24th May 2013

It seems winter has staged an unwelcome encore. Outside, it’s cold, windy, and raining sideways, with reports of snow up north just to really rub it in. Only last week, we were basking in a brief fling with summer warmth, the veggies in the allotment shot up in hopeful optimism, and now they (like me) are sulking at the sight of yet more grim forecasts. Even I had to dig out my heavy winter cycling gear this morning to face the wind (my least favourite weather villain) and a drizzle that occasionally went full Broadway production as a torrential downpour. By the time I made it home, I was more drowned rat than cyclist, so a promised lunch with Nan was very welcome indeed.

We headed to the White Swan in Holcot, where we enjoyed trout from nearby Pitsford Reservoir, while the trees in the churchyard outside staged a wind-battered dance routine beneath a scowling sky. On the way back, we paused at the reservoir car park, where even the ducks looked like they were regretting life choices as wave after wave battered them. Frankly, I was glad to be back on dry land.

A couple of weeks ago, Sue and I went to see Sightseers at the Harborough Cinema Club. As I waited for her to get ready, I was sorely tempted by the UEFA Cup Final (Chelsea v Benfica) on telly. Fingers crossed the film would be worth it, I resisted, and as it turned out, Sightseers was… well, let’s just call it “an experience.” Macabre and bizarre in equal measure. IMDB only offers a two-line synopsis, which in hindsight was more than enough preparation!

On the tech front, Nan acquired a new BT Vision box; after being told she needed to upgrade to BT Infinity to keep her beloved Sky Sports 1 & 2. Of course, after the “upgrade,” the channels vanished. Cue multiple phone calls, buckets of patience, and eventually a replacement box, still no joy. After three solid hours on the phone (and let me tell you, three hours of tech support would test the patience of a saint, never mind me), I finally found a rare operative who not only listened but agreed with my diagnosis. Two minutes later, Nan was happily watching the cricket again, while I was in need of a stiff drink. Naturally, it started raining the moment I left. Thanks for that, India.

I hadn’t checked on the house in Thurcroft since before Christmas, so I suspected the garden might resemble the Amazon rainforest. I roped in Peter, a Kiwi friend, for the expedition. Despite a dire forecast, we managed to mow the lawn (twice), hoe the veggie patch, trim the bushes, and spray the weeds before the heavens opened. Peter was keen to see wild garlic, so I dragged him off to Roche Abbey woods, where the forest floor was smothered in the stuff. He was thrilled, wanted to dig some up, but Sarah rang begging for food, so we postponed garlic-thievery in favour of feeding a student.

We treated Sarah to a meal large enough to see her through finals week, though she had to dash off straight after to finish an essay. Back in Thurcroft, Peter and I rounded the day off with a soggy walk to the Traveller’s Rest, where we played pool until closing time. On the way back the next day, we finally nabbed some wild garlic for Peter to take home. He swears the leaves are edible, we’ll see if they’re as tasty as they are pongy!

On the rugby front, I managed to snag tickets for Leicester Tigers v Harlequins with Jim and Paul. After a few nail-biting moments (I thought we’d need a defibrillator at one point), the Tigers powered through to secure their spot in the Wembley final. And yes, I’ve got a ticket for that too!

Sue and I also enjoyed a wonderful evening at Harborough Theatre watching Salt of the Earth. It was like a cosy time capsule, set in the same era and place we once lived, which made it feel as fresh as yesterday. The acting was superb, though no surprise when you remember playwright John Godber is from West Yorkshire. Clearly, up there, creativity flows like gravy on a Sunday roast.

Down in Devon, Philippa and Paul opened their garden to the public, so Sue and I headed down to lend a hand. First, we stopped at Clevedon (by accident, courtesy of my “scenic detour” navigational style), then Burnham-on-Sea, where Sue promptly found some quicksand. After a vigorous sand removal, we finally reached Buckfastleigh in time to nose around the garden before Philippa came home from work.

The next day, while Paul and Philippa were busy, Sue and I hopped on the South Devon steam train to Totnes. Sue bought the tickets, one senior citizen, one adult (I’ll let you decide which of us qualified for which). The journey was charming, the River Dart sparkling in the sun (yes, sun!), and Totnes was delightfully eccentric. Think “hippies who forgot to leave in the 1970s” and you’ve got the idea. At one point, I spotted a lady in flowing orange robes, clapping and dancing on the platform like she’d just wandered in from Woodstock.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After exploring Totnes and a riverside walk, we returned to help Philippa and Paul prepare for their big Open Day. Philippa baked up a storm while Paul set Sue and me to work in the garden. Our special assignment? Hunt down unusual snails for a children’s display. After much wandering, we startled a deer and heard a massive splash; I half expected to find Bambi practising his diving technique in the quarry pond. Later, Philippa and Sue went on a torch-lit snail safari and returned victorious with hundreds of the slimy little stars.

Come Sunday, the weather held, the cakes sold like hotcakes (pun intended), and over 80 people paid their £3.50 to tour what is now essentially Philippa and Paul’s botanical university. By the end of the day, visitors staggered out with bags full of plants, and the four of us collapsed with fish and chips.

The journey home was brightened by a detour to Canonteign Falls (turns out, it really is the highest waterfall in England, and quite worth the climb) and a stop at Portishead for a rocky shoreline walk and a hot chocolate at the Lido Café. We then caught up with Chris in Thornbury, who looks annoyingly unchanged since college, perhaps proof that vegetarianism and pickled veg really are the elixir of youth. After a sunset stroll in Oldbury-on-Severn and a hearty pub meal, we headed back to our Travelodge beside the Severn Bridge, proof, if any were needed, that romance is not dead.

Back home, it was straight into lawn-mowing duties. Sarah arrived the next day, just in time for her 20th birthday. She unloaded her entire university life from the car and declared (on Facebook, naturally) that she now has to “act mature.” Charlotte popped by with a flat tyre crisis, which meant I was knee-deep in car jacks before breakfast while the girls headed off to Fawsley Hall for birthday glamour. Later, I whipped up chicken chow mein and chop suey for the family. Jamie, fresh from football, turned up late to give Sarah her present and demolish the leftovers.

Meanwhile, Charlotte has gone full Mother Hen. She’s filled an incubator with eggs and secured an allotment across the road, already boasting rows of potatoes. The boys are thrilled about the prospect of baby chicks, though I suspect Suraj is still traumatised from previous pet-wrangling incidents. Next mission: a hen-house. What could possibly go wrong?

Jamie, meanwhile, has been working hard and holidaying harder. His latest snaps are here for proof.