7th December 2012

I’ve been out with the chainsaw again, this time with a dual purpose: clearing trees and bushes along the riverbank to keep the floodwater moving downstream rather than letting it sulk in a dam of debris, and, of course, turning the lot into neat little logs. Waste not, want not.

While hacking away, I stumbled across a large willow that had been throttled by straw from the last flood. That’s when I met the lovely lady who lives across the road, whose garden had also been underwater. We had a good chinwag about the joys of living riverside, and she asked if I could deal with a willow on her side of the bridge. After causing some very satisfying carnage on my side, I nipped across and we took down the offender together.

As the light faded and the chill crept in, I promised to return the next morning to finish the job, which I did, naturally reserving the fattest logs for my winter stash. She lives alone in a bungalow and doesn’t know many folk in Harborough, though her daughter’s nearby in Sibbertoft. I said I’d see if our neighbour Doreen could pop round for a visit. They’d probably get on famously, especially as they share that peculiar bond of riverside living, equal parts charm and flood insurance.

On Thursday, I caught up with an old friend, John Lee, for a walk near Hungarton. He had cracking news: he’s finished treatment for prostate cancer, and his latest tests confirm he’s now clear. We wandered through some glorious countryside, and despite a frosty start, it turned into one of those rare picture-perfect, blue-sky days. Naturally, we began and ended our stroll at the Black Boy pub in Hungarton, because no celebration is complete without a pint or two, preferably bookending the exercise that justifies them.

On Thursday morning, Sarah rang in a bit of a flap; her car battery had given up the ghost. She wasn’t feeling brave enough to roll it down the hill for a bump start, so I reminded her she had breakdown cover, complete with home start. Sure enough, the cavalry arrived within half an hour and, just like that, she was back on the road. She’d only just returned from a couple of days in Blackpool with her uni pals, so clearly the car decided it wanted to make a grand statement about being neglected. A couple of days later, it threw another tantrum and refused to start again. Luckily, Santa (disguised as KwikFit) brought her an early Christmas present in the form of a brand-new battery. With snow and icy blasts forecast for next week, and Sarah due back in Harborough on Saturday for the Christmas break, fingers crossed the weather forecasters have got it wrong, as usual.

Friday was Thai Night, and we pulled out all the stops. Charlotte turned out a cracking Thai chicken stir-fry, while I attempted Thai fish cakes. Admittedly, they weren’t the neatest specimens, more abstract art than Michelin star, but they tasted authentic (I liked them, and Suraj even went back for seconds). I also whipped up a generous prawn curry, which I thought was equally delicious. The whole spread was such a success, it whisked us straight back to our holidays in Thailand, praise doesn’t come much higher than that.

Lucas sadly had to miss his football training due to a dose of impetigo. Ellis, meanwhile, decided he’d had enough of Friday night entirely: he placed a cushion on the carpet, rested his head on it, wrapped himself in his blanket, and promptly drifted off. Too sweet for words, and the perfect cue for the Rothwells to make their exit, with Jamie kindly ferrying Nan back to her flat.

In other excitement, Jamie and I, being massive fans of Derren Brown, have got tickets to see him in Northampton next April as a birthday treat. Can’t wait!

And now, the undisputed highlight of the week: England’s rugby team beat the New Zealand All Blacks 38–21! YES, YES, YES, YES! As if that wasn’t enough, our women’s team stuffed them as well, 32–23. What a weekend to be English.

On Wednesday, Sue and I ventured up to Yorkshire. I had to drop off a parcel for David so Genya could take it back to Bulgaria (she was flying out on Saturday). First stop was Nan’s old house to make sure everything was in order, then off to Rotherham to see Genya at the GetSorted unit. She was buried under a mountain of work, so after a quick fifteen-minute catch-up, we headed off to Whiston to meet Sarah for lunch. By some miracle, we both pulled into the pub car park at the same time. We filled Sarah up with much-needed pub grub before she returned to Sheffield, while we headed back to Thurcroft. At Nan’s house, I drained the heating system, while Sue attempted to stay warm in what felt like a walk-in freezer, colder, as the saying goes, than a polar bear’s toenails.

Speaking of freezing, David had told me about Donna Nook, where grey seals haul out to give birth. It sounded too good to miss, so we booked a room at the Crown Inn in Saltfleet, a short hop from the beach. The journey, however, wasn’t without incident; the SatNav kept cutting out, the weather threw in snow showers, and tempers were in danger of doing the same. Thanks to Sue’s trusty map-reading and my repeated attempts to resurrect the SatNav, we eventually arrived.

On the way to the pub, we spotted a sign for Donna Nook and couldn’t resist a detour, even though it was growing dark and the snow had set in. When we pulled into the beach car park, it was utterly deserted, no seals in sight, no people, nothing but swirling snow. Undeterred, we layered up in hats, coats, and gloves and braved the blizzard. And you know what? It was worth it. Visibility was dreadful, but the eerie howling of seals all around us was unforgettable, equal parts haunting and magical.

After about twenty minutes of freezing our noses off, we shuffled back to the car in search of much-needed warmth. Within five minutes of driving, we spotted the pub and pulled in, only to discover it wouldn’t open until six. The landlord and his lady had gone to the theatre in Norwich and, to be fair, had given us a heads-up earlier. So, to kill time, we wandered round the village, which turned out to be a vast encampment of caravans, before heading back to the pub at the appointed hour.

What a transformation. The place was lit up like a Christmas card, a fire crackling away, and a menu practically begging to be ordered from. We checked into our room, tucked into a hearty dinner, and then settled by the fire with drinks in hand, happily chatting with our hosts. As the snowy night drew on, locals trickled in for food and pints, giving the place a proper cosy buzz.

Later, we were invited to join in some long-alley skittling. Great fun! Sue and I were paired with seasoned locals, me with the landlady herself, and, against all odds, we emerged victorious. Yours truly claimed first place, while Sue nabbed a very respectable second. After basking in our skittling glory, we retired to a comfortable bed, watching snowflakes drift past the window as if out of a Christmas film.

The next morning, we braved the icy roads and returned to Donna Nook (named after the Spanish Armada galleon Donna, which inconveniently sank just off the coast). In daylight, the place was breathtaking; hundreds of seals sprawled along the beach, basking like hardened British holidaymakers on Blackpool sands. This time, we weren’t alone; plenty of sightseers had braved the cold, bundled up like walking duvets.

The pups were the stars, their calls for their mothers sounding uncannily like “Mum!”, both bizarre and adorable in equal measure. Meanwhile, massive bulls thundered about, guarding their patch of beach like nightclub bouncers. I wouldn’t fancy my chances against one; they can shift at an alarming speed. Less cheery were the few pups that hadn’t survived, most likely crushed by adults in the chaos, a sobering reminder of nature’s rougher edges.

We spent a couple of bracing hours watching the action and poring over the information boards, helped along by enthusiastic wardens who were more than happy to share their knowledge. Before leaving, we picked up a cuddly toy seal for Ellis, to support the Seal Society, and because every little lad deserves a plush pal, especially one as cute as a baby seal.

Feeling thoroughly frozen, we retreated to the car and pointed ourselves towards Mablethorpe. After a bracing march along the windswept beach, we wandered into town and pottered around the street market, taking in the sights and smells. Eventually, we stumbled across a fish restaurant which, quite frankly, felt like destiny. After all, what’s a trip to the seaside without the sacred ritual of fish and chips? A basic human right.

Fortunately, the restaurant was as warm as its menu, a welcome relief from the biting cold outside. After demolishing our delicious meal, we embarked on a brief but treacherous walk back to the car. The slippery pavements made every step a mini-workout, proving that you can have fun even while trying not to faceplant on ice!

As for Mr. SatNav, after a rather dramatic tumble off the dashboard accompanied by a resounding bang, he decided to redeem himself. From that moment on, he behaved impeccably, guiding us home safely just in time for tea and a long, hot bath, well-earned after our frosty escapades. Clearly, crashing to the floor wasn’t the most effective way to get our attention!