A bike is standing at a railway station with the rain dripping off the dark-green anodised metal of its handlebars. It is Nick's bike and he is standing behind it, waiting for the train to Windermere, from where he will cycle to a large farmhouse near Coniston and assist his cousin Julian in celebrating his 60th birthday with various Arthur Ransomelike activities (and wine and trifle).
Now, the following sequence of events may be out of order or fractured, as I was exposed to a powerful and increasingly potent narcotic during the week, known to connoisseurs of the Borgian arts as Andrew's Feet.
From the Station I had a delirious descent into Bowness-on-Windermere, looking for a bike shop, so that I could buy a new inner tube to replace the one that had developed a slow puncture on the prospect of being taken to "The North". As I passed the Police Station, I sought advice,
"Is there a bike shop?"
"Not really, but you won't cycle on the pavement will you sir, otherwise we'll have to fine you?"
"I've just come onto the pavement to ask you if there's a bike shop."
My aggrieved tone cut no ice.
I crossed on the ferry and surveyed the hill on the other side, I then took the track along the shore in the forlorn hope that the hill might somehow vanish. When I rejoined the road later, it was still going up, this would be a theme for the day. I travelled on through Potterland and wheezed my way along the quiet side of Esthwaite Water, where, in a fit of wild optimism, I consigned the waterproof to the panniers. Then, on to Hawkshead, to look for a late lunch. After a mooch, I ended up in the Sun Cafe for a plate of that most Cumbrian of dishes- Irish Stew, which was excellent. I then started up Hawkshead Hill, at this point my older edition maps showed the lack of the laser accuracy of the newer versions (I presume), as the contours were wildly different to the reality, such was my disbelief that I had to stop five times to consult the map, at least when it had swum back into focus.
However, to every up there is a down, so that I arrived, brakes smoking, about ten minutes from the top, at the farm. I was first! After hosing down my sweat-streaked body, I settled down to a cup of tea. The door was banged on, it was young people.
"Have you seen some really old people?"
I thought about my reflection in the mirror.
"No."
"Oh sorry."
I thought about saying, "Do you mean Julian?" but decided this was less than charitable, so waved goodbye. Had I said, "Do you mean Julian?" I would have determined that they were part of our party, and were in fact looking for their Grandparents (Mrs Julian's parents). As it was, I settled down on the large sofa, and spent fifteen minutes failing to work the DVD player before "others" arrived.
There was much tea.
The next day was the day of the party, large parties of various folk arrived and drank tea, before having lunch where they drank wine, followed by tea. An enterprising crew arrived in a Wayfarer (dinghy sailors please accept my apologies for potentially excruciating joke) and then offered a quick trip down the lake. A very quick trip actually, me I'd have put a reef in.
The day after, the boat was rigged and put on the water.
"What boat?" I hear you say.
Well dearie me, did I not say? The GP14 bought on EBay by Sheila (Mrs Julian), was rigged and floated off the trolley into the tree, put back on the trolley, moved to the right and refloated, then rowed to the landing. As we wait for Julian, (nothing new here, his elder brothers have been standing around, hands in pockets, cloudwatching for sixty years), the boat slowly fills with water, a condition that will persist over the next few days leading some of us to postulate that the SS Trenchfoot may be a good name for it.
He arrives (cue the rolling back of clouds and a quick burst of the Hallelujah Chorus), and once the family Handley are ensconced, I let go the boat. Then walk down the landing, climb over the wall, walk down the "beach" into the lake to field the boat as it runs ashore. I turn the prow and shove off again, this time the centreboard goes down and they're off for a quiet meander up the nearly still lake. Several gentle zephyrs develop hernias as they artfully play with the sail and discover that the boat is full of several tons of water. Several trips later and we get the self-bailers to work by dint of speed but as soon as we slow, water pours into the boat around the edges of them. Eventually we call it a day, and run the boat onto the trailer and from thence into the tree, back into the lake, a shift to the right and up into the field.
A barbeque is declared for the evening and I go off to Windermere with Louise and Tom for what proves to be the most frightening (though not exciting) trip of the week. We go to Booth's supermarket, a supermarket that makes Waitrose look cheap, a supermarket that if it could boast the tiling would rate with Harrods, a supermarket that brought tears to my wallet. We drive back, laden with sausages and vegeburgers, and scour the outbuildings for tinder. As I put a lighter (note to self, make sure that you have matches for a barbeque as the heat and flame pouring back out of a lighter means you get a few more overdone sausages, formerly known as fingers) to the paper it starts to rain. Umbrellas appear in the hands of the sous-chef and the barbeque continues.
As the week goes on, different people take charge of the evening meal, so we have a large veggie curry, followed by a cheese selection from Booths. This includes an Epoisse, which brings forth the comment that it smells like placenta; what a fabulous comparative body the newly parented have, several sorts of vomit and faeces (including temporal change, "Cor that smells like an [insert number][insert time interval{day/hour}][insert item]"), plus a whole range of eructations various. A pizza night, "Cor that looks like [insert pre-digested foodstuff]" and a leftovers night, "Cor that looks like... oh it is."
Days are spent pruning the tree with the mast, so that by the end of the week the boat rolls into the water unimpeded from any part of the field. One day we decide to ascend the Old Man of Coniston (or Kachenjunga). As we go up I turn to Steve who is labouring under the weight of steroids and various other drugs, all of which conspire to raise his blood pressure to something a giraffe would be proud of.
"How are you doing?"
"Once upon a time this would have been exhilarating now I'm just terrified that I'm going to have some sort of cardiac disaster!"
I reassured him.
"No with raised blood pressure like yours, you're more likely to have a stroke!"
I thought the resultant frosty silence unworthy of him, so pointed out there was a pub at the bottom. We went to the pub and bought a keg to go with the pizza, after a pause in the street and much deliberation we put the keg in the pushchair and carried the baby; it's all about perceived value they tell me.
Sadly the week came to a close, though for me there was a ray of sunshine in the fact that I would be separated from Andrew's feet by about 50 miles (only just enough I reckoned). After tidying up, I mounted my trusty steed and set off back to Windermere, halfway up the hill I decided that I was squeaky and should use my inhaler. I stopped off the side of the road and breathed out before applying the inhaler and inhaling with force! The foil datestamp that had fallen off the cylinder consequently found itself teetering on the top of my trachea prior to a descent into lungland, we were both quite surprised! Fortunately I had sufficient breath to manage a coughing fit and so avoided the irony of being found face down at the roadside having choked to death on an asthma inhaler (for US readers this is irony, do not confuse it with sarcasm).
A stop at the traditional sweetshop in Windermere netted me some liquorice goodies, some of which would last to London, unlike Julian's supply of Pontefract Cakes, which lasted until Steve saw them and "unconsciously" scoffed the lot.
At Euston I had to break into the Guards Van to liberate my bike, and that, as they say, was that.
As the week goes on, different people take charge of the evening meal, so we have a large veggie curry, followed by a cheese selection from Booths. This includes an Epoisse, which brings forth the comment that it smells like placenta; what a fabulous comparative body the newly parented have, several sorts of vomit and faeces (including temporal change, "Cor that smells like an [insert number][insert time interval{day/hour}][insert item]"), plus a whole range of eructations various. A pizza night, "Cor that looks like [insert pre-digested foodstuff]" and a leftovers night, "Cor that looks like... oh it is."
Days are spent pruning the tree with the mast, so that by the end of the week the boat rolls into the water unimpeded from any part of the field. One day we decide to ascend the Old Man of Coniston (or Kachenjunga). As we go up I turn to Steve who is labouring under the weight of steroids and various other drugs, all of which conspire to raise his blood pressure to something a giraffe would be proud of.
"How are you doing?"
"Once upon a time this would have been exhilarating now I'm just terrified that I'm going to have some sort of cardiac disaster!"
I reassured him.
"No with raised blood pressure like yours, you're more likely to have a stroke!"
I thought the resultant frosty silence unworthy of him, so pointed out there was a pub at the bottom. We went to the pub and bought a keg to go with the pizza, after a pause in the street and much deliberation we put the keg in the pushchair and carried the baby; it's all about perceived value they tell me.
Sadly the week came to a close, though for me there was a ray of sunshine in the fact that I would be separated from Andrew's feet by about 50 miles (only just enough I reckoned). After tidying up, I mounted my trusty steed and set off back to Windermere, halfway up the hill I decided that I was squeaky and should use my inhaler. I stopped off the side of the road and breathed out before applying the inhaler and inhaling with force! The foil datestamp that had fallen off the cylinder consequently found itself teetering on the top of my trachea prior to a descent into lungland, we were both quite surprised! Fortunately I had sufficient breath to manage a coughing fit and so avoided the irony of being found face down at the roadside having choked to death on an asthma inhaler (for US readers this is irony, do not confuse it with sarcasm).
A stop at the traditional sweetshop in Windermere netted me some liquorice goodies, some of which would last to London, unlike Julian's supply of Pontefract Cakes, which lasted until Steve saw them and "unconsciously" scoffed the lot.
At Euston I had to break into the Guards Van to liberate my bike, and that, as they say, was that.
