Skegness Shenanigans: The Palmer Invasion

The Palmer Clan descended on the East Coast for a well-deserved break, minus Jamie and Suraj, who nobly stayed behind to work and keep the economy afloat. With Sarah and Charlotte at the helm, they’d managed to book a caravan through one of Lee’s relatives just outside Skegness. So, on the 5th of August at the (very respectable) hour of 9 am, two cars set off for the Lincolnshire coast.

Car One: Charlotte, Sarah, and the boys.
Car Two: Sue, Nan, and yours truly.

The weather forecast looked grim, but undeterred, we pressed on. Naturally, the SatNavs couldn’t agree on a route, and after a few scenic detours (some of which may or may not have been intentional), we finally rolled up after three and a half hours.

The site was enormous, but Sarah, still basking in the glory of her recent First and Distinction in her Criminology foundation degree, tracked down the caravan with the efficiency of a homing pigeon. No fingerprinting, no bribery, no tears. Just pure competence. Once we’d dumped our bags and staked claims on the beds, we collapsed onto the veranda. The sun had appeared, pizzas were vanishing at speed, and mugs of tea and coffee were in hand as we plotted our week of seaside fun.

 

 

 

 

 

Day One: Skeggy, Sandcastles, and the Starfish Incident

That afternoon, we ventured into Skegness itself to claim a patch of beach and build some sandcastles. To stop our hats from being blown to Denmark, we sheltered behind a breakwater, a hidden treasure trove of shells, crab bits, and even the odd starfish.

The real fun began the next morning, when I opened the boot of my car to be greeted by the unmistakable perfume of “Eau de Rotting Starfish.” Apparently, I’d absentmindedly left one in there overnight. Several sprays of deodorant later, it was just about tolerable. Lesson learned.

That evening we tucked into chicken salad and cider, played a few rounds of cards, and went to bed early. The caravan walls were so thin you could hear the grass outside growing, but somehow, I managed a decent night’s sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day Two: Sutton-on-Sea, Sandcastles, and Zorbing Chaos

Breakfast was a revelation. Thanks to the military planning of the Palmer women, a full English appeared before me as if by magic. My only role? Eat it with gusto. Which, naturally, I did.

Re-energised, we took a scenic 40-minute drive to Sutton-on-Sea. There were sandcastles galore, Sarah was ceremoniously buried in sand, ice creams were demolished, and yet more shells were collected.

At lunch, the clan split: the refined among us enjoyed sea bass, French fries, and Somerset cider at the Golf Club, while the younger contingent tucked into battered coley, chips, and sausages on last week’s Sun (Page 3 included).

The afternoon brought swimming at the municipal Lido, followed by yet another ice cream feast. Later, back at the site, Charlotte, Sarah, and Lucas embarked on a Zorbing session. Imagine a giant plastic ball, Lucas inside, Charlotte and Sarah rolling him around like a pair of mischievous hamsters. He spun like a sock in a tumble dryer before making a rather green-looking exit.

Dinner was spaghetti Bolognese with more cider, followed by, you guessed it, another early night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day Three: Gibraltar Point and Fishy Business

Another cracking breakfast (this one boasting black pudding) set us up for a trip to Gibraltar Point. Blue skies, warm breezes, and rolling dunes greeted us. The sea was so far out it felt like a day trip just to paddle, but Charlotte, Sarah, and I made the trek while the others hunted for yet more crabs and shells.

The boys had a brilliant time paddling in a stream, catching tiny fish which Sue dutifully popped into a jar. Thankfully, she convinced them to release their catch before Charlotte’s car took on the fragrance of a fishmonger’s slab.

After a couple of hours of sand and shenanigans, we wandered to the Visitor Centre, where Sue and I explored the displays with the boys while the less energetic members of our party enjoyed a snooze in the cars. Honestly, who knew sitting on a beach could be so exhausting?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day Four: Chapel St. Leonards and the Great Kite Fiasco

From Gibraltar Point, we continued to Chapel St. Leonards. A quiet, charming resort, blissfully unspoilt apart from one dodgy shop flogging kites that had clearly fallen off the back of a junk container.

After a picnic of salmon or ham sandwiches (origin unknown, but mercifully sand-free), Lucas and I attempted to launch our bargain-bin kite. Unfortunately, it consisted of two sticks, a plastic bag, and about three metres of dental floss.

After an hour of bafflement, a large lady shuffled over and gently pointed out that kites usually had four strings and four holes, not two of each. Apparently, we’d bought a cheap Chinese dud. Undeterred, I improvised with scissors and string and, for thirteen glorious seconds, achieved flight, before it plummeted to earth with the grace of a sack of spuds.

The family, curiously silent during my struggles, later revived enough energy for fish and chips on the village green. Back at the caravan, I played football with Lucas before collapsing with pizza and an early night. Footnote: I did, in fact, email Trading Standards about the dodgy kite. Justice must be served.

 

 

 

 

 

Day Five: Anderby Creek and the Journey Home

Our final adventure took us to Anderby Creek, a hidden gem with panoramic views of offshore wind turbines. After a stroll along the pier and some enthusiastic crab-hunting, we turned once again to sandcastle building. Castles rose, moats filled, and small crabs attempted a hostile takeover of our fortifications.

The sun shone, the breeze blew, and we rounded off the trip with a drink at the little pub by the beach. Nobody wanted to leave, but duty (and the need to reclaim our own beds) called. We packed, locked up the caravan, and headed off on a mercifully uneventful three-hour journey back to Leicestershire.

One last stop awaited us: dinner at the Ghurka in Desborough, where Suraj joined us straight from work. Nepalese food, good company, and the warm glow of a holiday well spent. A fitting finale to our jolly jaunt.

And so, with sandy shoes, a faint whiff of starfish lingering in the car, and bellies full of curry, the Palmer Skeggy adventure came to an end. Until next time…

The following Saturday, Sue and I set off for Telford, having booked ourselves a night at the Madeley Court Hotel, with plans to do a bit of rambling (the walking kind, not the talking nonsense sort). We’d invited our friends Jim and Brigitte Hankers along, though there was a slight concern about their dog, Harbie. Thankfully, the pooch turned out to be better behaved than most of the guests; he could probably run the hotel himself if they gave him a bow tie.

We met Jim and Brigitte in the hotel car park around 10:30 am, where they’d already been for an hour, happily walking Harbie. After a quick catch-up, we were ready to hit the trail. I’d planned a circular walk starting from the Iron Bridge, and naturally, our first waypoint was a pub. Because honestly, who in their right mind starts a ramble without the prospect of a pint dangling in front of them?

The day was glorious, sunshine, a gentle breeze, and not a single rain cloud in sight (so clearly we weren’t in Wales). Our route took us along the river, winding into the hills and through shady woodland. The highlight came at Compass Point, where we enjoyed a cracking view of the Iron Bridge itself, worth every nettle sting along the way. Speaking of which, Brigitte found the climb a tad taxing, so Sue dropped back to keep her company while Jim, Harbie and I strode ahead, bravely chopping down nettles like knights forging a path for weary travellers.

We completed the circular stroll in about three hours, though it could have been done faster had we not stopped every ten minutes to admire the scenery, listen to the birdsong, and debate whether or not we deserved a pint yet. Once finished, we repaired to the Malthouse Pub in Bridgnorth, where we sank several well-earned drinks and demolished hearty portions of pub grub. Nothing caps a ramble better than beer and chips, it’s practically in the Countryside Code.

Back at the hotel, we checked in. Harbie had the luxury of a dog-friendly room with a double bed for his humans; clearly, the dog is used to travelling first class. While Jim and Brigitte opted for a nap, Sue and I wandered the grounds. A cheerful staff member insisted on showing us around the Grade II listed building, being prepped for a wedding. It was like stepping into the past, oak beams, wonky corridors, and the faint suspicion that a ghost in a ruff might pop round the corner at any moment.

Later, drinks on the veranda overlooking the lake set the scene nicely until our companions reappeared, looking far too fresh for people who’d just been asleep. Dinner in the Banqueting Hall was a three-course affair that wouldn’t have been out of place on MasterChef. Afterwards, we retired to the bar for another drink (or three), before finally admitting defeat and heading to bed.

Brigitte was knocking on our door at 8 am sharp the next morning, suggesting an early breakfast since she and Jim had already walked Harbie, painted a watercolour, and probably written a novel while waiting. We joined them half an hour later, and I made the most of the buffet, sampling everything in sight under the guise of “research”.

Suitably fuelled, we drove off to conquer the Wrekin. Brigitte elected to stay in the car with her music, while the rest of us tackled the steep path. Halfway up, we paused at a café for ice cream, because when you’re climbing a hill, nothing says “athletic vigour” quite like a Mr Whippy. Harbie had water, but looked unconvinced.

At the windy summit, Sue announced you could see nine counties from the top. We all agreed this was probably true, though none of us could remember which counties those might be. The descent was amusing: we passed optimistic walkers dragging prams and small children upwards, blissfully unaware that Everest might have been the easier option. I suspected the café would see many of them again, ten minutes later, facing the opposite way.

Once back down, we popped into a nearby pub for lunch, then headed home, happily declaring our rambling weekend a great success.

A few days later, on Thursday, I swapped my walking boots for golf shoes and played a round against Andy Spencer. He’d promised, at his Housewarming, that he’d “get back on the links soon”, and for once, a promise was kept. With a charity match looming, he needed the practice. We had a cracking game, though Andy’s swing occasionally looked like he was attempting to chop firewood rather than send a golf ball straight. The following week, he turned up with a mate called Paul, whom I’d previously met on a Twickenham trip. After our round, we repaired to Cottingham for lunch, where the beer flowed almost as freely as the tall tales about past sporting exploits.

Then, on the 16th of August, Sue, Nan and I packed up the car for Wales. I’d booked two nights at the Wild Boar in Beeston as a birthday treat for Sue. En route, we dropped Nan off at her sister Josie’s in Brymbo. The journey was almost scuppered by a nasty crash on the M6, but thanks to SatNav wizardry, we dodged the worst of the jam and only lost half an hour—miraculous, given the M6’s usual appetite for turning journeys into endurance tests.

Boots on, we set off from the hotel towards Beeston Castle. A short half-hour’s stroll later, we were handing money over to the National Trust and beginning our climb through the Bailey to the Motte. The views from the top were worth every puff and pant, with the nearby Peckforton Castle looking particularly grand. On the way down, we poked our noses into caves once inhabited by early man, who, I’m sure, would have been astonished to learn his home is now part of a heritage day out. Sue celebrated our archaeological detour with an ice cream.

The excitement didn’t stop there. About a quarter of a mile down the track, Sue dropped her sunglasses, prompting me to check mine, only to discover they’d gone AWOL too. Visions of retracing my steps all the way back to the Keep haunted me, but fortune smiled: they’d been handed in at the shop. Crisis averted, dignity intact (just).

The rest of our walk, along the Shropshire Union Canal, was thankfully drama-free. Back at the hotel, we admired our view of vegetable fields before heading out to the local chippy for fish and chips. Forget fine dining, nothing beats batter and grease when eaten on a birthday trip.

The next morning, forecasts of doom and gloom abounded: the weatherman, my Tablet PC, and even a random dog-walker all predicted rain. Armed with our waterproofs (and scepticism), we set off for Peckforton Castle. Not a drop fell. We explored the Gatehouse, chuckled at a “Folly” dovecote, and powered up into the woods, fuelled by wild blueberries and optimism. Just as we returned to the hotel and untied our boots, the heavens opened. Up yours, weatherman! Up yours, Tablet! Up yours, random bloke with a dog! Victory was ours.

Later that day, we paid homage at the Ice-Cream Farm. Imagine Willy Wonka had gone dairy-mad, and you’ll get the idea. We both tried blackcurrant and liquorice, a combination that sounded questionable but tasted divine. From there, Sue’s paradise: the Candle Workshops. To her, it was bliss; to me, it was a slow, scented death. Still, I even bought a trinket, mainly to prove I was alive when we left. A swift pint at a nearby pub rescued my spirits, until a rain cloud the size of Liverpool chased us off the balcony.

Dinner that evening was at the Red Fox Indian Restaurant: the only curry house for miles. I’d describe it as “adequate” (and did, on TripAdvisor), but at least it filled the gap without providing any nocturnal fireworks.

The following morning, we checked out and drove to Mold to visit Noel and Gay. Having just returned from church, they welcomed us in with coffee before Noel took me up a mountain to show me the source of their tap water: a cattle trough. No Brita filter required. We then nosed around the church and village school, more interesting than it sounds, honestly, before heading back to collect Nan.

Of course, SatNav decided to reroute us across the mountains in true “shortcut” fashion. Lesson learned: phones cannot be trusted in the Welsh hills, especially in winter. We picked up Nan and swung by Doreen’s in Caergwrle to inspect her freshly decorated house. She and her nephew Stephen were just sitting down to Sunday lunch when we arrived (our timing impeccable as always). They graciously delayed their roast, gave us the grand tour, and probably microwaved the lot once we left.

Back home in Harborough, we dropped Nan off so she could update Josie on the telephone with her professional critique of the decorating. Sue and I, meanwhile, collapsed gratefully on the sofa, our Welsh odyssey complete.

Meanwhile, Sarah enjoyed a surprise trip to Scotland, courtesy of Lee. He revealed the destination en route (which is either very romantic or a kidnapping, depending on your perspective). They took in the Edinburgh Fringe, the Zoo, and returned laden with cheese, because nothing says “holiday souvenir” like a fridge full of dairy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jamie, on the other hand, continues to appear only fleetingly, usually to deposit laundry or raid the fridge. He’s independent in every sense, apart from his relationship with washing machines. His Facebook updates keep us vaguely informed of his exploits, though we hear he’s now plotting a jaunt to Gran Canaria. I’m already bracing for the inevitable airport taxi request. His romance with Harley has run its course, and he’s on the lookout for the next chapter. Whoever joins the family next will certainly have quite the baptism of fire.

 

 

 

 

 

Birthday Bash: On the 23rd, we gathered the family to celebrate Sue’s birthday with a grand Curry Night. I took on the challenge of making three curries: Chicken Swahili, Chicken Korma, and a delightful vegetable curry. To top it all off, I baked a rather ‘girlie’ iced Victoria sponge cake adorned with a princess in a tower. Despite her claims of not having had a birthday cake in ages, Sue hadn’t forgotten the art of blowing out a truly impressive number of candles. Who knew she could still muster such puff power? The celebration was a resounding success, with plenty of laughs, love, and perhaps a little too much curry, perfect for a birthday bash!