9th May 2013

At long last, the weather has decided to behave itself, and venturing outdoors feels less like an endurance test and more like a pleasure. I’ve been hard at work repointing the patio slabs, a job that has left a visible archaeological record of my learning curve. The early attempts scream “work in progress,” the middle stretch is “respectable enough to invite the neighbours round,” and the most recent section might even pass as professional. With luck, I’ll get the pool area done this year, just in time for the next biblical downpour.

Down at the allotment, progress is similarly erratic. I plant vegetables when the mood takes me (which isn’t often enough for self-sufficiency, but at least no one expects me to serve up daffodils for dinner). The lawns are also demanding their weekly mow, and I’ve boldly promised myself I’ll keep at it until October. History suggests otherwise, but optimism is free.

The May Bank Holiday was spent at East Carlton Park with Nan, Sue, and the Rothwells for their annual Fun Day. The weather was scorching, Corby turned out in force, and we bagged a prime picnic spot early on, holding our ground against would-be invaders with the determination of medieval knights. Our pitch was beside the “crazy bicycle” arena, where nearly everyone but Nan and I mounted an assortment of improbable contraptions and pedalled about with wild abandon. A sight not easily forgotten.

The entertainment ranged from a dog show and a dance display to karaoke by Corby FM. The highlight, or lowlight, depending on your tolerance was a little girl called Chantelle, repeatedly summoned to sing every fifteen minutes as though the audience had developed amnesia. Her pitch was adventurous at best, but her enthusiasm was unmatched. We consoled ourselves with the thought that it built character, or at the very least, resilience.

Our picnic was followed by ice creams (naturally involving a queue), a few spirited rounds of Boules, and eventually a free-for-all involving balls and shuttlecocks launched at unsuspecting picnickers. With blue skies and blazing sunshine, it was the sort of day that makes you forget British summers usually come with umbrellas. We ended the outing with drinks at the Cherry Tree, where the boys ran wild on the playground while we tested the bar, and finally rounded things off with burgers and sausages at Willow Bank. Perfection.

Later in the week, Sue and I indulged in some history with an overnight trip to Market Bosworth. We booked into Bosworth Hall Hotel and set off on a 3.5-hour walk around the battlefield site of Richard III’s final bow, which we naturally stretched to five hours. Not another soul in sight, just us, rolling fields, and sheep, our own private slice of Leicestershire. We picnicked at the Battlefield Heritage Centre, watched schoolchildren run amok, and tutted at the outdated displays, especially now that Richard III had been found reclining under a Leicester car park. Obligatory gift shop duly visited, we continued via the Battlefield Steam Line, the canal, and even a golf course (where we paused to test binoculars and eye up posh houses with their own airstrips).

Back at the hotel, we vowed to sample the health club but were waylaid by dinner and a bottle of red. The buffet encouraged plate-piling of heroic proportions, and the bar afterwards sealed the fate of any fitness ambitions. The next morning’s full English breakfast finished the job.

Market Bosworth itself was charming, a sort of Tenbury Wells with money. The estate agents’ windows nearly made us faint, but we recovered with sweets from a quaint shop before one last ramble in the hotel parkland. On the way home, we detoured to Tropical Birdland. With peanuts in hand, we spent a happy couple of hours feeding parrots and macaws until our supplies were gone and the sky turned menacing. Hot chocolates in the café kept us warm until the rain arrived, thankfully just as we got back to the car.

Forty-five minutes later, we were back in South Leicestershire, where the weather had reverted to type: cold, windy, and miserable. Clearly, the balmy paradise of North Leicestershire doesn’t extend south of the county line.