different" routine. It seldom works. And then, once the explanation had failed to convince, a credible apology might have dealt with the matter. Unfortunately, deleting your whole Twitter oeuvre leads the more cynical to wonder what else was there.

And now, the story has reached the Daily Mail at a time when the Conservative Party leadership appear desperate to be loved. You wouldn't be optimistic for Nadia's future, even after her fulsome apology. It may be time for her to do some good works by way of rehabilitation. And maybe reintegrate back into social media society over the coming months... with a little more caution this time, perhaps, Nadia?

Creeting St Peter: the importance of a neatly trimmed bush...

I can't remember if I mentioned that I was co-opted back onto the Parish Council last year somewhat unexpectedly. At least, I hadn't sought to return, nor had I expected to be asked to do so. You know how these things are. But I was, and it was (and is) nice to be back.

I was particularly delighted at our Annual Meeting, to be nominated as Vice Chair, a position I happily accepted, even if it involved very little actual effort. Machala, our Chair, is very good - brisk with the agenda but keen to allow Councillors to participate and have their say. Combined with Jennie, our relatively new Parish Clerk, the Parish Council is a far more amicable place than once it was.

Monday night saw a rather full agenda, including a presentation on the new business park, "Stowmarket East", which will emerge on the fields that lie south of the A14, east of the A1120 and north of Mill Lane. I can't say that we're terribly keen, but our former Conservative District Councillor sold us down the river on that, and all that we can really do is minimise the damage done by having a bunch of warehouses filling half of the gap between the village and Stowmarket.

We discussed the report of our current Green District Councillor, Keith Welham, who is far better than his predecessor, and the lack of a report from our Conservative County Councillor who, having been re-elected in May, won't be as assiduous as he was in the run-up to the election. We also noted that the Suffolk Constabulary don't talk to us any more. We're not alone - the relationship between our local police and the towns and parishes has faded away in recent years - and you wonder what our Police and Crime Commissioner really does in terms of communication with the local communities asked to elect him every four years. But I digress.

The nature reserve was the subject of much discussion. Basically, the problem stems from having a boardwalk in a bog. The boardwalk is made of wood, which rots and needs constant repair, which we can't afford. It is, frankly, an ongoing health and safety risk, and given that we have a responsibility towards users, it is a perpetual worry. I am not optimistic about its future as a visitor attraction.

We also considered the village traffic problems. How many problems can a village of two hundred souls have, I hear you ask? Well, parking is a problem, especially for households with teenagers and older children. Everyone needs access to a car, and so where can they be left? The answer is often in the street, making the narrow lanes even narrower, and making getting tractors and other bulky farm equipment through the village impossible.

But also, the village has a T junction in its centre, and traffic coming out of The Lane has to emerge almost blind into Pound Road because the laurels in the front garden of the corner cottage are rather overgrown. Thus, the need to have someone ask them to trim their bush.

It's all go in Creeting St Peter, I'm telling you...

Just another uneventful train journey...

Usually, it's a simple seventy minute trip on Greater Anglia from Ipswich, where I work, to Liverpool Street, our London terminus. However, it isn't the most resilient piece of railway line, and when things go wrong, they can go spectacularly wrong. As a result, and because I normally have to commute from Stowmarket to Ipswich and back, I am a keen observer of Greater Anglia's Twitter feed, watching out for delays and cancellations.

Except that, on Thursday afternoon, I was distracted by that 'work' thing. You know how it is, you're in the midst of a project and lose sense of time? Like that. I had a train to catch, the 18.13, stopping only at Colchester en route to the big city for a dinner date with Ros.

And so, at six o'clock, I set off for the station. On arrival, a Greater Anglia staff member asked if I was heading to London, saying, "If you run, you'll catch the train on platform 2!"

I didn't hesitate, and threw myself onto the train just in time. But what was I on? It wasn't the 18.13 - it was only 18.10 - so I checked the Greater Anglia app. No sign of the train. We were due to call at Manningtree, Colchester, Chelmsford and Stratford. No sign of this train on their live departure boards. It was going to London though, and that was good enough.

So, what had happened? It was a lovely afternoon in Ipswich but, apparently, it hadn't been so good in Norfolk. Lightning strikes and flash flooding had paralysed the signalling systems, and the overhead lines were damaged between Norwich and Diss. Thus, trains were all over the place.

I had been lucky this time. Whilst the train was slower than usual, I was only ten minutes late into Liverpool Street and on time for dinner. Greater Anglia had got me there...

Keep calm, and give our MPs some space...

No declared candidates, lots of rumours, and the first signs that the leadership contest may not be the edifying, inspiring event that it really ought to be. Not a great start.

I am disturbed that members are already urging individuals to declare their intentions to run. Look, the job of Leader is a tough one. It requires the post holder to make sacrifices that most of us cannot comprehend. It exposes you to increasingly microscopic and often hostile examination of your life, the lives of friends and family, and makes you the bearer of the dreams and aspirations of Party members, not all of whom display sufficient tolerance when things don't go to plan. In short, you've got to be pretty bloody committed in order to want the job.

MPs are people too. They juggle the various elements of their lives in order to fulfil their obligations to constituents and to their loved ones, just like the rest of us.

So, let them have the time and space to talk to partners, family and trusted friends, consider the implications and then announce their decision. Don't pressure them to be what you want or need.

As for the nascent attack lines against specific MPs, let me take this opportunity to utterly condemn Dominic McCaffrey for his written assassination of Jo Swinson in the Independent. Attacking one person on their record without having the decency to run a fair comparison with their presumed preferred alternative is shabby in the extreme, and if there is any suggestion that he has colluded with another candidate as part of the drafting process, you can be confident that my support for that person will be limited at best. Ironic really, given that she isn't actually running...

So, less conjecture, more patience is my advice. And, once we've identified the field, then let informed debate begin.

Queensbury Rules for a modern Leadership contest

Great, another leadership contest... just what the Liberal Democrats were crying out for. Or not, perhaps. Frankly, whilst Tim didn't handle the whole 'gay sex' thing terribly well, and a far better response was available than the one he gave, whilst he had the support of my friends in the LGBT community, I was willing to turn Nelson's eye towards the matter. It is his actions rather than his personal beliefs that actually impact on people's lives, and it seems that his record on Parliamentary votes was well nigh impeccable.

But it wasn't to be, and the grey men came for him. It's not clear who they were yet, and even less clear who exactly they spoke for, and I can't say that I'm awfully impressed. Jonathan Calder has already put it rather well when he suggests that whilst you can claim to be a democratic Party all you like, if a decision of the membership can be overturned by an anonymous cabal, you don't really have proper democratic control.

And, like Bill Le Breton, I'd like names too, if only so that I know who to hold to account. However, unless we're going to quiz every potential suspect, and we can validate what responses are given, the identity of the 'delegation' can only be conjecture, and a witch hunt would be deeply unedifying. That, of course, hasn't stopped elements of the Party in the past...

As to the succession, I know as much and as little as anyone. There are only eleven potential candidates, which does rather narrow the field, and some of those will rule themselves out as the days pass by.

I'm not minded to indicate support for any candidate at this stage. Until nominations close, the nature of the field is unknown, and whilst if given a range of choices, I might prefer one candidate over another, until offered an actual choice, I'm not disposed to providing even a glimpse of my thought process yet.

However, I would like to offer some advice to anyone out there thinking of running (in no particular order);

1. Don't go negative. If you do, I'll assume that you don't have as much to positively offer as your campaigning might suggest. If you win, I'll think less of you, and to be honest, you need me rather more than I need you. After all, without me, and thousands like me, you lead a shell of a political party. And as for me, I could give the time and energy that I currently expend on the Party to something else, or in a different way. Oh and if you lose, you will probably have damaged the winner. I recall both Huhne vs Clegg and Lamb vs Farron achieving that only too vividly.
2. Offer a vision. Vision is important. Yes, I want a shining city on a hill, yes I want chocolates and a long-stemmed rose. Or a pony. But definitely a vision for the Party. Have one, and articulate it.
3. Talk to people beyond the bubble before you get elected. Find out why the volunteer Party volunteers, and tell me why it should volunteer for you. Demonstrate that you understand how the Party really works - some of the previous job holders really haven't got that, and it's made the relationship between leader and led rather prickly. I also expect you to work with the Party President and respect their office...

There's probably more that I should include, and I'll probably revisit this before too long, but one should always get some thoughts out there whilst they might be noticed and make a difference...

There isn't enough popcorn in the entire world...

I ought to admit now that my expectations for the election, from a Liberal Democrat perspective, were pretty low. Like the experts, I was fearing net losses and, if you had offered me a nil gain, nil loss outcome at 9.55 on Thursday night, I would have taken your hand off at the elbow.

That wasn't because I thought we'd run a bad campaign. Far from it, I was quietly impressed with what was said and done. Perhaps I had grown weary with the years of disappointment and loss.

But I tuned into the BBC's election night special to check on the exit poll figures, only to find that it perhaps wasn't going to be as bad as I might have feared. You know, the triumph of hope over experience  and all that. It wasn't right though, was it?

And now we know that what was probably the worst election campaign by a ruling party in living memory achieved its utterly deserved denouement, failing even to achieve a majority. My night was spent with a sense of cheerfulness that I wouldn't have expected a few hours earlier, as Theresa May melted down before our very eyes. I admit, it felt good, despite our losses in Southport and Sheffield Hallam. The wins were that little bit sweeter, Jo in East Dumbartonshire, Wera in Bath, Jamie in Caithness and best of all, Layla in Oxford. Vince and Ed, Norman and Tom, Tim surviving a nail biter and Christine in Edinburgh West, and all against a backdrop of Conservative disappointment.

This has undoubtedly been the worst Conservative administration I have ever experienced. Some may have been more malevolent, but this one has been utterly incompetent, devoid of any vision other than of doing whatever it takes to maintain Party unity. In return, a sizeable number of supposedly moderate Conservative MPs, such as Jo Churchill and Dan Poulter here in mid-Suffolk, went from being publicly pro-Remain to utter silence in the face of a hard Brexit. Principles, anyone?

And now, it appears that the answer to the question, "how many coasters does it take to prop up Theresa's wobbly conservative table?" is ten. What it does for the Good Friday Agreement is anyone's guess.

So, with the Tories now in full-on recrimination mode, a weak, discredited leader and shackled to a bunch of Protestant, socially regressive zealots who also want a soft Brexit, what could possibly go wrong?

I'd be buying shares in a popcorn company, if I were you...

Liberal International: the cost of everything, the value of nothing?

Ah yes, Liberal International. Seventy years of bringing together liberals from around the world, but for what? I had reached Andorra, and was thus able to consider the question in situ, so to speak.

And it is an interesting question. Our membership of the ALDE Party has some practical value, especially whilst we remain in the European Union, in terms of allowing input into policy making, and the pooling of knowledge and experience within political models similar to our own. On the other hand, the tangible benefits of being able to interact with liberals from West Africa, or of policy making when there is little means of delivering it internationally are harder to discern.

There isn't an awful lot of money available, so much outreach is directed through such organisations as the Westminster Foundation for Democracy and the Friedrich Naumann Stiftung, whose funding is provided by their respective states.

Yet, whilst the benefits to a party like the Liberal Democrats aren't immediately obvious, there is no doubt that providing a forum for emerging liberal parties in the developing nations is of tremendous value to them. Knowing that they have sister parties in the major democracies, and the platform that Liberal International offers, allows them to accrue credibility in the eyes of their local communities, and acts as a shield against the worst acts of sometimes corrupt, sometimes authoritarian ruling administrations.

Liberal International also offers a means to bring regional groups together, and this is particularly true in Africa, where the African Liberal Network is increasingly providing opportunities to exchange best practice, encourage solidarity and develop new activists, especially from under-represented groups.

If you believe that one of the moral obligations upon developed democracies is to provide a beacon to the emerging ones, then paying our annual subscription to Liberal International is one of the easiest, and most obvious means of doing our share. And, from a personal perspective, it reminds me that, no matter how disheartening our own politics can be, one cannot fail to be inspired by the struggles of some of our sister parties in places such as Cambodia and Nicaragua.

It is easy to dwell on the cost of our membership, and wonder if the money couldn't be better spent on more campaign tools at home. But it must be nobler to consider the value of our membership in terms of what it enables others to do towards building stronger democracies and creating stability in areas of volatility.

To Andorra la Vella by... now I think about it, how?

I had decided to be part of the Party's delegation to the 70th Anniversary Congress of Liberal International partly because it sounded interesting, but also because it was an excuse to add another country to my list. And so, I had booked a hotel in Andorra, and flights to and from Toulouse. I hadn't really given it much more thought than that.

And you know how things are, you're busy with other stuff, and you don't really get round to doing quite as much research as you ought to. That's particularly true if you aren't taking your wife, who would fret about such things.

In fairness, Ros had intended to come, but the unexpected calling of the General Election had led her to decide that her place was at home, or at least in or around a target seat in the East of England.

So, on a fairly ordinary Wednesday morning, I set forth for Heathrow Airport's Terminal 5 for the relatively short flight to Toulouse. I had booked into an Ibis Styles hotel opposite the railway station as much for convenience as anything else, as my outline plan was to take a train up into the Pyrenees and wing it from there. After all, how difficult could it be?

Toulouse was alright, I guess. My mood was not lifted by the pretty mediocre hotel - just don't bother with the Ibis Styles Toulouse-Matabiau is my advice - and I would rather have been with Ros than in a strange city on my own. I found a bar near the river, had a beer and followed the news from home before getting an early night.

The next morning, rising earlier than I might usually do, I set off to the station to buy my ticket to L'Hospitalet pres l'Andorre, some two-and-a-half hours up the valley of the River Ariege. The usually accurate guidance of the Man at Seat 61 website was that, if there wasn't a connecting bus into Andorra, a taxi should be fairly easily found.

It was a pretty enough ride, with the river accompanied by the railway for most of the journey, through some of France's most lovely scenery, and I was beginning to relax by the time I reached my next transfer point.

L'Hospitalet pres l'Andorre station in the snow.
Luckily, when I got there, the only snow
was on the mountains...

L'Hospitalet isn't a big place, and there weren't many people about once the train pulled away. In fact, with the station unstaffed, there appeared to be nobody around. There was, I eventually discovered, a sign with a telephone number for a presumably local taxi company. With rather more hope than expectation, I rang the number, and was told, yes we can have a taxi to you in about five minutes. I was, I admit, relieved.

And, five minutes later, there was my taxi, driven by a women a bit younger than I am, but with sufficient English to understand what I wanted, and to explain that they didn't go over the border very much, due to the number of people crossing the border to take advantage of the duty-free shopping in Andorra. The French Customs officers don't like it much, it seems, and the local taxi drivers have taken the hint. However, an Englishman with a suitcase wasn't likely to bother them much, especially as I was travelling into Andorra and not out of it.

It's quite a drive from L'Hospitalet to Pas de la Casa, the first settlement you reach when entering Andorra from that direction, with hairpin bends and sharp climbs, but it wasn't too long before I was being dropped off at the bus stop for onward travel to Andorra la Vella.

Buses run that route every half hour, costing just over 6 euros, and I didn't have to wait too long before I was on my way. I had reached Andorra, and a Congress awaited...

If you can't beat them, leave the country...

It's been a bit quiet around here of late, partly because I haven't felt inspired to write very much, but also because I've been away on Party business. I'm not allowed to canvass support for Parliamentary candidates, and the nearest target seats are a long way from mid-Suffolk in any event, so I've attempted to fulfill my obligations as a member of International Relations Committee instead, travelling to Andorra and Ljubljana to attend first the Liberal International Congress and then the ALDE Party Council meeting.

They've been interesting, in rather different ways, and perhaps I ought to report back. So, over the next few days, expect tales of travel and drama, of policies discussed, intrigue and adventure.

I'll start with a journey...

Mid Suffolk - a quick and dirty review

The story from Mid Suffolk is a familiar one in the aftermath of yesterday's County Council elections, and you could describe us as being the national picture in miniature.

I've had a quick look at the results, division by division, and to put them into perspective, compared them with 2013. This is what you get;

• Bosmere - 987 votes, 38.9% (up 136 votes, +5%)
• Gipping Valley - 1,030 votes, 40.1% (up 317 votes, +8.1%)
• Hartismere - 258 votes, 8.7% (up 129 votes, +3.5%)
• Hoxne and Eye - 470 votes, 14.5% (up 332 votes, +9.4%)
• Stowmarket North and Stowupland - 181 votes, 6.8% (up 112 votes, +3.8%)
• Stowmarket South - 789 votes, 32.8% (up 251 votes, +9%)
• Thedwastre North - 199 votes, 6.4% (up 88 votes, +2.1%)
• Thedwastre South - 1,346 votes, 46.7% (up 624 votes, +17.5%)
• Thredling - 455 votes, 15.4% (up 306 votes, +9.7%)
• Upper Gipping - 122 votes, 4% (up 87 votes, +2.8%)

Our vote across the District increased from 3,455 to 5,837, or from 13.8% to 20.6%. Overall, we went from fourth in 2013 (behind the Greens) to a clear second place. The overall figures are;

1. Conservatives - 14,457 votes, 50.9% (up 5,708 votes, +15.9%)
2. Liberal Democrats - 5,837 votes, 20.6% (up 2,382 votes, +6.8%)
3. Greens - 4,280 votes, 15.1% (up 381 votes, -0.5%)
4. Labour - 3,191 votes, 11.2% (up 207 votes, -0.7%)
5. UKIP - 620 votes, 2.2% (down 5,283 votes, -21.4%)

So, whilst we've lost a County seat (Bosmere), and I say that with a degree of personal sorrow, we can be proud that we gave it a good shot, that we've re-established ourselves as the real opposition to the Conservatives in Mid Suffolk, and that we have something to build on for the General Election that follows.

Just as UKIP came from nowhere in 2013, they've disappeared just as unexpectedly in 2017, and the Conservatives benefited hugely from that in a way that even the experts hadn't predicted.

The Conservatives will, if Brexit goes as wrong as one fears it might, be very unpopular by 2019. If we hold our nerve, we might be the beneficiaries of that, made possible by our showing yesterday.