31st October 2024

October concluded with Halloween festivities. While the celebration has Christian associations, its origins trace back to the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, when people lit bonfires and wore costumes to ward off spirits; a little smoke and some face paint seemed to do the trick. Over the centuries, these traditions blended, giving rise to the Halloween we recognise today. The practice of trick-or-treating likely began in Ireland, where food and drink were left out for wandering souls on Halloween night, a sort of spectral snack bar.

On the 31st, little Archie and Alice, accompanied by Mum and Dad, dressed up in costume and took to the streets of Newbold Verdon. They returned with bulging bags of treats, having thoroughly charmed and perhaps gently spooked their friends and neighbours.

The family also hosted a Halloween party, inviting friends to join in the fun. There were games such as “Pin the Spider on the Web” and messy dives into tubs of slime in search of spooky surprises, along with plenty of other ghoulishly delightful (and slightly squishy) activities.

Jamie and Ruth got into the festive spirit at the Birmingham Frankfurt Christmas Market, while a more sober Ellis helped raise money for the Royal British Legion.

Unfortunately for poor Harry, November brings with it a rather alarming tradition. Known as Guy Fawkes Night or Fireworks Night, the 5th of November commemorates the failure of the Gunpowder Plot of 1605, when a group of Catholic conspirators, led by Guy Fawkes, attempted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. The tradition of lighting bonfires and setting off fireworks dates back to the 17th century, originally as a celebration of the plot’s failure and a way to ward off evil spirits.

For Harry, however, the bangs and fizzes of fireworks are anything but festive; they send him into quite a tizzy! The whole family has to rally round to soothe his nerves.

On Sunday, the 3rd of November, the Newbold Verdons, Charlotte, and I revived a long-lost family tradition with a visit to Gumley Woods to collect sweet chestnuts. It was quite late in the season, and most had already fallen, but we had the pickings entirely to ourselves. After an hour and a half of ferreting under a thick carpet of leaves, we emerged with a respectable haul of tasty nuts, ready for roasting later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back at Willow Bank, Charlotte paused for a coffee before heading home, while the Newbold Verdons opted for something sweeter, making their way to Gallone’s for a round of delicious ice creams. While we’d been busy gathering chestnuts, they’d been busy dreaming of dessert!

To round off the weekend, we discovered that Sue’s passport was invalid for two of the four holidays we’ve booked for this year and next, thanks to those ever-so-helpful new rules: three months’ validity required for travel within Europe, and six months for much of the rest of the world. That alone was frustrating enough. But things got even more farcical: Europe now also insists that passports must have been issued within ten years of the departure date. Naturally, Sue’s passport managed to fall foul of this utterly baffling requirement, so a new one had to be ordered.

Thankfully, her shiny new passport arrived within five days (a small victory for online applications), but that was just the beginning. We were then treated to the tedious task of updating all the cruise lines and airlines with her new details, an exercise involving countless emails, grappling with chatbots, and enduring interminable phone queues. And just when we thought we’d cracked it, the new passport invalidated her existing ESTA, meaning another application was needed, at a cost of $21. Such European pettiness!

On the fifth of November, while the British traditionally burn effigies of Guy Fawkes to mark the foiling of a plot to destroy the seat of democracy on this island, the United States went to the ballot box and elected a man with scant regard for democratic values. I fear that the citizens of the USA, and indeed the free world, may come to regret this day for generations to come.

Just as I was out on my longest morning cycle ride of the year, that same morning, I happened upon Sue and her U3A Rambling Group as they gathered in the car park of the Black Lion pub in Foxton. I gave a quick wave and continued along the canal, knowing I had a lunch date with a bowl of soup at home, while she was looking forward to fish and chips at the pub.

Over the weekend, Jamie and Ruth dropped Nala off at Willow Bank for us to look after while they took a break in London. It was Remembrance weekend, and the Rugby Club hosted a luncheon in memory of our fellow member, Martin Dyke, followed by a charity rugby match to raise funds in his honour. Ellis and Alice were busy with their Air Cadets and Rainbow parades, both taking part in wreath-laying ceremonies. Alice had the distinction of laying the wreath for her troop.

I attended the luncheon and enjoyed catching up with former rugby mates before watching Australia beat England on the screen in the Garden Room, surrounded by old friends and fellow supporters. But by early the next morning, I began to feel unwell, cold and achy. Sue had already set off for Tenbury Wells to visit Sheila, a long-time family friend, and to meet up there with her sister and brother-in-law. In Willow Bank, Nala kept me company in the bedroom until I finally surfaced at 3:15 pm, lit a fire in the lounge, and settled down with some soup.

After taking Sheila for lunch in town, Sue returned home around 6 pm, shortly followed by Jamie and Ruth, who stayed briefly for a chat about their upcoming wedding before heading home.

On the 13th of November, feeling better, I drove through thick fog for a long-anticipated and much-rescheduled ramble with John Lee. We met at 10 am in the car park of The Old Pheasant in Glaston, Rutland. I’d planned a modest 3.5-mile route, careful not to overdo it on my ankle, especially with a series of holidays on the horizon. Suitcases, after all, don’t carry themselves! The walk would take us through the tiny village of Glaston, mostly across field paths, and back to the pub for a well-earned lunch.

Under a brightening sky, I handed John a Christmas card, offering an early explanation of why, and off we went. Heading north, we passed St Andrew’s Church and the old rectory before leaving the village behind. Our progress was soon halted at the start of a green lane, where a dense tangle of nettles and undergrowth blocked the way. Once a well-used track, the lane had clearly fallen into disuse. The old ‘cartwash’ beside it was now choked with silt, barely recognisable save for a weathered wooden sign hinting at its former purpose. Climbing over a gate into the adjoining field, we skirted the worst of it for about 100 metres before rejoining the lane where the path became clearer.

Thankfully, the rest of the walk was trouble-free. Beneath a cloudless sky, we enjoyed the warmth of the sun and indulged in a good grumble about the state of English rugby, football, and American politics. Our only companions were a pair of red kites, lazily circling above.

Back at the pub, we tucked into bangers and mash and fish and chips, comfort food at its finest. Somewhat unusually for us, we washed it all down with soft drinks instead of our usual pint of ale.

The 15th of November turned into quite an escapade, thankfully with a happy ending. During my morning bike ride through Lubenham, Foxton, Gartree and Harborough, I somehow managed to lose my mobile phone. On the way home, I stopped at Jim Hankers’ house for a coffee, and it wasn’t until afterwards that I realised the phone was missing. Assuming I’d left it at Jim’s, I quickly returned, only to find he and his wife were out walking the dog. Using my spare phone, I gave them a call, and they promised to check as soon as they got back.

Once home, I powered up my tablet and used the Life360 tracking app to locate the phone. To my dismay, I saw it speeding along the A6 towards Leicester at 62 mph. I kept an eye on its movements until it eventually stopped in a Lidl car park in Oadby. Concerned, I contacted the police non-emergency line to report the situation. They advised against attempting to recover the phone myself, explaining that the signal wouldn’t pinpoint its exact location, and I couldn’t be sure what situation I might walk into. Since the phone had been reported as lost rather than stolen, they were unable to take further action and recommended that I block the device.

I then called EE to report the phone as lost and explained that I was still tracking it. I’d already tried calling it several times with no success, but I tried once more while speaking to them. Blocking the phone would disable the tracking, so we agreed to leave it active for an hour and ring it periodically, in the hope someone might eventually answer. If that failed, the plan was to visit the EE shop in town, where they could block the handset and issue a replacement SIM card with my existing number.

Just then, the tracker updated: the phone had moved again, this time to the car park of the Health Centre in Kibworth, just five miles away. Determined to retrieve it, I decided to investigate and picked up Jim on the way for a bit of backup. When we arrived, a car was just pulling out of the car park. I rang my phone again to try to zero in on its location. As we checked the remaining vehicles, another car left, and the tracker showed the phone on the move once more.

We followed the signal to a house in the centre of Kibworth, where we finally encountered our quarry. As we pulled into the driveway, an elderly man hurriedly dashed into the house, leaving the car boot and door, and the house door wide open. I knocked and called out, explaining that I believed he had my phone. When he reappeared, he asked how I could be so sure. I showed him the tracking map on my tablet, and without another word, he disappeared back inside, claiming he was “just charging it.” Moments later, he returned and handed over the phone, silent, sheepish, and offering no explanation.

While I had been prepared to follow the advice, block the phone, buy a new one, sort out a replacement SIM, the thought of notifying banks and various services that rely on mobile apps was daunting. Though my phone and sensitive applications are fingerprint-protected, it was the Life360 tracking app that saved the day. Without it, I’d have been staring at a digital dead-end.

Meanwhile, Jamie and Ruth’s Bali wedding is now set for 6th–8th April at a jungle resort in Ubud, and Sue and I have made arrangements to be there. In recent years, any attempt to travel abroad has seemed to invite a cascade of complications, cancelled flights, missing transfers, problematic visas, and more. But this trip introduced a complication that defies belief.

We had finally confirmed flights from Heathrow to Singapore, then on to Denpasar, with a transfer to a hotel in Ubud for five days, followed by another transfer to the jungle hotel for three days to meet Jamie, Ruth, and her parents. After the wedding, Sue and I are due to return to Denpasar for one night before boarding a cruise ship that will eventually disembark in Cairns, Australia.

However, just a few days ago, I was stunned to receive a notification from the cruise line informing us that the ship would now be disembarking in Brisbane rather than Cairns. This frustrating change triggered a cascade of adjustments: we had to switch to a new airline, rebook a flight departing a day earlier via Doha from Heathrow, and now from a different terminal. That, in turn, meant cancelling our original flight to Cairns and the accompanying airport transfer. We also had to arrange entirely new transfers from Brisbane and cancel our hotel booking near Heathrow. To top it off, our ‘Meet and Greet’ parking had to be moved from Terminal 3 to Terminal 5.

And all of this with four months still to go, plenty of time, I fear, for the kibitzers in the travel industry to throw yet more spanners into the already clunky workings of our carefully laid plans.

On the 19th of November, I drove Jim, Sean, and Paul to Leicester to see Beautiful: The Carole King Musical. As is our tradition, we began the evening with an excellent Keralan meal at Kayal, just around the corner from the Little Theatre. Born in 1942 in New York, Carole King is an American songwriter and singer who rose to fame with a string of chart-topping hits in the 1960s and ’70s, becoming one of the most prolific and influential female musicians of her era. The show charted her remarkable journey, from teenage songwriter to inductee of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, and was both thoroughly enjoyable and unexpectedly enlightening. Many of her lyrics reflected the ups and downs of her personal life: “Take Good Care of My Baby,” “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’,” “Will You Love Me Tomorrow,” and “It’s Too Late,” to name just a few.

Now, in a welcome escape from frosty Leicestershire, Sue and I are set to fly out tomorrow (22nd November 2025) to Tenerife, where we’ll board the cruise ship Azura for a week-long sailing around the Canary Islands.