#busride - Cambridge to Ely, the indirect way...

Final score from the Abbey Stadium,
Cambridge United 1, Luton Town 3!

So, my scheduled connection lost, what was I to do? There was another number 9 to Ely an hour away, but I wanted to keep moving. Luckily, Stagecoach offer another means of getting to Ely, albeit somewhat counterintuitively via Newmarket (for the geographically challenged, Ely is north of Cambridge, and Newmarket is east of it. But, it was due in twenty minutes, so I settled down with my good book, a history of the Peninsular War (we won, the French didn't) and waited.

And, sure enough, another shiny double decker arrived, ready to whisk me off. An on-time departure, and we were on the road, past the Abbey Stadium where, coincidentally, my beloved Luton Town (come on you Hatters!) were locked in mortal conflict with the locals on the football field (we seem to play Cambridge United quite a lot). I was reassured that it was 2-1 to us, that Cambridge were down to ten men, and that we might win a game.

The Rowley Mile is further back...

The route to Newmarket is, once you've escaped the Cambridge suburbs, a fairly quick one, with little in the way of population to serve. Unlike Mid Suffolk, West Suffolk is predominantly heathland, and doesn't support quite such so many people. It is, however, famous for horse racing, and the route took us past the end of the July Course, with excellent views from the top deck.

I've never been wild on Newmarket itself, as like too many Suffolk towns, the planners and developers have conspired to obliterate much of its charms. The bus has no time for architecture though, as we're off to the north-west.

The only significant stop en route to Ely is Soham, which is reliant on buses despite having an active railway pass through the town. The line from Ely to Bury St Edmunds, with its two-hourly service between Ipswich and Peterborough, hasn't stopped here for years, although it was the scene of one of the most famous instances of railway heroism.

On 2 June 1944, the leading wagon of a train carrying high explosive bombs caught fire, and the driver and fireman managed to detach the burning wagon (itself loaded with ten tons of general purpose bombs) and hauled it about 140 yards before it exploded in the station itself, killing the fireman and a signalman as well as badly injuring the driver.

It has to be said, Soham isn't that exciting now, and it was soon behind us.

Finally, the approach to Ely. The thing about Ely is, it has an incredible cathedral which dominates the skyline. Pictures were required, I thought...

#busride - Saffron Walden to Cambridge, a bureaucrat sleeps in the face of calamity...

The rather late Stagecoach bus 7
to Cambridge...

Saffron Walden. Very nice, but I've got places to be, things to do. And where is my bus? Not here, on the High Street in Saffron Walden, and that's the problem. I've got a seven minute connect in Cambridge, and time's a wasting.

It arrives, six minutes late, heading in the wrong direction, which means more delay and the possibility of a missed connection, and when it does finally arrive, prospects of making the bus to Ely have receded further. Ah well, nothing to do but get on the bus and keep my fingers crossed.

Stagecoach in Cambridgeshire offer a Dayrider Plus ticket, allowing unlimited rides in and around Cambridgeshire, which costs just £6.40, and, given that I have three rides on their buses planned, it offers better value than anything else today. I've spent £25.60 on fares already, but my bus expenditure is at least at an end.

This bus is rather fuller than the others I've ridden on, and has an upper deck, so I can pick a seat at the front and admire the view. Our route takes us through the two Chesterfords and Duxford, before heading for Sawston and Trumpington, as we weave through the Cambridge suburbs.

As is typical when you're running late, fate takes an unhelpful hand, as we're caught at a level crossing on the line from Liverpool Street to Cambridge, whilst a man on a mobile phone complains about the behaviour of his ex-wife. He does, at least, give me reason to guess why she's his ex-wife...

The new car park at Addenbrooke's.
Not a car park as we know them...

Sadly, this useful bus service inexplicably avoids the outpost of the Imperial War Museum at Duxford and then, I fall asleep. It's warm, the scenery is uninspiring, and the pint I sank in Saffron Walden has its usual soporific effect. I awake at Sawston and look at the time. We're aren't making up any, and I'm going to miss the next bus.

The bus weaves through the southern end of Cambridge before heading to the Cambridge Biomedical Campus, with its particularly funky new car park. And, as usual, the traffic is less than wonderful, so my connection is doomed. I slump in my seat. What next for the travelling bureaucrat?

To add insult to injury, as I step off of the bus on Emmanuel Street, my planned connection pulls out of the Drummer Street bus station. It's late too...

#busride - isn't Saffron Walden pretty?

As I've already noted, I've never been to Saffron Walden before yesterday. And, as it turns out, that's something of a misfortune, as the town centre is very pretty indeed.

There's a market, which has a Giggly Pig stall for those in search of rather good sausages (hmmm... pork...), and other fine things, the shopping is quite good (I picked up a couple of bottles of Mr Fitzpatrick's cordials from the Adnams shop) and the architecture is thoroughly charming.

Sadly, I did have a bus to catch. As it turned out, that wasn't going so well...

#busride - across the border to Essex, garlic in hand...

The view down the bus...

It's all going swimmingly so far. All of the buses have turned up on time, have all arrived on time and, whilst I'm in Haverhill, I'm not here for long. Handing over another £3.90 (my driver asks if I'd prefer 10p or two bob in change - that's proper Suffolk banter, that is) for a scheduled thirty-three minute journey, I settle down for the cross-border journey to Saffron Walden.

Funnily enough, I've never been to Saffron Walden, which surprises even Ros. And, I've got thirty-seven minutes there, so I might even get to see a little of it. Not much mind, but enough to decide whether or not to go back.

Essex countryside. Looks suspiciously
like Suffolk countryside...

It's lucky that I made the connection, because there are only four buses per day, and the next (and last) one is four hours away, but that doesn't matter today, as we're off to the evocatively named Steeple Bumpstead (and I'm sure that Jennie could have hours of fun with that one...) and Radwinter, which has more of a Somerset feel to it, namewise. This is a rather more lonely journey though, with only three other passengers. One wonders whether or not Essex County Council are getting real value for their subsidy.

Much though it pains me to say it, the North Essex countryside has much to commend it (Suffolk could always annex it, I guess). And the villages are perfectly charming, though more expensive due to their relative proximity to 'that London'. But Saffron Walden beckoned, with its promise of charm...

That makes £18.20 spent thus far... this is not turning out to be a cheap day out, is it?

#busride - Bury St Edmunds to Haverhill (and a highways officer with a classical education)

The 12.15 route 15 bus to Haverhill

Provisioned with some Diet Coke and a packet of Fruit Gums (healthy, eh?), it was time to continue my westwards odyssey, with the next stage, as far as Haverhill, in the south-west corner of Suffolk.

Haverhill has a somewhat harsh reputation as a London overspill community (some of my Suffolk work colleagues call it 'Haverhole') but, on a recent visit, I noticed that the main street isn't as black as it's painted and that what hurts it is the plethora of 1950's and 1960s architecture which, to be frank, never did much for me, or for most other people, for that matter. But it is another hub town for buses, and that's what the purpose of my day was.

There was a catch though, in that my bus was due to arrive in Haverhill as my next bus was scheduled to leave. The driver was vaguely reassuring though, advising that he's usually early, and that the next bus left Haverhill from bay 5 of the bus station.

So, I handed over another £5.10, made myself comfortable, and settled back to see what West Suffolk has to offer in terms of vistas. Admittedly, the route is pretty enough, although it sticks to the main road apart from a detour to serve Chevington, as the deceptively rolling countryside offers up some pleasant scenery. But, again, the bus doesn't pick up, or drop off, that many people, and most of those that it does are elderly, non-fare paying ones. Presumably, the journeys are self-financing, as the service isn't subsidised and still runs, but you wonder whether or not it would be viable without effective cross-subsidy.

Bus travel through villages is a challenge, in that roads are narrow, sight lines for drivers are poor, and people park in such a way as to make it difficult for a bus to get past. At one point, our driver stopped the bus, got out and moved some obstruction before continuing on his way. Villagers forget about infrequent buses, you see.

I have already criticised Haverhill's 'architectural legacy', but was somewhat surprised to turn into a housing estate on the edge of Haverhill entirely named after famous Romans. Janus Close, Tiberius Close, Marcus Close (leading to Antonia Close), Claudian Close, even a Flavian Close. Somebody had fun with that one, I can tell.

Sadly, the sun had stopped shining by the time we reached Haverhill (slightly ahead of schedule, as promised) but my connecting bus was still parked up. It was time to leave the safety of Suffolk...

So, £14.30 spent, two bus rides negotiated...

#busride - Diss to Bury St Edmunds (a bus driver is a person in your neighbourhood...)

The 10.30 bus 304 from Diss to
Bury St Edmunds - the pretty way...

I hand over my £4.50 to the driver and find myself a seat with a view. Luckily, it being a bus, they all do. There are quite a few people on board, about a dozen or so, for the Suffolk County Council sponsored service, a number of whom appear to be regulars, judging by the conversations going on around me.

And, on time, the bus pulls off, heading in a counter-intuitive westerly direction. It is then that I realise that the route passes by the station and that I could have saved myself the walk (lesson to be learnt for next time). Ah well, the exercise is good for me...

The 304 runs but seven times on a Saturday, serving the various villages on, or just off of, the A143 trunk road, and the first half of the route, in particular, takes you down a series of single track roads connecting smallish villages which otherwise are fairly cut off for non-drivers. The passengers are mostly retired - their fare is free, covered by their 'age related free travel bus pass' - which comes as no great surprise given how much the regular fare is.

The road to Magpie Green...

Palgrave (the course of the initial westerly route), Wortham, Magpie Green and Redgrave pass by as the bus makes its erratic way in a broadly south-westerly direction until we reach Botesdale, where Simonds, the bus company which operates the route, has its headquarters. It's a pretty place, Botesdale, but we're not there for long, heading for the splendidly named Rickinghall Inferior (there is a Rickinghall Superior but they don't have a regular bus service - probably don't need one).

North to Hinderclay, south-west again to Wattisfield (not to be confused with Wattisham further south!) before the route begins to hug the A143 more closely and the speed increases. Hepworth and Stanton are reached and I begin to notice that, how can I put this, very few people are getting on. Occasionally, someone gets off, but they exceed the number getting on. This reminds you that the service is subsidised, and that, if it were left to market forces, I'd still be in Diss. I'm not alone though, which is a relief, and I'm heading for Bury St Edmunds, a jewel in the crown of Suffolk, apparently.

Ixworth is a pretty little place, where the roads from Diss to Bury St Edmunds and from Stowmarket to Thetford intersect, but after that, the bus follows the A143 for the most part, with a slight detour to serve outlying parts of Bury St Edmunds, before heading to the bus station, where we arrive on time. The bus, and its driver, will head back to Diss in about ten minutes, but I have other plans....

So, two journeys down, £9.20 spent, and the schedule is holding up...

#busride - Creeting St Peter to Diss via Stowmarket, courtesy of Suffolk Links and @greateranglia

So, my Suffolk Links service was there for me, at the end of The Lane, and I was soon deposited at Stowmarket Station, where I purchased my £4.70 single ticket (with Annual Gold Card discount!) for the twelve minute journey to Diss.

The 09:55 to Norwich, calling at
Diss, is on time!

Good news to start with, in that the train is on time. Admittedly, this is not always the case - the 07.55 service to Norwich on a weekday always seems to be late if my experience at the level crossing by the station is any guide - so you learn not to be too presumptuous, especially when your connection from the train is a tight one. But, nonetheless, time to buy a newspaper and wait.

Sure enough, in comes the train, I get on and am whisked to Diss, from where I have twenty-two minutes to get to the bus station. According to Google Maps, it's a nineteen minute walk, and I'm not as quick across the ground as I used to be.

But, slightly breathless, I make my way up Victoria Road, noting the heavy traffic as it crawls along ("People want to come here?", he asks, with dis(s)tain) but find the bus station, with a friendly bus waiting for me. Time to ride the bus...

#busride - the morning dawned. I'll skip the bright bit, and the early bit too, now I think of it...

I was prepared for my big adventure. I had my planned itinerary in my iPhone, a bag of £1 and £2 coins in my pocket, a good book for the dull bits and my iPad in case I was tempted to blog. All was good. I had booked the Suffolk Links bus to collect me at 9.30 a.m. to take me to Stowmarket station in good time to buy a ticket to Diss on the 9.55 a.m. Norwich train.

A hearty breakfast was eaten (cheese was involved) and, at 9.25, I locked the house up and walked down The Lane (a happy refrain may have been involved), to find Paul, the regular Saturday driver, waiting for me. The adventure had begun...

#busride - every adventure begins with a little planning...

In London, planning a bus journey that involves connections is, for the most part, very easy. Buses run very frequently, and there are lots of them, heading in every direction. so, all you do is go out to the nearest bus stop and wait. You might plan your route, but you probably wouldn't think too much about timings. And, even if you are aiming to be at a certain place at a certain time, the Transport for London website is very good at that.

When planning trips, I am known to struggle with choice. So many options, so hard to choose. Luckily, or not, as the case may be, there aren't many choices as to where one might go from Creeting St Peter on a Saturday morning. In fact, in terms of scheduled bus services, there aren't any. Ever. Which makes the whole choice thing rather easier, I guess. I can get to Stowmarket, using the Suffolk Links Demand Responsive Transport service, however - I use it to get to the station every day as part of my commute.

So, where can you go from Stowmarket by bus?

So, it's Diss, Bury St Edmunds, Hadleigh or Ipswich (note the lack of buses in an eastwards direction). Unfortunately, the Hadleigh services amount to one bus a day, on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays only. There is a bus to Diss, except that it leaves Stowmarket at 7.55 a.m. And, it's the only one.

That leaves Ipswich, where I work, and Bury St Edmunds, which is a good jumping off point for West Suffolk. The service to Ipswich, via Needham Market, is half-hourly - it's a main artery and serves some decently-sized communities. Alternatively, there is a roughly hourly service to Bury St Edmunds, but I rode the route via Woolpit earlier in the summer.

There is no alternative, I'll have to take a train to Diss and connect with a bus from there to Bury St Edmunds. Route 304, sponsored by the County Council, leaves Diss at 10.30 a.m., arriving at the bus station in Bury St Edmunds at 11.48 a.m., and travels through a part of Mid Suffolk that I don't know well - Botesdale and Rickinghall, to name but two villages.

So, where from Bury St Edmunds? Sudbury is pretty, but from there, your only real options are Colchester and Ipswich, and Thetford is a bit grim. That leaves Cambridge, Haverhill, Mildenhall and Newmarket. It's a long connect (forty-two minutes) for Mildenhall, which rules that out. The Cambridge bus passes through Newmarket, but Haverhill sounds interesting. The connection isn't perfect (twenty-seven minutes) but that gives me the time to pick up a snack and something to drink, so Haverhill it is.

At Haverhill, there is a bus to Saffron Walden, which is, apparently, pretty (I've never been there). The connection is apparently immediate, which doesn't leave a lot of room for error but, if all else fails, there are regular buses to Cambridge. Cambridgeshire is relatively easy, as Stagecoach dominate the cross-country services that radiate from Cambridge. So, Saffron Walden to Cambridge, Cambridge to Ely it is.

By the time I get to Ely (she'll be waiting), it will be getting late, so time to turn for home. There is a train, but there is also a bus from Ely to Newmarket, from where I can catch the hourly train service back to Stowmarket, as buses tend to stop running after 6 p.m. So, why not?

So, two trains, six buses and a Suffolk Links service in a lop-sided figure of eight taking in four counties in less than ten . What could possibly go wrong?

#busride - a little context before the serious work begins...

As a child, I bemused my parents, particularly my mother, by my almost obsessive fascination with buses. Not in a trainspotter-ish way, you understand, but as a user. Over a long monsoon in Mumbai as a five year old, I spent hours looking out of the bedroom window, counting buses and wondering where they went. And, as soon as I was allowed out on my own or, in Mumbai, with a doting grand uncle, I was riding buses further and further afield, visiting family or just exploring.

Growing up into a non-driver - I still haven't gone as far as even taking a driving lesson - buses, and public transport in general - became a part of my life, albeit generally in an urban setting. Luckily, as a Londoner, there was no shortage of buses and, no matter how far you went, you could always get home. And one should thank Ken Livingstone for that, to some extent. I even managed to get a holiday job as a result, admittedly for my father, locating poster sites and marking them against a scale of his devising. It was an enjoyable, and mildly lucrative, way of spending my summer.

It was only upon moving to Mid Suffolk that I began to realise that buses were not something to be taken for granted. Upon asking Ros when the buses to Creeting St Peter ran, her answer (Thursday) came as something of a surprise. And, since then, my bus rides have been restricted to an occasional treat. until yesterday, that was...

Is The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel a model for some of us in our old age?

After an evening of killing Ottomans, Chinese and Russians - I'm playing as the Portuguese at Civilisation III - I locked up the office and found Ros in the living room, watching "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel" on the television. And, as it is a movie that has a happy ending (I do like a happy ending), I sat with her for the last section.

But I was moved to wonder whether or not it is a model that might have some basis in credibility. After all, anyone over the age of fifty is likely to be wondering how they will fend for themselves as old age reaches out towards them.

One hears how much care homes cost these days, amounts that never get smaller, and note that care homes are increasingly staffed by people coming to this country from overseas - I assume that Theresa May isn't planning to get old and infirm - and find myself wondering whether or not it might be easier to just simplify matters by retiring somewhere with lower labour costs, better weather and suitable provision.

In my days travelling on Democrats Abroad business, one thing I noticed was that, particularly in Mexico, there were a number of communities made up almost entirely of retired Americans and Canadians, seeking warmer, drier weather, access to cheap medication and lower nursing costs and, until now, I hadn't thought much about it. But, when one considers it, why not? On the same income as you would have in Europe of North America, you can have a larger home, someone to clean and/or cook and, if you pick sensibly, better weather. In all likelihood, you'd even have money left over.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not proposing sending Granny to Ahmedabad or Mysore as a matter of public policy, but it does surprise me that someone hasn't thought about this and put together a package. Perhaps, for all I know, somebody has.

Given the increasing crisis in care for the elderly, we may have to become increasingly creative in terms of the solutions, especially given Conservative determination to reduce the flow of migrants to a relative trickle, regardless of the effects. Costs spiral, whilst pressure on staff increases and quality inevitably suffers. Add to that an ageing population generally, and the scale of the problem becomes apparent.

So, just a thought on a Bank Holiday weekend. It's amazing how a slightly enhanced sense of one's own mortality sets you to thinking...

Another reminder that things aren't like they used to be...

I like to joke at gathering of my cousins that, as the eldest, I am our generation's guinea pig, testing concepts so that others might learn from the experience. Divorce and (relative) old age are my main areas of expertise and, whilst both are better avoided, only one can be put off permanently.

Since having to resort to reading classes two years ago, there has been a constant, albeit slow, deterioration in the quality of my eyesight, coming to a point whilst Ros and I were in the US whereby I could go into a coffee shop and not be able to read the menu either with reading glasses or without. There is, suddenly, a visual range where I need more help.

Luckily, I have become rather better at spotting the signs, and had taken the precaution of booking an eye test for this morning. And so, I wandered in, expecting bad news.

Yes, my eyesight has deteriorated, introducing a requirement for distance glasses - distance defined as anything beyond arms length (news to me too, I admit). However, it is easily remedied with new glasses and so, I have arranged for some to be made for collection next Monday. The only problem was that I was left to choose frames without the benefit of Ros's good sense.

I did look at these, but concluded that they didn't really give the inquisitorial look that I perhaps ought to have - albeit that I prefer to peer benevolently over them as a rule. Maybe next time...

So, in the end, I picked two frames that were vaguely sensible, looked smart and were comfortable to wear. And that, for the benefit of my cousins, is another one of the things about getting older - you become a little more conservative in your choices...

The World's Busiest Railway: might I suggest that Hugo Rifkind's bourgeois slip is showing?

I have to admit that, having only got home on Thursday, I haven't kept up with what's on television. And so, it was only yesterday that I found out that BBC2 are having an India Season, courtesy of Ann, who drives the Gipping North Suffolk Links bus on Friday evenings. She had found the first four programmes, on Indian railways, fascinating, and gave them a strong recommendation. And so, I made plans to watch them over the long weekend. After all, I am, deep in my soul, at least a part-time Mumbaikar.

However, household chores have a tendency to get in the way, and by the time I had picked up my copy of The Times, an opportunity had not yet come. That meant that I got to read Hugo Rifkind's review of the series first...

Now, normally, I have little against Hugo. Yes, he is the son of a senior Conservative politician, which may well have helped him in his career a bit, but life's like that. I tend to think that he is sometimes clever rather than bright, but when you're a columnist, you can"t expect be right all of the time.

But, I have to say that I disagree with his review somewhat. He thinks that the series is poor, delivered with enthusiasm rather than skill. And, I admit, I might not have done it the same way, but the series isn't really intended for people like the two of us, more as a peek through a curtain at a world unfamiliar to most of us.

And, in that sense, Dan Snow, John Sargeant (wearing my hat, I see), Anita Rani and Robert Llewellyn did their jobs well. Dan, Anita and Robert braving the morning rush into Victoria Terminus (yes, I know that it's now Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus but I'm an old man and I treasure my childhood memories) demonstrated just how daunting it is for outsiders - I've always found that having a pale skin gives you a fraction of a second to take advantage of the confusion engendered by you being there at all.

Having done that, they then explored how what looks like chaos on first sight is actually an incredibly complex interplay of technology and people which is astoundingly efficient in delivering millions of people into one small area of a city of seventeen million.

In his review, Hugo tells of his year travelling around India on trains, and you sense that he thinks it would have been a far better programme had it reflected a similar experience. The problem is, that's tourism, and there are plenty of programmes already made that do that. Frankly, Hugo, your adventures in Uttar Pradesh are so far removed from most people's lives that they don't resonate, whereas millions of us commute. Seeing what a daily commute looks like elsewhere is interesting, if you're willing to suspend your privilege.

My friend Ann hasn't travelled the world on someone else's tab, she's a normal person doing a normal job, but takes an interest in the world about her, and she thought enough about the programme to want to tell me about it. Perhaps the two of you might like to swap jobs one week - it would give you something to write about, and she might get another experience to tell me about...

Home again. It doesn't seem that much has changed though...

Three weeks away from home, without the never-ending cheerfulness that is the British media, has ended, and a conveniently timed Bank Holiday weekend allows me to catch up on all of those things that pile up in one's absence. E-mail, post, laundry and party-related tasks, for example.

So, I've written a report to my Local Party's Executive Committee for the upcoming meeting in my capacity as Treasurer (we have money - I'm terribly excited!), ordered some books of tickets for the Liberal Democrat Christmas Draw (I won two years ago, so it was well worth it), opened up a bunch of post and paid the bills that were amongst it, and laundry is currently going through its cycles. I feel vaguely virtuous, and a mite more organised than usual.

Apparently, the Labour Party is still trying to elect a new leader, politicians are behaving badly, the weather's been pretty miserable and a bunch of people are doing something that the Daily Mail doesn't like. On social media, people are continuing to insist on behaving like idiots in the face of all the evidence that it doesn't help. In other words, life is as normal.

Here in rural mid-Suffolk though, it all seems like it's a long way away, which allows me the time and space to make a few minor changes to my lifestyle, avoid things that cause me stress and give some thought to a few projects that I have in mind.

In other news, my local Tesco is already promoting Christmas tins of assorted chocolates. Remind me, it is still summer, isn't it?

Labour Leadership contest: destroying the village in order to save it?

For those of us who believe that a country is best served by a vibrant democracy, especially those of us who believe internal party democracy is key, the unfolding nightmare that is Labour's leadership contest is a cause of some sadness. The events of the past week have not been pretty, although there are some lessons we might all benefit from.

Messing about in the affairs of a party you don't support is still stupid

Oh yes, it's been highly amusing as various non-Labour supporters have waved their ballot papers in front of cameras or on social media. That doesn't make it clever, because it merely exposes how vulnerable to entryism every political party is. Regardless of your party affiliation, does your local group actually vet new members for adherence to your Party's values? So, when you have a leadership contest, or are making some other important decision, can you be confident that it is unadulterated? But, of course, you've now declared open season on such things. Labour are probably the first to be impacted - they may not be the last. And, if you've had your laugh this time, don't be upset if it comes back to bite you...

Green Party support is conditional on Labour being centrist

It is alleged that 1900 of those excluded from the Labour electorate are recent Green candidates or supporters. That's bad news for the Greens, as it means that their increased support is very shallow. Mind you, now that Caroline Lucas is calling for a formal partnership, is there much point to the Greens? And so much for internal party democracy, when your only MP can go so far off message without apparent consequence.

Slagging off your internal opponents seldom ends well

Today's charges of sexism against Andy Burnham appear somewhat artificial from this distance. How on Earth could he answer a question about the value of a female leader for the Party now, when he's running to be Leader? If he had said, "Yes, that would be great.", the obvious follow-up would be, "So, why are you running?".

And accusations relating to the creation of internal ginger groups by the likes of Chuka Umunna and Tristram Hunt do make you wonder how you could unite the Party afterwards, regardless of who wins.

Internal democracy is important, so don't mess around with it unless you've thought through the consequences...

It does seem that the likely consequences of using a leadership contest to encourage new members to sign up was not wholly thought through. One of the issues surrounding online recruitment is that vetting such new members is more difficult than with those you actively sign up - the personal relationship may very well not exist. Likewise with the notion of OMOV for internal party elections. Yes, democracy is a good thing, although informed democracy is better. An uninformed electorate is more likely to vote for well-known, well-established candidates than radical outsiders without a profile. That may lead to administrative ossification and a reduced ability to react to a changing political situation.

So, just a few thoughts from the other side of the Atlantic. I was a democracy activist before I joined the Party, and have earned a modest reputation as someone who takes an interest in the workings of internal party democracy. And, right now, I'm a mote nervous...

To the Maine Shore by air, but not necessarily the conventional way...

When it was decided that, by way of respite from our two big city destinations, we would probably need some oxygenated air, Ros came up with the idea of Bar Harbor, a small resort town on the coast of Maine. I was sceptical at first, but discovered that, whilst there were no trains, or even buses, there was an airport.

And so, I set about finding flights, only to discover that no major American airline flies there. On the other hand, United would sell me a ticket to get to Bar Harbor from New York, with an aircraft switch at Boston. And yes, I did note that the connecting flight was on a Cessna 402...

Anyway, having made it to Newark's Liberty Airport, our first flight was somewhat delayed. Indeed, it was late enough to jeopardise our connection, entailing a breathless dash through Logan Airport in Boston to get to our gate. We were, thank heavens, just in time to be questioned as to our weight, which seemed not to be problematic.

And then, with seven other people, we were led down a flight of stairs and out across the tarmac to a mosquito-sized aircraft, where our hand luggage was taken from us and a rollcall taken by first names. Seats were assigned and we were off, the pilot's window open so as to allow some fresh air into the cabin.

We taxied across the airport before taking our place in the queue for take-off, dwarfed by the Boeing 737s and the like all doing the same thing. Frankly, we could have been run over and I don't think that many people would have noticed.

On a Cessna 402, every seat is a window seat, especially 1B, which would be the co-pilot's seat were Cape Air to have any, but instead increases the passenger capacity to nine. There is a rather good in-flight magazine, although it does take second place to the incredible views of the New England shoreline.

However, after an otherwise uneventful flight, we arrived at Bar Harbor's Hancock County Airport in bright sunshine. As a final reminder that we weren't on a big faceless airline, the couple waiting in the arrivals lounge turned out to be our pilot's mum and dad.

So, Cape Air is probably not recommended for nervous fliers. However, it got us to our destination on time, and in time for a lobster supper...

I don't envy Kezia Dugdale her new job, but...

I'm not usually one to get too involved in the internal workings of other political parties, and especially don't often offer advice - there's little enough reason why they should listen anyway. However, sometimes, the health of our body politic is a bit more important than that, and given that the place of Scotland in the United Kingdom has a direct impact on how the country as a whole is run, I make an exception here.

In Kezia Dugdale, Labour have elected a leader who has an opportunity to start a new chapter in Scottish politics. Not because she has any particular talent - I don't know enough about her to really know - but because she doesn't need to be particularly beholden to the sort of people who got Labour to the point where it has only one MP north of the border. Machine politicians who, when confronted with the collapse of the machine, had no means by which to resist the SNP juggernaut.

And, before you stop me, I acknowledge that, in terms of seats won and lost, we Liberal Democrats didn't do a whole lot better - our vote held up better though.

In truth, the SNP are unlikely to be beaten by simply regurgitating the old politics of aggression - they have an overwhelming advantage in terms of activists and organisation. Nor is any attempt to bring together the theoretical anti-independence coalition likely to work either. No, it is for different political groupings to offer the Scottish people what they, as proponents of different political philosophies, believe to be the best solutions for Scotland within a federal state.

Now, for Labour, that offers a bit more of a challenge, especially whilst the identity of the new leader in London remains unknown. How truly independent can Scottish Labour be, for example? Is there the will to create a truly Scottish left of centre platform? Recent history says possibly not. But in a Scotland which is well on the path to independence, and with a government in Westminster which is likely to encourage further steps along it, Labour have to adapt to the new environment, talking about a Scotland that could be.

Kezia has a history on social media of being something other than a slavish adherent to a line, and if she is allowed her freedom and is brave enough to take some risks, she could help to make Scottish politics something other than the bear put it resembles from the outside.

One should welcome new leaders in politics (within reason) as they have the power to change the political environment for the better. Indeed, I would suggest that they have a responsibility to do so. So, good luck Kezia, although you might need it...

Remembering a terrorist outrage - the 9/11 Memorial Museum

It's been some time since I was last in New York, and the city is ever changing. The effective completion of the memorial for the victims of the September 11th attack by Al Qaeda meant that we could go and see how they have decided to reflect upon an incident that most of us thought unimaginable.

In order to ensure that you can walk into the museum, it is best to book in advance online - you can print off the ticket - so that you can fit your visit in efficiently. And it is very efficient, with admission organised on half-hourly slots to help visitor flows.

The museum building itself is surrounded by a small park with two incredible water features which act as the memorial to those who died, not just in the two towers, but in Washington and in New Jersey, where the fourth flight crashed in open country. Two square pools, with water pouring down from each edge into the centre, and a square hole in the middle where water drains away. The falling water catches the light to create flickering rainbows and upon the walls are engraved the names of the dead.

In my experience, Americans are not prone to introspection. That isn't a criticism, more an acknowledgement that big city Americans appear louder than life. And, in a museum that marks the deaths of more than three thousand people, that might not be a helpful trait, especially when combined with tourists who might not 'get it'. But it is a remarkably tranquil place, albeit a very somber one. the exhibits explain the story of the day itself, the history of events that led up to it and followed on from it, and tell individual stories in a way that is incredibly moving.

The fact that the museum is built over Ground Zero, and that remains from the original Twin Towers form part of the building itself, is just another of the features that makes the 9/11 Memorial Museum something that visitors to New York would do well to make time for. I'm certainly glad that I did...

Take me out to the ball park...

I've always had an interest in baseball, at least, ever since I was introduced to it twenty-five years ago. For my sins, I follow the (ill)fortunes of the Cincinnati Reds, a team cursed with being in the same division as the rather more successful St Louis Cardinals. When I'm in the US, I usually try to catch a game and, when Ros and I were here three years ago, I took her to see her first game, at Safeco Field, the home of the Seattle Mariners.

This year, we're on the East Coast, and, being in New York, we had a choice, between the Mets and the Yankees. That is, we technically had a choice, as it had been made clear to us that the Yankees really weren't an option (we have a Boston Red Sox fan house sitting this week...).

So, we've spent a warm afternoon at Citi Field in Queens, watching the Mets slaughter the Colorado Rockies, 12-3. Beer may have been drunk - in moderation, naturally - and hot dogs eaten. This is pretty exciting, as the Mets are top of their division for the first time in years and, best of all, the Yankees aren't.

All of this seemed unlikely when, in the first inning, Mets pitcher, Noah Syndergaard, gave up two home runs. The Mets struck back quickly though, with three runs of their own, and by the end of the third inning, the game was symmetrically tied at three apiece. That, as it turned out, was as good as it was going to get for the Rockies, whose season is already effectively over, as their pitching staff gave up a steady stream of hits and runs.

Citi Field is one of the new generation of ballparks, with great sight lines, whilst giving a gentle nod to the past. The entrance area is a tribute to Ebbets Field, the old home of the Brooklyn Dodgers, and Jackie Robinson is honoured with a section of the stadium named after him with an exhibition for visitors.

It isn't a cheap experience - think of it as being akin to a Premier League game - but it is worth it if you're curious about this cornerstone of American life.

"A second cousin is a person in your neighbourhood" - a gentle mid-morning in Brooklyn

Saturday morning, the sun was shining, and it was time for a trip on the subway. Our destination - Brooklyn or, to be more precise, Clinton Hill, a long-established residential suburb, for brunch with Leon, Patti, Vayden and Finley.

We walked across Times Square in search of an ATM, withdrew some spending money and purchased two 7-day Metrocards - pretty good value at $31 each (never let it be said that you don't learn anything here at "Liberal Bureaucracy"), before heading into the underworld. It is, it must be said, just as hot as Hades down there. However, we eventually located the C train platforms, arriving just in time to catch a train.

One of the quirky things about the New York subway is that lines aren't necessarily fixed, and we suddenly, rather unexpectedly, found ourselves on the F line, heading for Jay Street/Metro Tech where, we were reassured, would revert to the C line, due to weekend engineering works (where have I heard that phrase before).

Having left Times Square, which is truly raucous and chaotic, we were slightly surprised to emerge into the sunshine at Clinton/Washington Streets to a scene of tranquillity. It is twenty minutes from Times Square, yet the peaceful streets betray no sense that Manhattan is so close. Tree-lined streets, interesting nineteenth century architecture, in short the sort of place where a bureaucrat could live if obliged to return to the city.

Abandoning my jacket - it was a very comfortable twenty-five degrees - we set off for a stroll around the neighbourhood. Clinton Hill has long been a middle-class enclave amongst some slightly dicey locales - Bedford-Stuyvescent to the east inspired the 1980 Billy Joel lyric "I’ve been stranded in the combat zone/I walked through Bedford-Stuy alone.” - but is now a place where some rather good restaurants compete for trade. We stopped for an excellent brunch at "Ici", which describes itself as a French country kitchen. I'm not sure about the French, but the food was very good, and a witbier from Nantucket went down very well with it.

Strolling on, we headed for Fort Greene Park, so that Vayden and Finlay could run around a bit, before having a look at the farmers' market and picking up some provisions. We returned to Leon and Patti's place via a different route, stopping at the Brooklyn Flea, an organised flea market held on the playground of a local high school. All sorts of things can be obtained, but my eye was drawn to some outsize metal letters. If only luggage restrictions weren't so onerous...

It was, all in all, a very pleasant way to pass a few hours, catching up on events, just hanging out in the neighbourhood. And, hopefully, we'll see my second cousin and his family rather sooner next time...

The curious miracle that is intercontinental flight

We are on our travels again, this time on the right coast of the United States - or the East Coast for those of us with a more conventional sense of geography. And yes, there is some 'touristical' activity - baseball, the Freedom Trail, a national park, sea otters and whale watching, amongst other things - but I also have family here, in New York and in Boston.

So, yesterday, Ros and I presented ourselves at Heathrow's Terminal 5 for what can be astonishing tedium. It turned out, fortunately, to be an astonishingly uneventful trip and, just twelve and a half hours after leaving central London, we were ensconced in my second cousin Leon's apartment in Brooklyn, catching up on the odd nine years or so, waiting for his wife Patti and children, Vayden and Finlay, to get home.

That is, when one stops to think about it, pretty amazing. After all, it is nearly 3,500 miles from Heathrow to New York's JFK, against the prevailing winds. And yet, we now take it for granted - people do it for a weekend break. Even in my lifetime, long haul air travel has become (relatively) commonplace.

Within a few hours, my father's cousin Chris, and his partner Beena, had shown up, and we were talking politics (why, exactly, Donald Trump? Actually, just why?), family and stories of travel, house refurbishment and how Polish contractors are so efficient (yes, that's true here too...).

It was nice, and a gentle start to our trip, before jet lag hit with the impact of a brick wall, and Chris and Beena drove us into Manhattan and to our rather conveniently located hotel - a story for another time, perhaps...

I remember when Ed Joyce and Lembit Öpik were the future...

I recently noticed that we now have something called Lib Dem Future, and was curious to find out what this might be. By means of a little investigating, I discovering that this curious little effort appeared on Lib Dem Blogs under the name of Ed Joyce, a name perhaps familiar to readers of this blog.

I'd wondered what had happened to him, after the shambles of a campaign whereby he had been disowned by his own candidate for blaming the loss of Montgomeryshire on the misfortunes of a third party. And now I know, as he is providing a platform for the one, the only, Lembit Öpik, to opine on... well, anything, really.

Don't get me wrong, Lembit is a genuinely interesting person, although in a rather different manner these days, and his views on the world probably have a market... somewhere. But, since his defeat in 2010, he has been a bit of a political gadfly, supporting a candidate running against a Liberal Democrat in a Parliamentary by-election (technically an automatic expulsion offence), working for an Iranian television station, coming fourth (and last) in the contest to be our London mayoral candidate in 2011.

However, if the dynamic duo of Joyce and Öpik are together again, I suspect it means that either Lembit wants to make a comeback, or he wants something. What that might be is anyone's guess, as he does have something of a credibility gap to bridge, but we'll doubtless find out soon enough.

If I might be so bold though, gentlemen, as to make a suggestion, it would be to remove the sub-heading "The New Voice of the Lib Dems". In the light of the 18,000 plus new members, so many of which are in their teens and twenties, you're twenty years too old, and at least five years too late...