I woke up at 4:30 for some obscure reason then went back to sleep until 6 when the alarm went off. We hit the road by 7. We had to get to Guildford by 1 as this was when Hertz closes on a Saturday. We should have had time to take our luggage home first but our buffer was eaten up by the rotten weather. From the M25 on, it didn’t stop raining. Ghastly and scary. Slowed us down something terrible. We pulled in to the Hertz carpark at 12:50!

We dragged all our stuff onto Guildford station, then onto Haslemere station, then into a taxi. We finally arrived home and crashed.

We decided to pick the puppies up on Sunday as it’s raining and very, very miserable.

Apart from this final miserable bit, our holiday was lovely. I managed a good walk every day and we saw lots of wonderful places. As usual it has given us a taste for somewhere to which we MUST return…something we rarely do!

Painted tree

My early morning walk today took me to the one corner of the village I’d yet to visit, high above Roxby Manor by Highfield Grange and across the fields. A lovely feeling of being in the open with the wind freezing my fingers off. Ah, bliss.

Across Roxby Manor

And then, just as I was about to climb a stile and start wending my way back, two massive barn owls hove into sight. I sat down and watched them for a good ten minutes before they left to take up their beds for the day. At one point I was only about 20 feet away from one of them as it sat watching. Fantastic and could I just say that these are only the second and third barn owls I’ve ever seen in the wild.

Eventually Mirinda decided to get up and make a start to the day and we set off for York. We’d managed to convince Bob & Claire that the bus was indeed an adventure to be endured so Park and Ride was once more the order of the day. We were off-loaded at Piccadilly again, just outside the Merchant Adventurers’ Hall, this time going in.

The Merchant Adventurers began life in 1357 when a bunch of influential people decided to form a religious fraternity. The obvious first order of business was to build a hall…so they did. By 1430 most of the members were merchants so they set up a trading association (or guild). Although still in existence, the Merchant Adventurers are now more like Rotary rather than traders.

Merchant Aventurer's entrance

The hall itself is amazing. From the ground (and even below) up, history can be read in the construction. The bricks at the bottom are of Roman origin, made 1,000 years before the hall was built and re-used for the foundations. Inside the floors slope every which way and defy gravity by remaining in the air.

I’d visited on my previous weasel outing so I concentrated on the bits I’d missed while the Stockwells did the lot. Like the little mouse carved into the Governor’s chair made by “Mousey” Thompson of Kilburn, so called because of his habit of always carving a little mouse somewhere on his furniture.

Spot the mouse

I also found a computer with a Merchant Adventurers’ game on it. The idea is that you are given £50 and you must trade around medieval Europe over a period of six months. I managed to end up with £103½! I was informed what a brilliant merchant I would have made. Possibly true, but I’d have needed the computer.

From the hall it was suddenly imperative we find food so, foregoing a visit to Mirinda’s Japanese shop, we popped into the first eatery we found. This was an OAP carvery rather than the preferable Slug & Lettuce but it seems that needs must so we sat down to a lovely roast lunch. And in the natural manner of such establishments, there was a lot of it! At least it wasn’t cut up into bite sized pieces for ease of mastication.

Dentures still firmly in place, Mirinda & I then left Bob & Claire to their own devices as we headed off for the Japanese shop and the whiskey shop – I’ll let you guess who went to which.

After a bit of shopping, we headed up to the Minster where Mirinda did the lot and I climbed the tower, as this was the only thing I didn’t manage to do last time I was in York with the weasels.

Twin towers of York minster

The door to the top is opened every half hour as there is only one way up and down with no passing. It meant waiting for about 15 minutes. Five of us waited patiently while a rude family from Leeds, impatient to be the first to the top (God knows why) decided they should go first. They created a queue where no queue was required by planting mum and older son right up against the ticket window, eagerly waiting for the ‘off’. Dad (he looked a bit like a ferret) and youngest son sat on the cold marble with the rest of us.

As the time ticked frantically towards 2:15, father ferret was getting a bit toe-y. Again, this made little sense. What did he think it was a race for? The post-Christmas tower climbing sales? A special mention for being the first to the top? A small pile of boiled sweets distributed to the family that managed first place? The rest of us exchanged subtle looks of “What is it with these freaks?” and waited patiently. When the old woman behind the desk removed the sign saying ‘Next climb at 2:15′, the family from Leeds instantly thrust their money at her and headed for the steps without pause.

Wow. 275 steps up and the same back down. All going up a spiral that keeps getting narrower. By the time you pop out at the top you feel like a squeezed blackhead. The girl climbing in front of me was frightened all the way up, occasionally making such comments as “I didn’t think it was going to be like this” and “This narrow passage is making me claustrophobic!” What DID she expect? Escalators? A personal jetpack perhaps? Crazy. The prize for the bravest climber has to go to the tiny little girl walking up with her dad. She was about 6 and only twice the height of the steps but she made the lot both ways without complaint. AND she didn’t stop chatting about the usual 6 year old subjects of jabber, jabber and jabber.

Anyway…apart from all that, the view was fantastic and well worth the tramp up. Something I didn’t like was the cage all around the battlements. There were little holes to make it easy to view and take photos but otherwise I felt like an animal prowling the confines of my metal home. Not sure if it’s meant to protect the people on the tower, those looking up or the Minster council.

View from the top

After descending, I waited for Mirinda (seeing Bob & Claire leaving for Betty’s tea shop) who had been through the church and had just completed the undercroft, and we then set off for York station to pick up our hire car.

A final interesting note about York. In the middle ages, York was a very powerful and prosperous place. So much so that it managed to escape the reformation and most of the civil war, two of the most architecturally damaging episodes in this country’s history! What this means to us, standing here looking in 2007 is that it represents all of its many different eras and cultures, all at once. It is a fantastic mix of all things and all people. With the added luxury of the archaeological remains of Yorvik also on show, the place is unique.

All very nice but…there is a problem with York station. It has two car parks. We searched for ages through the entire car park for our hire car until I returned to the hire place and said I couldn’t find the car. They were a bit concerned and asked if I’d looked in the Hertz bays. I said I couldn’t find any Hertz bays. I was about to throw the key back in their smug northern faces when it turned out there’s another car park, closer and easier to find. Mirinda was not overjoyed. We climbed aboard our Fiat Punto and set out back to Thornton le Dale.

A warning: Anyone thinking of hiring or buying a Fiat Punto, beware. The windows don’t work. Apparently (this is from the guy at Hertz when we returned the car) they fail a lot and you have to rip out the entire dash to get to the wires and reset them. Sounds like crap to me. Mind you, they are the perfect car for anyone who hates fresh air. I guess they’d work well in London.

Back at Thornton le Dale I cooked a splodgy shepherds pie (problems with utensils and containers – the house has just about everything…except a potato masher!), which tasted ok and we then watched the first ep of Ugly Betty.

Then bed. We have an early start tomorrow.

Up for my usual walk. Today I mounted Roxby Hill and checked out the manorial earthworks, wandering down to the dismantled railway – there is NO sight of it any more. Both were apparently once great structures, both are now invisible.

At 10, Bob & I left for our long trek. We parked in the car park of the Fengar Inn and set off across Saltergate towards the Malo Cross. This appears to be a Saxon cross at a junction of paths. It’s nicely weather beaten. It isn’t Saxon though! It was erected in 1619 in a direct violation of the laws governing the royal deer park! Sir Richard Egerton decided to enclose a load of land and erected the cross to indicate the corner. The initials carved into it are his. It sits on the edge of an old pannierman’s road that leads to Lilla Cross about three miles away.

Malo Cross

I don’t know what happened to Sir Richard but the cross vanished in the 19th century, turning up in a garden in Pickering in 1924 with some damage, which was repaired before it was once more set in its proper location just beneath Whinny Nab.

Having incorrectly dated Malo Cross, we followed Hazelhead Moor until we reached Newgate Farm where we climbed up to view the standing stones above Newgate Foot. As we walked we watched the ever growing peak of Blakey Topping grow more fantastic. I guessed it was man-made until we got close enough to realise I was talking absolute bollocks. It is in fact the eroded remains from a retreating glacier. But in the interests of true scientific research and to give a balanced account, I should put forward the local theory that when the devil was digging out the Hole of Hocum with his hands, one of the fists of dirt let fly, landed and became Blakey Topping.

The standing stones are a mystery. A lot of theories claim a lot of things but one thing seems somewhat agreed and that is that they have something to do with Blakey Topping.

Standing stone

And as you move among them, you are only too aware of the hill only a short climb away. But if they were a circle or an alignment and how many there were originally…all a mystery never to be solved I’m afraid…which leads me to…

From here we popped into the next field where the remains of some sort of building sit uncomfortably in the landscape. I tried to work out what it was with Bob’s prompting. I ended up being fittingly vague by declaring it was once a medieval farm house. I have not been able to find a single reference to it, which leads me to believe it was more likely a collection of farm outbuildings rather than an actual farm…though I still believe it was medieval!

We returned to our track, climbing the steep path up to the Old Wife’s Way where we walked into great gale force winds – Bob estimated them as around 40 knots. Apparently a witch lived in these here parts and annoyed the devil by not giving up her soul. He chased her across the moors and this was part of her flight. If she was heading into the wind, I’m surprised old Nick didn’t manage to catch her! Eventually we gained the calm of the Forestry Commission sliver of trees. It was then an easy walk down to the car.

Pub & our lonely car

The pub was still closed. We were still the only car parked there. We started the car and drove up to the Fox and Rabbit where we enjoyed a couple of pints of Black Sheep and lovely roast beef sandwiches. Ah, the rewards for a good tramp.

Back at the cottage we found Mirinda and Claire ready to hit the road, having already emptied the village of tea and scones, so we loaded up the car and headed out for Helmsley. We’d spotted this lovely looking town on the way to the closed priory on Tuesday so thought we might check it out.

Mirinda & I left Claire and Bob to find the best tea room while we visited the lovely All Saints church. A very rare sight; the walls were painted with a family tree of churches. It looked fantastic. Wandering back to the town square we found a CASTLE! And it was open!

Castle wall

Helmsley Castle is a fantastic ruin; one of those brilliant old castles you can run and climb all over. The kind that turns me into a ten year old. The first castle on the site was established by Walter Espec in the 1120s and his impressive earthworks are still there today. It gradually grew over the years until the Civil War when Royalist troops were garrisoned within it. They eventually had to surrender as their food had run out but the castle had withstood the full onslaught. So much so that when Sir Thomas Fairfax took over the castle in the name of the parliamentarian army, he partially dismantled the curtain walls and towers and blew up the east tower! Such a waste. If he hadn’t the castle may still be complete today.

Sir Thomas’s story is quite interesting. He managed to save the Bodleian Library in Oxford and was not a cruel or ruthless conqueror. After Cromwell died, he switched camps to help reinstate the crown, helping to put Charles II on the throne.

All in all, a wonderful castle.

Helmsley Castle, sunset

Mirinda was back at the visitor’s centre long before me and the following exchange occurred between her and the guy at the desk:
“Have you seen the guy I came in with? He was wearing a hat,” she said.
“Yes, we sold him to this other couple for sixty quid,” he replied.
“Wow, you got a bargain,” she said.
Then I walked in without a hat.

We then wandered down to the market square to meet Bob & Claire in the tea room and discuss how Helmsley appears to still exist in a pre decimal age where the guinea still counts for something. Then we drove back to the cottage.

Had a lovely dinner in the New Inn, just a few doors down from the cottage. Where the table of northerners was sufficiently heavily accented and the beer delightfully strong…though we actually had wine tonight.

I saw a barn owl! I was walking up towards a field to the west of the village when a car suddenly pulled up following a sheep dog. A woman leapt out and raced over to a field gate saying “The barn owl! The barn owl!” I joined her and we watched this magnificent bird flying over the field, dropping down and taking off again. The woman (who turned out to be the wife of the farmer who owned the field) told me she had been riding her horse at sunset yesterday when she saw it silhouetted against the horizon. We watched for a while until it had flown into the trees when the sheep dog took off along the road.

“He’s gone off to bring the horse in for his breakfast,” she said and sure enough I watched as the dog did just that.

Back at the cottage Mirinda & I prepared for a trip into York – Bob & Claire spending the day haunting the tea rooms of Thornton le Dale. We parked at the park and ride and took the bendy bus into the city.

It was like coming home! Ok, I’ve only been once but I do like York a lot. I felt almost like that first legion of Roman soldiers who, weary of foot, stood between the banks of the rivers Ouse and Foss and looked out, hearts aflutter with the joyous vista assaulting them. As they gleefully prepared a camp for the night, setting up their little camp-fires and nibbling petit-fortes, it’s easy to imagine one of them saying to his mate “I reckon this’d be a top spot for a town, Sextus.” To which Sextus would reply, “Yeah, mate. It could be called Eboracum! And have 70 pubs!”

After the Romans successfully built a wonderful walled city, then left, lots of others came and went, giving York lots of different things, especially names! There was the Angles (Eoforwic), the Vikings (Jorvik) and finally the Normans with the very simple and refined York. Of course, the Normans were never happy with much that didn’t have that special Norman design edge, so they rebuilt the place in their own image. Or the one decided on by Bill the B.

One of the great highlights of York is the Yorvik centre – a visit to York as the Vikings intended it. I visited with the weasels when there was a 15 mile queue but today? Surprise, surprise, no queue! We went straight in, did the time travel thing then took the ski lift through the Viking village with its smells and sites and sounds. This time I was sitting in the front and saw a lot more. I recommend the front seat! Though perhaps not the smells – they are very life-like!

After inspecting the ancient battlefield injuries and tortured ancient bones, we popped into Starbucks across the road for a quick pick-me-up which took a long time – the coffee not the pick-me-up. Mirinda then suggested we go and see Fairfax House. We wandered up there but it was closed. It was then off for a wander including Mirinda’s hour spent browsing in the Japanese shop. It was then off to the Shambles.

The Shambles

For those who do not know, the Shambles is a particularly old and rambling shopping precinct. Buildings lean precariously at all angles known to Pythagoras and yet remain standing. A few almost meet across the street where it is said, neighbours could shake hands. Such shops house single, glittery treasures rarely glimpsed in these days of mass construction. People have lived and worked in the Shambles for as long as anyone can say and probably longer – it is mentioned in the Domesday Book and is the only street to be so.

For centuries the Shambles was inhabited by butchers and slaughterhouses. In fact a mere hundred years ago, there was still 31 butchers! Apparently they laid their meat out on low flat tables, sort of like a grocer with his veg, and you could pick out the best. Bet it smelled as fresh as a daisy down there. A Day-z that’s just taken a dive into the biggest, muddiest pond on Blackdown then rolled in fox droppings! Anyway, today there is but a single butcher and he displays his meat behind his window like every normal 21st century butcher. Well, except for that bloke in Woking who chucks chops at you from the back of his truck on Fridays.

It is in the Shambles that Margaret Clitherow is supposed to have been born – though from my account of the Life of the Saints, it seems it wasn’t the one with the plaque and the shrine! Anyway, she was, by all accounts a pretty amazing woman. No snake whipping for her! Far braver. She was Roman Catholic when it meant death. She was married to a protestant who was easygoing and apparently wasn’t bothered that his wife held masses in dark corners and behind hidden curtains with other criminal Catholics.

Margaret Clitherow's shrine

Anyway, eventually she was found out and in 1586 was dragged before the court to answer the charges. Instead of giving any answers, in order to save anyone else having to give evidence against her, she refused to plead, saying “Having made no offence, I need no trial“. Unfortunately the penalty for refusing to plead was the peine forte et dure which resulted in the poor victim being crushed to death by having a door placed on top of her which was then weighted down with big stones – where’s the rhyme or reason with that?

This happened on 25 March 1586 and she took just 15 minutes though it was surely an agonising quarter of an hour. Her contemporaries described her as good-looking, witty and merry. She was finally made a saint in 1970 and is one of the Forty Martyrs of England and Wales. A true saint in my mind.

We wandered round to the station where we booked a hire car for Saturday (we are driving home while Bob & Claire go on to the Isle of Man) then tried to visit the Bar Convent to eat but it was closed. So rather than enjoying the tranquillity of the oldest living convent in England (and perhaps glimpse Margaret Clitherow’s hand which resides there) we made our way down to the Slug & Lettuce for a steak sandwich and a pint of Guiness.

After refreshment it was time for more wandering. I was making a beeline for Mr Wood’s Fossils – fantastic place – where I ended up buying a 380 million year old trilobite though I was sorely tempted by the raccoon’s skull. We decided to tempt Bob with it tonight and see if he can resist its lure when we return on Friday!

My trilobite

We gradually made our way back to the park and ride stop in Piccadilly and caught a bus back to the carpark. From here it was a simple run back to Thornton le Dale.

I made Pork & Fennel without the fennel though no-one complained. One day, just one day, I want to make pork & fennel for Bob & Claire and INCLUDE the fennel!!!

Up at 7 and out for a short morning walk at 8. The day is clearer than it has been but there’s an omnipresent threat of rain hanging over the hills.

I walked up passed All Saints church and made my way up and over a hill towards a large fish hatchery near the hamlet of Ellerburn. A tad muddy but very fresh and quiet. I returned via the church.

All Saints

All Saints has been around for a while – in the main the present building dates to the 14th century – and is a large austere structure. On one of the supporting piers near the entrance, you can clearly see the scratch marks where churchgoers of the middle ages would sharpen their arrow heads prior to the obligatory archery practice after the Sunday service. The bowl of the font is possibly the oldest thing in the church and dates to the 11th or 12th century and a lovely little piscine, which probably marks a small Lady Chapel from before the Reformation. A lot of the church interior was rebuilt in the mid-19th century so not a lot of carvings! The automatic lighting kept coming on and off as I wandered around – quite disconcerting but a good way to conserve energy.

I made my way back to the cottage via the bakery in time to meet Bob & Claire leaving in search of an open tea room (there’s at least three in the village) while I set about my study quota.

At about 12 we all set off for the Mount Grace Priory. The website said it was open, the brochure we had said it was open but guess what? It wasn’t open. Not that it was all that easy to find. Mirinda took us on a very scenic trip to find it and then, missing the turning off the A19, we drove around the 20 mile block to have another go. So we left the priory, disgruntled and travel weary before stopping down the road in the oddly named Osmotherley.

Houses in Osmotherley

This is a lovely little village on the edge of the moors and where a lot of people start their walks. It was once quite popular with smugglers on their way across the moors from the coast. The name is thought to come from one of two sources. I prefer the first. It’s the legend of the Saxon Prince Oswy, son of King Osmund of Northumbria. Sitting comfortably?

And verily, the King was told by a soothsayer that young Oswy was going to die of drowning when he was three, on a particular day. So on the nominated day, his mum took him to the top of the tallest hill where he would be safe. Unfortunately, the fates would not be denied and he drowned when the natural spring in the hermitage he’d been sheltered in, naturally, sprang to life. His body was taken down to the little village of Tevotdale where he was buried. His mother, overcome by grief, died soon after and Osmund had her buried beside Oswy. The village was renamed in their memory: “Oswy-by-his-mother-lay” which became Osmotherley.

The less romantic reason for the name is that it was the field belonging to a Viking chap called Asmund.

We tried the tearoom but they had no food left after yesterday – that’s what the woman said. Sadly we had to go to the pub, Queen Catherine’s and drink copper dragon and eat pub food. I had a delicious gammon steak while the others had the chicken. So if they get sick and I don’t, it was the chicken!!!

After a somewhat massive lunch, Mirinda and I popped behind the pub to check out the church, St Peter’s. There’s a few bits of Saxon masonry scattered by the porch, a lovely old font of indeterminate age and a few nice stained glass windows but no guide.

St Peter's

The Saxon masonry comes from the original Saxon church that stood on the site. Interestingly, the southern aisle is empty but could easily fit lots of pews. Perhaps they added an aisle but then had no need after everyone took off for a walk on the Lyke Wake Walk (which starts (or ends) in Osmotherley), and didn’t make it back.

We then spotted a lovely little Catholic chapel attached to a Benedictine Monastery. Very sweet. It is up a flight of stairs and sits in what could easily be someone’s upstairs. John Wesley was a celebrated visitor to Osmotherley – he preached from a table in the centre of the village.

The trip back took a fraction of the time and distance so we were home for 4:30 having seen a lovely sunset and lots of large areas with placards which Mirinda refused to tell me about.

First day of a new year and Mirinda wanted to rise early so we could go and visit the Bronte’s at Haworth (pronounced “How-eth”). It’s about 60 miles away so we were away by 8:30. Mirinda’s theory was that we would avoid the holiday crowds. Her theory proved pretty much correct as the roads were empty and other life forms, minimal. Finding Haworth was easy enough, finding the car park, not so obvious. We eventually managed to locate it and parked at the bottom, to walk up to the main street, an old, very steep, cobbled affair.

Our first port of call was the toilet – it was locked. The museum opened at 12 and it was only 11 so we searched for alternate relief. Mirinda tried abusing a publican but that didn’t work so I set off to find an open tea shop. There was one. Although Haworth must have about a hundred, only the one was open. An all day breakfast each and liquid refreshment, preceded by a delicious visit to the loos, set us up, ready for the trek back up to the museum.

The museum closes after today until the new season so it was today or not this trip!

An excellent place. In 1928, Sir James Roberts gave the parsonage to the Bronte Society. This is where the Bronte’s lived and the Society managed to furnish it out with some of their original stuff. Before this, the Bronte museum was very small and housed in a skinny little building on the high street which is now the TIC.

Haworth TIC

Anyway, we paid our fees, bought a guide book and started through the rooms. All pretty much as you’d expect from a parsonage – small rooms – but a big surprise when you realise that Mr Bronte and his son, Bramwell shared a bedroom for many years. Very odd. In Mr Bronte’s study is his magnifying glass. It is HUGE! The guy had a serious problem with his eyes.

It was in the parsonage that Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights were written. In Charlotte’s room is a one of her dresses, housed in a glass box, which shows how tiny she was – her height is estimated to have been around 4 foot 9! Seeing her headless dress standing there was quite eerie, particularly with her life-like portrait by JH Thompson watching from above the fireplace. Although, it must be said that he painted it after she died & I assume it was not to scale as the big head would have looked very odd on the little mannequin. Also, I think her waist was smaller than Kylie’s! And she didn’t much look like Victoria Hamilton who I think made a wonderful Charlotte Bronte.

Interestingly, the servant’s room has a rather grim view over the churchyard, perhaps deliberately so she would not spend too much time at idle pleasure. Or perhaps an opportunity to stare into her own mortality during her (rare) off moments.

St George's churchyard

Speaking of which…a really gross yet strangely ironic fact: During the Bronte’s time (the mid 1850s), the mortality rate in Haworth was pretty bad. Living to the ripe old age of 30 was pretty good and 41% of children died before they reached the age of six! One of the reasons was to do with the graveyard, oddly enough. The fresh water for the village came down from the hill, passing through the churchyard and, subsequently through all the dead villagers. This did not make for the healthiest water supply but that didn’t stop everyone drinking it. And baths were a bit of a waste of time. There was also a lot of raw sewage running down the main street and piles of rubbish everywhere. Ah, the good old days…

After wandering all over the house and briefly visiting the shop for some postcards, I waited for the others for a bit then decided to head down to the church. The rain had started and the day was clouding over. The church, as you’d imagine, is just the other side of the churchyard. It is also very big, having been completely rebuilt in 1879. Apart from the tower, the Bronte’s wouldn’t recognise it.

There is a lot of alabaster in the church including a lovely font, pulpit and a reproduction of Da Vinci’s Last Supper. It gives the church a very European feel although, as usual in English churches, it’s dark and gloomy. Also there is some impressive stained glass, but the gloomy day and lack of light outside meant they weren’t shown at their best.

Alabaster

I made my way back up to the museum shop to meet the rest of our party, just in time to witness a horrendous thunder and lightning show, followed by a massive hailstorm. All pretty violent. I had a passing thought of pity for the couple who had set out for the Bronte walk through the moors about ten minutes before. We sheltered before dashing back down to the church and then, as the weather improved, made our way back down to the car park, crunching through the ice.

The trip back took an interesting turn when we left the main road and wound around back lanes, eventually making our way back to where we left the main road. Mirinda suddenly asked what pub I’d like to stop at. As the car had paused outside The Sailor, I suggested The Sailor. Bob parked and we went in for a pint of Black Sheep.

I slept for most of the rest of the trip home except for a brief moment when I opened my eyes to say “That’s York” and Mirinda said “Just ignore it“. Given my knowledge of (the pubs of) York, I managed to guide them back to the road out of town before drifting back to sleep.

Back at Forge View, we settled down to watch the new version of Wind in the Willows before unsuccessfully having fish and chips for tea – the shop had shut. Instead we had a make do din-dins of cheese on toast and cereal. Apart from the soggy bread it was very nice.

Naturally, I’ve yet to mention the shower. The pressure and the temperature are both terrific and the room is nice and big. Actually the pressure is a little TOO good. If you turn the power to full, the shower head starts hissing like a mad snake, whisking itself back and forth, soaking the bathroom. If you hold the head and aim it at your body it’s a bit like sand blasting. Still, gets the dirt off.