POOR BEN!

Poor Ben... nobody warned him about MojoMeantime. Of course, we didn't know about it either...yet. But thankfully, it didn't stop us from having a Bang Up day leaning how to fly fish with Ben Bangham.  The story of the MoJo crew’s autumn visit to the UK is a tale of the unexpected. The trip took on some wonderful twists and turns as the ‘sisters’ breathed their own brand of the off-beat and the downright eccentric into the trip.

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Frome - A Small Town Revolution and a Lesson For Us All

Bohemian Mojo had heard there’d been a political uprising in Frome (pronounced Froom) which claims to be Britain’s first sustainable town, so we went to find out what had happened. To be honest I’ve by-passed Frome many times over the past decade. Memories of my last visit to the town made me avoid it. Dilapidation, boarded-up shops and an air of social stagnation were the lasting impressions. No getting away from it, Frome used to be a town waiting for the next bit of bad news.  

Well what came next was a remarkable transformation ending in a revolution so the past decade has seen Frome turned from a depressing failure into a switched-on, culture packed community. 

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To the Rescue... Pino's!

It was the last day of my December Mojo Mission in the U.K. I was driving on the M4 in the late afternoon, making my way towards Heathrow airport for my journey back home to the states. The sky was darkened by a storm, the wind was whipping, and rain was slashing down as my windshield wipers struggled to keep up.  I had left the Marlborough area in plenty of time, joking as I did that something always went a little haywire so this time I was ready for it. So far all was going smoothly and if it continued to do so, I would be settled in the airport with time to get some work done before boarding my plane.

Singing to the music, I did as the SatNav instructed and took the exit that would lead to the M25 (all of which I am familiar with now, but hadn’t the faintest idea of then) came around the sweeping onramp, picked up speed, changed lanes to get a better handle on forward momentum when, BAM! The loudest sound I’d ever heard occurred, it was instantly followed by a skidding wobble.

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Ulverston! Oh! Ulverston!

ulverstonULVERSTON! OH ULVERSTON!

Okay, not quite the lines Glen Campbell wrote but he might have if he’d ever visited the vibrant town of Ulverston on the edge of England’s magnificent Lake District.

Bohemian Mojo headed there recently on a tour of the North of England. First we walked on famous Hadrian’s Wall; the northern tideline of the Roman Empire. Wonderful.

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The Human Wine List

The best wines are the ones shared with friends... and the ones showcased by a human winelist. Night was falling fast and flocks of starlings were wheeling in mesmerising spirals over the fields as the Mojo bandwagon rolled into a famous Cotswolds hamlet and a perfect chef’s storm. Tweed-clad locals, quaffing ale after a day’s shooting, were congregated around the entrance to the Bathurst Arms, North Cerney, when the Mojo sisters stepped into the log fire warmth of the bar.

On the surface everything seemed normal but then the restaurant seemed eerily empty. Just one table had been taken up by a couple who were eating with the studied concentration of royal food tasters checking for poison.

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The Cornish Pasty – Delicious But Plagued By Politics

“Well yes, it is tasty but it doesn’t rhyme with tasty; it actually rhymes with nasty.  It’s a pARSty Stephanie, not a pAYsty.”

It took at least a day to teach Stephanie how to pronounce the name of Cornwall’s national dish, the pasty. Her rendition made the scrumptious West Country meal sound rather pale and unhealthy which it most definitely isn’t.

We were already well on our way to the ancient kingdom of Cornwall so there was no way I was going to sing ‘Let’s call the whole thing off’ just because an American couldn’t say pasty properly.

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Ramsbury Airfield

As we walked up the steep track sunk between two moss-covered banks Stephanie and I paused to look at the patchwork of trees and fields stretching across the valley.  We were on a quiet pilgrimage walking through an easterly wind stiff with cold sweeping.  Below us smoke curled from the chimneys of the quintessentially English village of Ramsbury. In the distance, its equally picturesque neighbour, Aldbourne, was hidden in the folds of a hill. 

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