6th August 2018

Shortly after writing the last blog, our Mediterranean-style summer rather annoyingly drew to a close. On 27th July, Charlotte, Lucas and Ellis arrived to sample the delights of Harborough by the Sea and cool off afterwards in the pool at Willow Bank, before rounding off the day with a family BBQ.

On 28th July, Mia came to stay for a few days while Sarah and Lee attended the annual fireworks competition at Stanford Hall, a firm fixture in their calendar. Ironically, that turned out to be the last properly hot day of the summer. The very next day, Market Harborough experienced its first rainfall in two months. It didn’t amount to much, unlike several unfortunate parts of the country that endured flash flooding, but it was enough to coax our scorched brown lawn back into life (hurray… though the mower didn’t quite share my enthusiasm).

On the 31st of July, Ellis celebrated his 8th birthday. In the build-up to the big day, on the 25th, Sue and I took him to McDonald’s for his beloved Happy Meal. Come the birthday itself, Sue, Charlotte, Lucas and the birthday boy headed off to Gulliver’s Kingdom in Matlock. As Charlotte was unable to accompany the boys on the rides, Sue gamely stepped in, rolling back the years with admirable determination, the occasional squeal, and a rather thorough soaking. She survived, and even claims to have enjoyed the whole experience! Parachute lessons for her 65th, perhaps?

As well as our regular trips to the Silver Screen at the Odeon, Sue has also started taking Lucas and Ellis to the Kids’ Cinema on Thursdays while the schools are closed. She always comes back with glowing reviews of whatever she’s seen, clearly suggesting I’m missing out on a cultural treat, but I’m not falling for that one!

On the 10th of August, I had my second eye injection at the Royal in Leicester. I was in and out of the hospital within half an hour, and this time there was no pain or dark patches in my vision. Even better, the following day I noticed a distinct improvement in my sight.

It has become something of a tradition for me to visit Caergwrle Castle on my mother’s birthday (16th June), as her ashes were scattered there and her commemorative bench sits nearby. This year, we were in Canada on the day itself, and afterwards, we were caught up with hospital visits and helping Charlotte with the boys, so the pilgrimage had to be postponed. On 13th August, Sue, Charlotte, the boys and I finally made the trip, staying overnight at the nearby Trevor Arms. Instead of climbing up to the castle for our picnic, we stayed by the bench this year, Charlotte sensibly pointing out that steep slopes and picnics are not an ideal combination for her back.

We managed to visit Doreen and Aunty Josie for a catch-up on family news before taking a short walk around Maes Paes Park and then settling into our accommodation for the night. On the return journey, we broke the trip with a stop at Alyn Park in Wrexham, followed by a visit to the British Ironwork Centre near Oswestry. It’s a real hidden gem and deserves far more than the brief look we managed. The boys were delighted with a free tub of ice cream, while the rest of us marvelled at the superb sculptures spread out across acres of grounds. Such a shame we couldn’t explore it all properly, but at least it gives us the perfect excuse to return!

Sue has continued rambling happily around the Leicestershire countryside with her U3A group, but unfortunately, on a walk from Gumley on the 16th, she took a nasty tumble when her laces caught in her boot hooks. She looked very shaken when she returned home and needed a couple of hours’ rest in bed to recover, although she remained stiff and sore for several days afterwards.

On 17th and 18th August, we had Sarah, Lee and Mia to stay. To mark their wedding anniversary, Sarah and Lee enjoyed a day out in London, ending with a performance of The Lion King, a far more glamorous evening than anything we could have offered locally.

By coincidence, while Sue was taking her tumble, I was busy transporting Parky (the pigeon) to Charlotte’s, as she was kindly taking over pigeon duty while Sue and I headed off to Devon to see Sue’s sister with Ellis and Lucas the following day. As fate would have it, while carrying Parky down the steps in the back garden, Charlotte managed to tread on my trailing bootlace, sending me into an undignified crash dive, pigeon still in hand! Happily, both Parky and I escaped without injury, but really… what are the odds?

On 19th August, Sue and I collected Lucas and Ellis from Rothwell before heading down to Buckfastleigh in Devon, where Pip and Paul live. We broke the journey with a picnic and a stroll along Clevedon Pier, a welcome leg-stretch before tackling the rest of the drive.

As expected, the boys were enchanted by their garden. It tumbles steeply downhill, laced with a maze of secretive paths winding through plants and quirky features, a new discovery seemingly around every corner. It wasn’t until the final day that we stumbled across the elusive fourth pond, hidden away as if it were a prize in a treasure hunt. In recent years, Pip and Paul have opened their garden to the public, though this year their extensive globetrotting has prevented them from “getting it up to standard”. Personally, I couldn’t find a single weed, though perhaps I wasn’t looking hard enough.

The following morning after our arrival, with breakfast scoffed, it was decided that the beach deserved a visit, so under an ‘iffy’ sky, we set off for Bigbury-on-Sea. Our route along narrow, and then increasingly tighter, country lanes was less than ideal. Progress was first halted by a juggernaut attempting to negotiate a road barely wide enough for a wheelbarrow, let alone forty tonnes of articulated stubbornness. The only way through was for the oncoming stream of holidaymakers to display heroic levels of patience, reversing into gateways and byways to allow the so-called professional driver to thunder onwards to his deadline. Fortunately, holiday spirit prevailed, and the usual soundtrack of harsh words and road-rage-induced bloodshed was replaced with surprisingly good humour.

Relief was, however, short-lived. Within a mile, we encountered yet another clown in command of an articulated lorry, attempting to assert his dominance over us lesser-wheeled mortals. Once again, the sensible gave way, the insensible pressed on, and eventually we all shuffled forward. As I passed, I silently crossed my fingers that another of these multi-wheeled donkeys was heading towards him, preferably not too far away.

The nearer we came to the coast, the gloomier the skies grew, until the last few miles were cloaked in fog and sea mist. Yet, on arriving and parking above the beach, the murk retreated obligingly offshore, drifting over the headland and distant beaches but leaving ours blessedly clear. (The hazy sun, it seems, does shine on the righteous.) We spent the next three hours happily engaged in traditional seaside pursuits and a picnic, the morning’s frustrations soon forgotten.

Bigbury-on-Sea is a popular spot, with several watersports outlets ready to tempt holidaymakers eager to hurl themselves into the Atlantic waves. Not for me these days, far too chilly! It was striking that almost every adult and child venturing into the sea was kitted out in a full wetsuit. How times have changed!

As a child, I would spend entire days splashing about in the sea, wearing nothing more than swimming trunks. Yes, I got cold, sometimes very cold, but it never seemed to matter. I was having too much fun, and the holidays always ended far too soon to waste time worrying about goosebumps.

We returned to Buckfastleigh without delay, taking a different route, a pox on all lorry drivers!

The following day, Paul downed his paintbrush (the house exterior now several shades smarter) and joined us for a trip to Cox Tor on Dartmoor. The contrast with the previous day could not have been greater: the sun had well and truly put his hat on and come out to play. It was hot, properly hot. Dartmoor’s landscape is famously bleak yet beautiful, and on such a glorious day, it was both at its best and most unforgiving.

When we arrived at the car park at the foot of the tor, we were a little disappointed not to find the Dartmoor ponies we’d been promised. However, after a short, sweaty climb to the summit, there they were, grazing as if they owned the place (which, in fairness, they do). Wonderfully placid, they barely flicked an ear at the growing number of walkers eager to stroke, scratch and even cuddle them.

We enjoyed a picnic lunch beside a picturesque bridge on the moor. Afterwards, we amused ourselves by building a dam across the torrent, one that even Isambard himself might have nodded at with approval. It was great fun and a genuine team effort!

Further along, we came across yet another picture-perfect bridge, this one overlooking enticing water that gurgled and splashed into deeper pools. Perched somewhat precariously on the steeply sloping bank in our fold-up chairs (all the flat spots having long since been claimed by those who had clearly set up camp for the day), we watched the boys take to the water, Ellis bravely stripping down to his underwear before plunging in.

After a while, Pip and Paul departed for Ashburton, where Paul had an appointment at the dentist. He’d broken a tooth and was due to have it removed. Not, unsurprisingly, an outing he was particularly looking forward to!

We returned to Buckfastleigh with a brief stop at, yes, yet another bridge, where the boys happily paddled and played before we carried on our way.

Our final day in Buckfastleigh proved to be a busy one. In the morning, we strolled just a few hundred metres down the road to the Butterfly and Otter Sanctuary. It was a fascinating place, with butterflies constantly emerging and fluttering about like confetti on the breeze. The real highlight, though, was feeding time with the otters, a genuine delight. The keeper leading the session was superb: knowledgeable, engaging, and entertaining in equal measure, which made the whole experience even more memorable.

After lunch back at the house, we walked the boys down to the Abbey, which is celebrating its millennium year, though it’s always a stunning place to visit. The rebuilt Abbey offers a glimpse of what the original, destroyed by Henry VIII, might have looked like. We returned briefly to the house before setting off for some geocaching on the hill, on the grounds of a derelict church. We managed to locate one geocache but failed rather spectacularly on another.

That evening, around 8 pm, Pip and Paul led us back up the hill to a lane beside the graveyard of the church we had visited earlier. After climbing nearly 200 steps along a narrow, dimly lit path, we glimpsed the first of our quarry, horseshoe bats flitting seemingly at random overhead. Gradually, more and more appeared, emerging from the gloom. It was a perfect spot for bat-watching: a lonely hilltop, next to a graveyard, beside a derelict church, suitably spooky, wouldn’t you agree?

After a while, we realised we weren’t entirely alone. Another couple had joined us, standing at a five-bar gate into a field, quietly observing the Chiroptera. A curious Devonian pastime, perhaps? We lingered with them in the gathering dusk until they quietly departed. I couldn’t help but notice that, oddly, they seemed not to cast a shadow, hmmm, I wonder…?

The next morning, after an early breakfast, we set off to return to Leicestershire. We thanked Pip and Paul for looking after us so well and wished them every success on their upcoming adventure to South Africa at the end of September. The journey home was uneventful, and just three and a half hours later, we were back to cooking, washing up, and the usual domestic routine.

On 25th August, Sue and Sarah travelled to Salford to visit Uncle Stan, while I tackled the tricky subject of car insurance, managing to reduce the quote by a satisfying £45. Later, I discovered that Jamie’s rabbit, whom I had been looking after while he attended a seminar at the Langham Hotel in London over the weekend, had developed diarrhoea and made an absolute mess of itself. What fun! Washing faeces off a rabbit was certainly a first for me. Thankfully, the creature remained sensibly still throughout the process, but I can safely say it will be the last time I find myself in that particular situation.

Jamie has had an offer on his apartment, and it looks as if he and Ashton may be in their own house by Christmas. I wonder if the rabbit will get a choice of toilets.

Willow Bank is suitably alarmed, with sensors in various locations both inside and out, including cameras. If triggered, the system doesn’t just call me, it also sends a text and an email with a photograph. The camera that triggered the alarm records a video of the event and stores it safely. This is very useful, as I can also check remotely what is happening and, if it turns out to be a false alarm (as occasionally happens), reset the system from my phone or tablet. While we were in Wales, the alarm went off at 12:13 am, and a rather spooky video was recorded.  Small bright orbs began to float around the kitchen, eventually building to a crescendo and then disappearing. I can’t explain it, and on returning home a few days later, there was absolutely nothing out of place.

A Reminiscence: A couple of weeks ago, I shared this story with a friend during a walk with Mia. It happened quite a long time ago, back when I was a young teacher. My friend found it fascinating, and I hope you will too.

I was teaching at a primary school in Belgrave, Leicester, when the Headteacher received a call from County Hall asking if I could be released for a week to support an activity trip between two county schools. He agreed and then informed me.

The trip was organised between a school in Market Bosworth and one serving RAF Cottesmore, involving a week-long adventure on motor cruisers on the Norfolk Broads. Unfortunately, the original organiser promptly died of a heart attack, a detail that will become less surprising as you read on. County Hall was keen for the trip to go ahead and, having trawled their records, discovered I had a sailing qualification. Lucky me. I agreed to join the trip, provided Sue could come too. Her Headteacher agreed, and in those days, you didn’t say no to County Hall.

Before the trip, I visited both schools to meet the staff and children. One of the teachers at Cottesmore had previously worked at Market Bosworth, an important detail later. The accompanying adults were: the Deputy Head and cook from Market Bosworth, the landlady from a local pub, and the Cottesmore teacher I just mentioned. A motley crew, indeed. Thirty children were divided across three motor cruisers, each with a sailing dinghy to be towed behind. The itinerary was already planned, so my role initially seemed straightforward: act as leader. The Deputy and Landlady crewed a boat with Bosworth children, the Cottesmore teacher and cook crewed one with a mix, and Sue and I crewed the final boat with Cottesmore children.

The children travelled to the Broads by train with staff, while the Cottesmore teacher and I drove in a van loaded with everyone’s luggage. A smooth start.

The boat company gave each captain a one-hour practical lesson on steering the cruisers, as ours were the largest allowed on the river system. Since I was “experienced,” I was excused and sat watching the others struggle. It quickly became clear they couldn’t tow a sailing dinghy behind their boats, so it was decided I should tow all three. Luckily, my cruiser had only just been delivered and hadn’t yet been restricted to the mandatory 6 mph, so it was capable of towing three. Lucky me again.

Before we set off, I discovered I was the only one able to read the charts, making me the permanent lead boat. Later, during our lunch stop, I found it mildly amusing that the other two captains, despite repeated attempts, couldn’t moor their boats. After watching them struggle for half an hour, I eventually jumped on board one as it passed by, moored it, then ran back down the riverbank to do the same for the other. This became the pattern for most of the entire week: about fifteen minutes before each stop, I would open the engine, break the speed limit, moor my own boat, run downriver, jump on the next boat, moor it, and repeat for the third.

On the first evening, I was a little concerned about the sleeping arrangements on the boats, particularly the one crewed by the cook and the teacher. Quietly, I had a word with the gentleman and discovered that during his time at Bosworth School, he had had an affair with the cook, and her daughter had been in his class. Such behaviour was heavily frowned upon in education circles, and County Hall had transferred him to Cottesmore. This explained the link between the two schools and the continuation of the affair. Who was I to judge, I thought. Later in the week, as I sat alone in the cockpit after our evening meal, admirably prepared by Sue, the teacher approached and asked if he could sleep on our boat. It turned out he had had a row with the cook and she had ejected him from their vessel. Unsympathetically, I refused and sent him on his way. This incident would have repercussions for all of us at the end of the trip.

One afternoon, while all three cruisers were moored at a chandlery taking on fuel and water, I was sitting supervising my cruiser being filled when a large traditional sailing yacht appeared, tacking vigorously upstream. To my horror, it failed to change tack in time and rammed its bow straight into the side of our boat, its protruding pole becoming stuck. After many apologies from the skipper, exchanging hire details, and contacting the cruise company, we eventually managed to separate the vessels. The next couple of hours were spent waiting for an engineer from the chandlers to repair the hole with fibreglass. He thoughtfully left me some spare material, saying, “Just in case.” I would need it a few days later.

As already mentioned, I was towing three sailing dinghies behind my cruiser. The Broads’ rivers meander sharply across the flat landscape, and manoeuvring a 12-berth cruiser around these bends is tricky enough; towing three dinghies made my boat effectively twice the length. One afternoon, the children ran to the cockpit to warn me that the last dinghy was sinking. On inspection, I discovered that the submerged posts just off the bank on the last bend I had rounded had ripped a hole in its hull. Thank you, Mr Chandler. An hour later, I had pulled the craft out of the river, patched the hole, and we were back underway.

The children on my boat were a hand-picked bunch of RAF reprobates. They had been everywhere, seen everything, and had little self-control. In hindsight, they turned out to be the least of my problems, apart from one incident. On a gloriously warm Bank Holiday weekend, as we approached Great Yarmouth Marina, the rivers were busy with craft. Our flotilla caused a minor traffic jam as we moved along in crocodile formation. Using my rear-view mirror, I noticed a small speedboat with four teenagers attempting to overtake. They eventually squeezed past the other two cruisers, then began weaving dangerously behind my mini-fleet. Plenty of arm-waving ensued, but I thought it was mere youthful exuberance until we entered the marina.

Now with space, at full throttle, the speedboat shot alongside, its occupants gesturing rudely, and cut directly under my bow. I slammed the engine into full reverse and brought the boat to a stop within a few metres. The speedboat disappeared among the other vessels. It was then that I spotted the bow of the cruiser behind, steered by the landlady, rise high in the water on full throttle, as she bore down on me! She had clearly remembered my lessons on stopping quickly, by engaging hard reverse, but in a panic, had shoved the throttle the wrong way. In slow motion, I watched in horror as she realised the consequences: sinking three dinghies and slicing the back end off my cruiser. Miraculously, at the last moment, she swerved violently, ploughing into the marina quay, scattering a packed audience of Bank Holiday tourists. There was applause from several hundred onlookers. The Harbour Master arrived, and the cruiser’s bow, damaged but above the waterline, was soon pushed back into the water. Despite my assurances that insurance would cover the repair, the embarrassed landlady insisted on paying for the damage herself.  It was fixed by yet another chandler that afternoon while we spent the rest of the day on the beach.

Later, I discovered the reason the offending speedboat had been weaving so erratically and had cut in front of us: my little cherubs from Cottesmore had emptied the onboard refrigerator of eggs, tomatoes, and other items, gleefully pelting the teenagers from the back of our craft. Hilarious, but it left us short on breakfast supplies for the rest of the week.

I also had one very worrying incident. One night, anchored in the middle of a large Broad rather than alongside the river usual bank, one of the girls began to have severe difficulty in breathing after our afternoon sailing session had finished. She had no history of asthma, but this was clearly an attack. I sat with her on the back of the boat, talking her through it, while trying to remain calm myself. This was before mobile phones, and it was a half-hour sail to the shore, and then some distance to the nearest occupied building and a phone. It was a terrifying hour before her breathing returned to normal. She eventually fell asleep, while I spent the night worrying about what could have happened and what could still. The following morning, I borrowed a spare inhaler from a child on one of the other cruisers, and slept much more easily the rest of the trip.

Eventually, the week drew to a close, but it was not the end of the drama. We successfully returned the cruisers to the company, though a little worse for wear. All that remained was the return journey to Leicester. It had been arranged that I would travel by train, while the cook would accompany the teacher in the van with the luggage.

As Sue, the staff, and I stood on the platform with the children, an argument erupted between the illicit lovers. It was just as the train pulled into the station that I saw the cook grab something from the teacher and fling it across the tracks before running off. As we hurried the children onto the waiting train, the teacher tried to inform me that before she had run off, she had also thrown the van keys over the track. Brilliant! Resigned, I told Sue to somehow get the children safely back to Leicester while I would stay behind and retrieve the keys. Thinking this was not going to look good to the parents, and thankful I wasn’t employed at either school.

When the train departed, we first searched the station vicinity for any sign of her, without success. It was then that l learned that the argument had been over an old boyfriend who lived nearby. She had apparently gone off with him on the night when he asked to sleep on our cruiser. 

Next, we crossed the tracks and, with the station master, who couldn’t hide his smile, searched for the keys. No luck. As expected, the van was locked, so we took a short walk to the local police station nearby, only to find it frustratingly closed. Using a phone by its door, we were assured that a constable would arrive shortly. And one did. After listening to our tale, with a growing smile on his face, he drove us back to the train station, opened the van, and started the engine. The constable recognised the lover of the cook from the description by the teacher and asked what we wished to do about the situation. My fellow professional suggested leaving things as they were, but I disagreed. I pointed out that while it looked as though she may have thrown the keys, we could not find them, and she might still have them,  and we have the problem of returning a hire van. Taking the keys could constitute theft. The constable agreed with me and promised he would set things in motion to apprehend her and establish the whereabouts of the keys.

We drove back to Leicester in silence, and luckily met the train before it arrived and handed over the luggage to excited parents. As far as I know, the parents remained blissfully unaware (unless, of course, the little ones talked on the way home).

I later learned that the constable visited the lover, who himself was rather disgruntled. Later in the day, he returned home from work to find his car had disappeared and was hugely relieved when the police appeared, as he had intended to report it stolen. The cook was stopped by a patrol car in Peterborough on her way home to Bosworth and arrested. It was while on a course a few years later that I learned the cook and teacher had married.

You really couldn’t make this up, could you?