17th April 2017

At the end of March, Sarah had some holiday days to use up, so she embraced her independence and took herself off for a few days of rest in Barcelona. She visited the usual tourist attractions and had a wonderful time.

March brought some fine growing weather, so, keen as ever, I made an early start with my vegetable planting. Aware that frosts have caught me out in previous years, I decided to take the risk again, and so far, well into mid-April, it has paid off. I’ve added to my winter sowing of onions and shallots, and now have twelve varied rows of alliums thriving in the unseasonable warmth. Seven rows of early and main crop potatoes have joined the mix, although some of the main crops have recently decided to race ahead, poking through the soil before their earlier counterparts.

I’ve started work in the greenhouse. The propagator brought on my tomatoes and aubergines, soon to be joined by courgettes, squash, and pumpkins. Sweetcorn has also appeared in their various pots, though I had to resow lettuce and cucumber after the first attempts failed to germinate.

At home, I’ve sown short rows of spring onions, peas, and leeks in the raised beds. So far, I’ve mowed the lawns three times! I hate to mention it, but the tulips I planted in the wall bed late in autumn, inedible except to badgers, look magnificent. We’ve spotted muntjac, a white egret, kingfishers, red kites, and buzzards around the house, but thankfully no badgers yet. Perhaps they’ve been culled?

On the 15th of March, I met John in the wilds of Rutland for one of our rambles. He was given a route from a friend, and we followed it using a paper OS map. The scale wasn’t great, and when I tried to use my GPS, the technology let me down; I hadn’t charged the batteries. As usual, we put the world to rights and rounded off the day with a lovely pub meal.

The following day, Jim Hankers and I were picked up at 9 am by Jeremy Brown, and we set off for a rendezvous in Bala with the rest of our rugby chums, Jim Crawford, Paul Bissell, and Sean Perry. We arrived first and passed the time in a small café before moving to one of the local pubs for more suitable refreshments. When the others arrived, we headed to another pub for lunch before continuing our journey for a weekend of rock music in Pwllheli.

Earlier in the year, I won a competition, the prize being for six people to attend a Rock Weekend with accommodation. After checking into the Haven Holiday Camp, we found our beds; a six-berth mobile home, which was perfect.

The venue had two concert halls, each hosting a wide selection of bands, mostly from the 70s, performing from mid-afternoon until well past midnight. Many of the acts were well known to us: Wishbone Ash, Curved Air, Barclay James Harvest, and Strawbs, to name a few. Some others weren’t quite to our taste but clearly had a dedicated following.

We made sure to fill the daytime non-concert moments with suitably adventurous activities. One morning, we braved a brisk coastal walk, the kind that leaves your cheeks glowing and your hair resembling a wind-blown haystack. On another day, we drove to the base of Mount Snowdon and took the train nearly to the summit. Conditions at the very top were too dangerous, and the train stopped short of the terminus. Sadly, our destination was less “breathtaking view” and more “arctic survival challenge.” Up in the clouds, a howling gale did its best to detach any unprotected extremities, while the sleet felt like nature’s attempt at sandblasting. We didn’t linger. Base camp and the cosy refuge of our mobile home never looked so inviting.

Another afternoon, we opted for less hazardous entertainment, settling in to watch back-to-back Six Nations matches. This marathon was, of course, accompanied by vast quantities of cheese, crackers, Doritos, and ale, a well-balanced diet by our standards.

On Sunday, we made our way back to Harborough, but not before tidying up the remnants of three days of hard rocking, an impressive collection of snack wrappers, empty bottles, and questionable decisions.

Once home, it was an early night for Jim Hankers and me, as we had a 7 am flight to Paphos the following morning. Jim and Bridget have long dreamed of moving to Cyprus, and with Jim nearing full retirement and Bridget increasingly fed up with work, they were getting serious about the idea. Jim was eager to view some properties they’d found online, but with Bridget unable to take time off from work, I nobly stepped in as his proxy wife. The trip turned out to be far more adventurous than anticipated.

Things got off to a rocky start when Jim blazed through two-speed cameras on the motorway, seemingly unaware that the national speed limit still applies at 3:30 am. After parking, he set off at a sprint towards the terminal, leaving me huffing and puffing in his wake. I managed to close the gap to about 10 metres at the boarding pass check-in desks, just in time to witness him abruptly switch queues and accidentally bulldoze an unsuspecting woman. Somehow, oblivious to the chaos, Jim sailed through the barrier while the unfortunate woman’s husband lodged loud and passionate objections with the airport staff.

Feigning ignorance of my companion’s antics, I presented my pass at the gate, only to have it rejected. On the second attempt, I was informed I had already gone through. It was at this point that I remembered that I, the designated organiser, had booked the flights, car hire, and hotel, and had printed two sets of all essential documents. One set was for me; the other, as a precaution, was usually entrusted to Sue. This time, however, Jim had the spare set. In his haste, Jim had presented my boarding pass instead of his own.

I explained the situation to the gate staff, who broadcast a message for Jim to return. Unsurprisingly, he did not. I then tried calling him, only to discover that he had changed his mobile number without telling me. Instead, I managed to rouse a very confused Bridget back in Harborough.

Eventually, security and I sorted it out by scanning Jim’s boarding pass through the system and fast-tracking me through the priority lane. Unfortunately, this flagged me for an additional security search, during which I was treated to the most thorough pat-down of my life. Meanwhile, Jim was enduring his own ordeal, as his passport didn’t match his boarding pass, poetic justice, I felt.

Reunited at last, I began venting my frustration, while Jim, blissfully unaware, initially refused to believe the tale. Over breakfast at the airport café, the penny finally dropped. Jim looked decidedly uneasy, clearly reluctant to leave the safety of our table in case we crossed paths with the irate couple he’d flattened.

Thankfully, the flight passed without further drama, as did collecting the hire car. I drove to the Souli Hotel in Latchi, on the opposite side of the island, where check-in went smoothly, and we were given a mountain-view room. Jim, however, expressed a preference for the sea, and after a few room inspections and a mild negotiation, we eventually secured a more suitably scenic outlook.

The week was a whirlwind of meetings with estate agents and viewing several properties. By the end, we had become quite the experts in asking the right questions, mostly variations of, “Does it actually have title deeds, or is this one of those ‘technically still part of the Turkish invasion’ deals?” Many were swiftly rejected for this very reason. Some of the homes were stunning and ridiculously affordable, though each had its quirks, ranging from mild inconveniences to potential plotlines for a renovation disaster show. The Cypriot housing market had well and truly tanked, with most places sitting unsold for over four years. Ironically, the buyers propping things up were Russians and Chinese, though they preferred to snap up land and build from scratch.

Interestingly, every property we viewed was European-owned, presumably by people who had lost their patience waiting for that mythical “market rebound.”

Two houses stood out. One, just outside Polis, was ready to move in immediately. In Cyprus, the entire contents of the house, furniture, white goods, and the occasional misplaced sock, all come with the sale. The other property, just a stone’s throw from the beach, had a pool. I was rather taken with this one. It was blissfully quiet, perfect for their two dogs, and crucially, within waddling distance of a bar and restaurant. Better still, the main town of Polis was only a short walk away, ensuring civilisation (and more bars) were never too far.

The hotel food was excellent, with oversized portions and wallet-friendly prices. The village red wine was dangerously drinkable, which we took full advantage of.

Not all our time was consumed by property hunting; we managed to sprinkle in some holiday-like activities. One evening, we dined with some of Jim’s friends who had a picturesque mountain retreat. We later visited them for Sunday lunch, which, to our surprise, turned out to be cheese and crackers. Fortunately, the view from their little Cypriot perch was spectacular enough to forgive the light fare.

One morning, in a fit of misguided athleticism, we played tennis at the hotel. I won the only set, but any joy was short-lived after I enthusiastically sprinted for a drop shot (which didn’t even clear the net) and promptly twanged my hamstring. It was a painful reminder that my glory days on the court were very much behind me.

Later in the week, we hired bikes and cycled down the coast, casually re-evaluating a few properties we had seen earlier. Just as we were returning the bikes, Jim discovered he had a flat tyre and promptly launched into a very public protest at the rental shop. His performance earned him an equally theatrical refund from the not-so-amused owner.

All in all, it was a week well spent, even if I did leave with a limp and Jim narrowly avoided getting us banned from local businesses.

During the week, we managed to catch both of England’s soccer matches against Germany and Lithuania, as well as Leicester Tigers v Saracens, all thanks to the hotel’s (highly suspect and likely illegal) satellite TV. The rugby evening, however, came with a bonus round of entertainment.

After the match, we found ourselves roped into helping an elderly couple celebrate their husband’s 77th birthday. His wife, clearly misjudging the situation, retired to bed at a reasonable hour, leaving her now rather well-lubricated husband in our questionable care.

Much, much later, after several toasts to his health (or perhaps his liver’s durability), the inevitable happened. Gravity won. He toppled off his chair with all the grace of a felled oak. With great camaraderie (and mild guilt), we scooped him up, carried him to his room, and left him sprawled across the bed, gently snoring.

Come breakfast, however, we were greeted by a slightly different sight: the birthday boy now sporting a spectacular black eye. Apparently, in the wee hours, he’d decided to brave the trip to the loo and had met a doorframe head-on.

Oops!

During the week, I took on most of the driving duties, a decision made in the interests of public safety. By day two, it had become abundantly clear that Jim’s ability to focus on Cyprus’s ever-changing, baffling speed limits was… lacking. His carefree 60 kph cruise into Polis (blissfully unaware of the alternating 30 and 50 kph zones) was the clincher. After narrowly avoiding the dreaded on-the-spot fines the local police delight in issuing to hire cars, he sensibly handed over the keys.

The return journey to the airport, however, served as Jim’s parting gift of chaos. As we approached the drop-off, I dutifully followed the arrowed signs for ‘Hire Car Return’. At this point, Jim confidently instructed me to ignore them and turn right, leading us through a barrier into a car park.

“That’s the long-term car park,” I pointed out, eyeing the massive sign that clearly indicated otherwise.

“I’ve done this before. Trust me,” he replied with unwavering conviction.

Against my better judgment, I followed orders, retrieved a ticket, and entered. Of course, it soon became apparent that it WAS the long-term car park and we needed to get out. From the comfort of the driver’s seat, I watched Jim pace the car park, searching fruitlessly for a payment machine. Upon his return (empty-handed and unimpressed), I casually mentioned the likelihood of said machine residing inside the terminal.

Many anxious minutes later, he reappeared, the ticket was paid, and we proceeded in blessed silence to the actual drop-off point. Miraculously, check-in and the flight home were uneventful, a rare feat given our track record.

Jim and Bridget have since sold their house and booked a flight for late April to investigate Latchi’s property market further. Cyprus has not yet seen the last of them.

Since my return, I’ve spent a good deal of time with Sarah, Lee, and Mia. One gloriously sunny afternoon, they hosted a BBQ for us and the Rothwells at their place in Braunstone. On another occasion, Charlotte and I made the trip, Charlotte weeded the garden while I tackled various carpentry jobs.

Sarah, it seems, has developed a taste for adventure. She recently tried paragliding and, by the sounds of it, is hooked. Talks of qualifications, solo flights, and even buying her own motor and wing are now swirling. It appears we may soon have a flying daughter on our hands.

During the Easter holidays, we’ve been keeping Lucas and Ellis entertained, giving Charlotte the chance to get on with her gardening business. The boys, of course, were buried under a mountain of schoolwork, with Ellis getting some much-needed help from Sue, while I had the pleasure of guiding Lucas through his riveting project on Internet Safety. Let’s just say, the thrill of teaching them about phishing emails had me on the edge of my seat!

On the 8th of April, I organised a day out by train to Twickenham to watch the Clash between Tigers and Bath and was joined by Jim, Jim, Sean, and Paul. It was a gloriously hot day, and until the final 10 minutes, when Bath decided to get cheeky and sneak ahead in the score line, it was a successful trip. A few cold drinks and a win would have been the perfect combination, but alas, Bath had other ideas!

On Good Friday, we had the whole family round for an evening meal of Lamb Kofta and Spicy Pasta, with Jamie bringing his girlfriend, Ashton, along for the ride. The Braunstones stayed overnight after Sarah won a competition at Gallons Ice-Cream Parlour, where the prize was a challenge to eat as much ice cream as you could in one hour. Naturally, Sarah, Jamie, Lee, and Charlotte were the chosen ones to indulge in this stomach-stretching feat, but Ashton, Ellis, and Lucas decided to tag along as well. By the end of it, they looked like they’d swallowed whole tubs of regret, though I’m sure it was worth it for the sugar high (and the inevitable sugar crash). Serves them right!

On Easter Sunday, we all piled into the car and headed to Charlotte’s for a feast fit for royalty, with a huge leg of lamb marinated in a medley of mouthwatering ingredients. It was so delicious, there wasn’t a scrap left! However, before we could dive into the Easter banquet, it was decided to stretch our legs with a walk, and ominously, we found a football pitch. A game of footy ensued, with the result being of no real importance, other than Jamie twisting his knee again and me, of course, pulling my hamstring! While we were busy torturing our bodies in the name of “sport,” Suraj was back home building a bike shelter at the side of the house. On the way back, Charlotte spotted two sections of brand-new, discarded fence panelling, perfect for a bike shelter roof. By the time the Yorkshire puddings were even graced with gravy,  both panels were repurposed as a roof and looking good!

Sue and I have managed to catch a fair number of films recently, either at the Odeon or at the local Harborough theatre. However, during the Easter break, she’s been rather absent from her usual U3A group activities, opting instead for a few coffee dates with Doreen and Lynne whenever she found the time.

We’ve also seen quite a bit of Jamie and Ashton, who’ve been popping in on Friday nights and other occasions. Jamie’s been working hard with his binary trading venture, which he’s turned into a business called Binary Destroyer. It’s got quite the following worldwide and seems to be doing rather well. I really should learn more about it; hopefully, he’ll have time to explain it to me during our upcoming flight to New Zealand!