29th November 2019

As 2019 draws to a close and the days and nights grow increasingly darker and colder, a certain dispiritedness seeps into the bones. Not even Christmas or a General Election can banish the reluctance to engage in physical activity, and the temptation to do nothing becomes ever stronger. I have quite a few years now under the bonnet (don’t ask how many), it takes real effort to crank the engine into life and silence the devil on my shoulder, whispering dissenting phrases into an ever more receptive ear.

I have recollections of sprinting out of many a winter changing room, dressed only in shorts, shirt, socks, and boots, onto a sodden, muddy rugby pitch, straight into the teeth of a bitingly fierce north wind, and loving every second of it. Did I truly feel that alive, or was I simply foolish enough to believe that countless bruises, cuts, and even broken bones were worth the price? I have my memories, and mostly, they are good ones, but sometimes, when it’s cold, wet, and miserable, I just want to immerse myself in them in front of a warm wood burner. Not too much to ask, is it?

On 11th November, I accompanied Jamie to the Nationwide Building Society to discuss his takeover of the mortgage now that he and Ashton have parted ways. I was there as a guarantor in the unlikely event that it became necessary to secure the loan. I was very impressed with how Jamie navigated the process; it was far from straightforward. He had all the necessary paperwork to hand, knew the answers to every question, and, in turn, asked all the right questions himself. A very professional performance, and I felt quite proud of him. This was not the same little boy whose world once fell apart when he left his beloved cuddly seal on a plane returning from holiday!

Jamie had booked the week off work. Originally, we had considered another road trip; Singapore and Israel had been discussed, but sorting out his finances took priority. Instead, after his meeting, he travelled down to London for a few days to focus on his FX Learning business, attending meetings and training sessions. He returned on the 14th, and together, we drove to March Chapel in Lincolnshire, checking into the Duckthorpe Grange B&B. I chose this accommodation because it was close to the focus of our trip: the grey seals at Donna Nook Nature Reserve. Every November and December, grey seals gather along the Donna Nook coastline to give birth near the dunes, creating a spectacular wildlife event that draws visitors from across the UK. Hopefully, this trip would soothe the trauma of losing that little cuddly seal all those years ago!

The weather had been atrocious all week. On the morning of our departure, Sue had attempted to drive to the cinema in Kettering but had to turn back due to flooded roads, an ominous sign for our journey. We set off around 1 pm and arrived in the dark that evening, having splashed our way through more flooded roads than I could count. I hadn’t realised my little Fiesta could swim so well!

Soon after checking in, we headed to the White Horse Inn in the village. After a hearty meal of steak and kidney pudding with chips, we settled down to watch England thrash Montenegro 7–0 in the bar, accompanied by just a few locals. Strangely, by the time the match ended, only the landlord and the two of us remained; the pub was otherwise empty. Perhaps football isn’t a passion in this part of Lincolnshire.

After a rather sophisticated breakfast (the best way I can describe it), we made the short drive to Donna Nook.

At this time of year, the East Coast is usually bitterly cold, and today was no exception, though, thankfully, it wasn’t raining. We parked up alongside just half a dozen other cars. On good weather days and weekends, they expect around 4,000 visitors daily, but today, it seemed we had beaten the crowds.

After a brief walk over the dunes, we reached the low-fenced barrier separating the humans from the seals. The seals, utterly nonchalant about their two-legged observers, lay sprawled across the sand, some right up against the flimsy wooden and wire railing, offering easy and adorable photo opportunities.

Seals, pups and bulls lay among the sand and marram grass as far as the eye could see. We walked the full length of the observation area, taking photos and discussing the commotion in front of us. Huge bulls engaged in charging and fighting, small white pups awkwardly exploring their surroundings and mothers sunbathing, listlessly keeping an eye on their little blubbery treasures. All the time, a caterwaul of noise, with the most recognisable being, ‘MUM’ (I am hungry, feed me!!!!)

The saddest sight was a poor pup lying next to its mother, eyes wide open and obviously dead. The mother stared at us with doleful eyes, enough to break your heart. Nature is raw and cruel at times.

In another incident, a gorgeous white pup lying alongside its mum is the target of another distraught mother, desperate after the loss of her own and intent on seal-napping. The terrified youngster did the sensible thing and flopped desperately out of the way up a small dune as the two matriarchs fought ferociously. Thankfully, it was a rightful outcome, and the insurgent flopped a little way off, no doubt waiting for another occasion.

Several huge bulls wallowing in a mud pool grabbed our attention when they suddenly roared and, rising to their full height, charged into each other, biting viciously wherever they could get purchase with their teeth. Mothers and pups alike scattered as tonnes of testosterone-filled bulls slipped, slithered and charged into each other, intent on damage and domination, remarkably fast for their size and frighteningly dangerous for those caught nearby. Then, as soon as it began, it ended. No whistle, no yellow or red cards, what was that all about?

Thoroughly frozen, we headed back to the warmth of the car and drove to Mablethorpe. The website describes it as “a traditional seaside holiday resort on the Lincolnshire Coast with Blue Flag award-winning sandy beaches. Safe and friendly, Mablethorpe is perfect for a family holiday and just as popular with more mature visitors during term time.” We have visited the resort as a family during the summer, and the best I can say is that it lacks character but does have a beach. In November, however, the last thing you want to do is go to the beach!

We sat in a seafront café, sipping hot chocolate, watching the waves crash onto the shore, and chatting at length about the sights and sounds of the Donna Nook grey seals. Once warmed, we ventured out for a walk through the town centre before stopping to play a couple of games of ten-pin bowling in one of the arcades. I lost both games; I was robbed!

It was dark by the time we returned to Duckthorpe Grange. We dined again at the White Horse, though ordering the mixed grill proved to be a definite mistake, not due to the quality or presentation but purely because of the sheer quantity of food. The menu had stated, “Not for the fainthearted,” and we really should have paid attention. I could only manage half, though Jamie (bless him) nearly finished his, suffering the consequences for the rest of the evening. We discovered that while the locals were not particularly keen on football, they did appreciate darts. It must have been darts night, as everyone seemed to be either playing or watching a match on one of the two TVs. With our bloated stomachs, we left them to it.

The drive back to Harborough was much quicker and, thankfully, drier. In daylight, it was easy to see why large parts of the country were under a flood warning. Much of the low-lying ground we passed had transformed into a series of lakes, with flocks of birds taking full advantage of the newly submerged landscape. It was a deceptively picturesque sight, though I suspect any burrowing creatures would have had a very different opinion.

Determined to sort out my knee and foot, I have been religiously doing my exercises each morning, followed by an hour or more on my mountain bike along the paths and lanes of Leicestershire. My mobility has improved greatly, particularly in my knee, which now aches very little, though I remain wary of testing it too severely. My foot, however, still has a tendency to tip me over to the right and, irritatingly, chooses random moments to remind me of its presence with painful spasms. On the bright side, I can now walk for at least three hours without too much discomfort for the rest of the day. Thankfully, I can also sleep through the night without being woken by a rebellious ligament or bone seeking an alternative position.

Late on 27th November, I drove up to Manchester with the family. The weather was foul, rain all the way and heavy traffic. Charlotte and Jamie joined Sue and me in Harborough, and we picked up Sarah in Newbold Verdon en route north. We were heading to Uncle Stanley’s funeral and planned to meet up with Sue’s sister, Philippa, her husband, Paul, and their son, Simon. We had booked an apartment in Whitefield, chosen for its proximity to the crematorium. Arriving at 9:30 pm in the dark and pouring rain, we were pleasantly surprised to find our accommodation, Apartment No.1, The Old Red King Pub, was very comfortable. The former public house had been converted into separate apartments, and ours was plush and a welcome relief after a long, tiresome journey.

Philippa and Paul arrived around the same time, having travelled up from Devon to stay with Simon, who lived nearby. Their journey had taken six hours! As the females in the family explored our temporary nest, Jamie and I braved the rain and crossed the road to a local pub for some refreshment and the company of the locals.

It rained all night and was still pouring when we woke at 8 am. The weather forecast was dismal as we ate our continental breakfast in the well-equipped and modern kitchen. We left the apartment at 11 am and drove through heavy Manchester traffic to the crematorium. Set in a large park surrounded by trees and gravestones, most adorned with fresh flowers, it looked particularly bleak and grey under the leaden skies, intent on drenching us further. Perhaps a fitting atmosphere for a funeral.

We had originally planned to spend some time in a local park before the service, but that was out of the question. After a quick family vote, we opted for the Salford Art Museum. Its proximity, shelter, and free entry easily won over the alternative of shopping in a Salford mall. In the end, we did neither, finding no parking spaces outside the museum, Sue insisted we return to the crematorium and wait there until either we drowned or the service began.

The service took place at 1 pm with around twenty mourners in attendance. Despite the miserable weather, Stanley was given a good send-off. The arrangements had been handled by one of his old neighbours and good friend, Hilary Blood. None of us had ever heard Stanley mention Hilary, but she had clearly been a very good and caring friend. She organised the service and wake with great sympathy for his final wishes. Stanley was a very private person, and I doubt anyone in the congregation knew his full story. However, through the minister’s eulogy, a few words from me, and Hilary’s reflections, we all learned a little more about Sue and Philippa’s uncle.

After an appropriately chosen Frank Sinatra rendition of “My Way,” we reconvened a short drive away at a local pub. Warm drinks and a small buffet lunch were provided, courtesy of Stanley’s funeral plan. We chatted and got to know some of the other mourners, but with many more wet miles ahead of us that day, we didn’t stay long. As we prepared to leave, Sue and Philippa swapped Christmas presents in the car park.

It was then that Jamie noticed one of my car tyres was noticeably deflated. With the drizzle falling, Paul kindly lent me his tyre pump (sparing me the hassle of emptying the boot to access mine). He and I took turns on the foot pump while the younger family members observed with mild amusement. With the tyre reinflated, we said our final goodbyes and set off in separate directions.

The return journey to Harborough was once again plagued by rain and heavy traffic, all the way home. But we made it safely, yet another testament to years of experience driving with young children in the back seats. Today, those children were still in the back, now considerably older and far more sceptical (and vocal) about their father’s driving skills. But they’re still here, enough said!