23 July 2017
Everyone looks forward to their summer holidays and I would argue the sense of anticipation rivals that felt before the Christmas break. Unless you are a member of ISIS obviously.
The tradition of taking two weeks off to get away from it all has always been my preference. Quite a few holidays were taken during the 1980’s and early 1990’s of which I have absolutely no memory at all. The only things bought back from these trips where badly stained T shirts with things like
‘I got shitfaced on the Booze Cruise – Cavos, Corfu 1988’
printed on the back. There was also the occasional unpleasant rash that as soon as he saw it would make the doctor wince and put on a stout pair of rubber gloves. All thanks to Club 18-30. Happy days!
Now I am grown up and have proper responsibilities things have changed. This year the summer holiday is being taken in two halves to accommodate people and things. I have already detailed the first half which was the 10 days spent in the Cairngorms, surviving only on the fare available from a small local Tesco’s and with nothing more than a fully equipped modern caravan for shelter.
At the end of the week we are leaving for Summer holiday part II at Beadnell bay in Northumberland where WharryFest 2017 will be held. This special event attracts a very exclusive crowd. You can only attend if your last name either is or was Wharry or you are in some way related to the Domestic Managers family. Her maiden name being Wharry. I’m sure you get the idea.
At the last count there will be 17 attending. We will be in the caravan with everyone else under canvass. We will not be accepting any visitors. Even if it is pissing down. Our caravan cost £12,000. Your tent cost £500. You made your choice. Now live with it.
Some are only staying for a long weekend while others – including ourselves – will be there for the full week.
I am sure the wind coming straight off the North sea will be very bracing.
There is a problem with the ‘double break’ approach I had not anticipated and that is the degree to which motivation would be lacking on the days in between. At the fun factory I had a full calendar to ensure productivity was maintained, however away from work little was been achieved. The thought that we would soon be going away again ensured the phrase “It can wait until we get back” was much in evidence last week. Although yesterday – Saturday – proved to be the exception.
We had to get up early to go to Edinburgh. Our little cherub was due to return from her stay at her grandparents. They were going to put her on a train in the Scottish borders and we were going to pick her up at Waverley station somewhere around 10am.
We were a little late arriving and she was already waiting for the DM when we got to the station. Truth is I had a choice of paying to park (and arriving on time) or driving about until I found somewhere free from traffic wardens (which would make us late). I obviously opted for the latter. It was highly unlikely there would be any nutters schlepping around the station at that time, so I was happy with my choice
I decided to wait in the car in case a warden suddenly appeared. It was while waiting I received a phone call from my mother. My father had taken a turn for the worse and needed to go back into hospital immediately. He was in terrible pain. “Right – no problem!” say I. “We will leave for your house immediately to come and get him. Should be no more than 90 minutes. But if the pain gets really bad you should phone an ambulance”.
“Oh no, there’s no need for that” says my Mother. “I’m just packing his bag. He is going to drive himself. He doesn’t want to miss lunch. The do a good lunch at Ninewells hospital”. I hate to admit it but I wondered exactly how serious his condition was. Anyway she asked us to call in and see him on our way home and we agreed.
With a silent cherub safety onboard we headed to Granton (a suburb of Edinburgh) to the massive Go Oudoors, a purveyor of cheapo outdoor accessories to those not really that serious about it and who just like to get a breath of fresh air every now and then.
We bought a BBQ which was a bit ironic given it was pouring with rain. It had undulated between gently piddling down and torrential all day while the wind howled incessantly. As we drove about I once again wondered why it was only Japanese tourists that have yet to grasp the concept of the umbrella. There were a lot of them and every one was soaked to the skin.
We then headed to a massive caravan shop to the west of Edinburgh for nothing more than a browse. For some reason Livingston is widely regarded as a cross between the Bronx and down town Bogota, an enclave of criminality populated by the very worst type of people. Kimberly once told me you can get a 4 bed house with a swimming pool and tasteful roman columns out the front £60,000 ($78,000) because it is so undesirable. Never seen that side of it myself, but then again I have never had to live there.
When we arrived we got out the car and were greeted a strong smell of burning. A quick sniff around the car revealed it was one of the back wheels. I suspected the brakes – no chance of them catching fire in that weather – but there was also a nail in the tyre.
This being the case our next stop was at Kwik Fit or ‘Thick Twits’ as a friend used to call them. I had not used them for many years but on this occasion had little choice. Younger readers will be unaware Quick Fit used to be famous for their hard sell approach when it came to extra services.
In the past the conversation would go something like this:
You: “I have a flat tyre. Can you fix it?”
Man in filthy blue overalls with hands in pockets: “I know. I can see from here. I have the experts eye you see. You can’t mend a puncture like that one. You will need a brand new tyre. Actually you will need four. At least four. Maybe five. And shock absorbers. Four of them too. The flat tyre will have wrecked ‘em see? Brakes too. They’ll be knackered. All round. And a battery. Plus wiper blades. You will need all that or you will crash and die on the way home. Probably into a primary school. It will be carnage, carnage I tell you.
Tell you what – take the lot and I’ll put hydrogen into your new tyres. No – it’s not at all dangerous! Usually charge £200 but I’ll only charge £194. Per tyre. It’s the latest thing see? Makes the car lighter and your tyres last longer! Genius! Right – I’ll get spud and lardy onto it as soon as they have finished their break. Think they are out the back watching a cock fight”.
You: “Gosh – lucky I came in! Never realised there was so much wrong! When will it all be done?”
Man: “Done? You just have been mate! Only joking! No idea. Now get your credit card out. ‘Now’ I said.
It would appear things have now changed. They inspected the tyre and removed the nail while we did battle with the free coffee machine. They discovered the tyre was not losing any air after the nail had been removed so decided to charge us nothing! Remarkable!
After that we made a trip to Halfords to buy a bike tent. If you have never seen one it is a tent just for bikes. Who would have thought?
We got to Ninewells hospital around teatime where it is no exagoration to say my Father was happier than a pig in shit. He certainly had an infection but it was on the mend. They had given him his own room and he was watching Shrek the Third when we arrived. He took us through the mealtime menus and told us all about the excellent service he was receiving. It’s been a long time since I have seen him that happy.
When we left we went to the Indian takeaway in Brechin where the streets were still festooned with Harley Davidson banners and picked up tea to take to my mothers. While we waited I took a picture of Alice. She could barely contain her elation at being back in the bosom of her family.
When we arrived at my parents house my mother – rather strangely – seemed very jolly too. I suspect was due to not having Mr Cheerful going on about his various ailments all day. She demolished her vegetable Dahl and got stuck in to the Lidl bargain wine she bought last week. I would have said less like wine more like hydraulic fluid judging by the smell, but if it makes her happy.
At this point I had planned to tell you all about the cat the Domestic Manager and her friend have been trying to catch since Thursday as her owner has gone into hospital but it is still work in progress. As in the cat still has its freedom.
I’ll save it until next week when all being well I’ll be reporting from the festival where I will be stripped to the waist, covered in mud and have flowers pained on each cheek.
Murrays Musings 