Musings, ramblings, ill-fated decisions, foolishness, streams of consciousness, and, all in all, a trip back to the UK.
I was going to say “a trip home” there, but home?
Where is home for you these days? The house you now live in, the house you once lived in, the house you grew up in, the town, county, or shire you identify with, the foreign shore you now inhabit. Fuck knows as far as I’m concerned.
I could say, “home is where the heart was”, but there’s too many of them. I could say, “where the heart is”, but the past clings tightly, and with long hard fingers, to the heart.
Ok, so I had decided to go back to the UK for a while, I hadn’t seen me Mam in over 2 ½ years, and neither of us is getting any younger.
So, what do I need? Well first of all I need a passport, as mine was out of date, and contained a picture of a young man with long hair, “John Lennon” specs and a daft waistcoat on. It looked as much like me as Margaret Thatcher looks like Marylyn Munroe, only less attractive.
On the UK commission passport website it says that I can do a renewal in Canberra, and that it should take ten working days. So, I get the forms and all the bollocks together. Do you know you cannot wear specs for passport photos these days, and that you cannot smile in them? Therefore my new passport picture makes me look like a gay skinhead with chronic piles. Pretty accurate then.
Ok, expecting the usual farrago when I do anything, I put in my application with six weeks to go before I fly. The girl on the counter states, contradicting the website, that it will take; “30 working days to process”.
Work it out for yourselves.
With four working days to go I haven’t had a phone call to let me know it’s ready, so, as you can imagine, I’m bricking it a bit. I go down there, willing to beg, plead, threaten and get arrested for indecent behaviour if necessary. The guy behind the counter checks my name, reaches into his files, pulls out my new passport and says; “It’s been ready for over a fortnight, didn’t we phone you?”
All I need now is a new copy of my “permanent” visa to be stuck in the new passport, or I won’t be allowed back into the country, which may please some people.
Fortunately, this was all done in less than ten minutes at the Visa place, with little or no hassle, and Bethy got a sweet out of them too.
We had considered getting a hotel room in Sydney for the night before I flew out. But as it was school holidays, Bethy and Lee-Anne decided that if they were going all that way, then why not have “girls long weekend” out of it? Not a bad plan. The cost of two rooms, (Bethy no longer shares rooms with us on trips, she’s far too “mature” for that!) was prohibitively expensive though, even in the cheapskate places we normally use. Also, we’d have had to put the two mutts into kennels for four nights, which is almost as expensive as booking them luxury hotel rooms.
Lee-Anne sorted this dilemma with ease. Looking at the website where we book our “pet friendly” holiday accommodation, she found a cottage for rent, in the centre of Sydney, which would host us three (later them two) and the dogs, all for less than the price of a decent hotel room for two, bargain!
So loading the car up we drove there. Well, getting a car to load up wasn’t actually that easy either.
I’d booked the car in for a service on the Tuesday. It needed new brakes and tyres all around. They didn’t have the parts in stock so; “bring it back in on Thursday”, ok. Due to working shifts we couldn’t pick it up on Thursday, so it wasn’t until the morning of our departure, and an hour late, that we actually managed to get the car back. We also got a grand’s worth of bill, to go with it. Fortunately it’s been a great runner since.
We stopped at a small country village for lunch, and I found a bookbinder’s shop there. I don’t know what it is about such places, but they fascinate me. And the owners are always such oddballs, fumes from the glue I expect. I could spend all day in them, and would have if Lee-Anne hadn’t dragged me out. I’m planning on having some of my books rebound there, if I ever manage to get them exported from Mr Nicol’s attic in Devon.
Before I forget, and jumping ahead of myself, me and Nicol were discussing my books which he’s kindly lodged in his attic for me. I was telling him about the bookbinders, and how I was going to get my Strand magazines rebound there, and how valuable some of my first editions are.
His response? “Why don’t you sell them then?”
Sell my books? The man’s a fucking fruitcake!
I bought a small hand-bound notepad to use as my holiday diary, and also a copy of “The Thunderbolt Kid” by Bill Bryson, for the flight. (Second hand, $20, hard back, bargain city!)
To pass time we were playing our own version of “Trivial Pursuit” in the car. We use the game’s question cards but no board, with the aim to win a complete set of “pies.”Our scores are recorded on a note pad.
Bethy was asked; “What is the most popular stimulant commonly used?” Her answer?
Obviously her answer wasn’t “coffee”. Nope; she opted for “Viagra”.
They grow up so quick these days.
We eventually arrived at Sydney. After the tradition “getting lost, driving seven laps of the city, and finding ourselves in the right suburb by accident,” we found the area, and then the street. I strolled confidently into the house (number 62) to be confronted by a family and a dog. I don’t know who was more surprised. Right number, wrong street. We drove another block.
Blacksmith’s cottage was so funky, old (by Aussie standards) and just generally wonderful I was on the verge of trying to sell my ticket back to the UK, so I could spend more time there. The funniest thing about it, was stepping out of a one room “house,” within which you felt like you were out in the deepest bush, (“back of Bourke” as they say here,) into the heart of the city. My photos don’t really do it justice. We’ll definitely be going back there, we’ve got this plan for going to the SCG for a one-day test….
That night we got a Thai meal from a café recommended by the information folder in the cottage. We got there and it was heaving, tatty, but heaving, so all good so far. We placed our order, said we’d collect it in half an hour and went for a glass of wine at a street café. I had opted for a “hot green Thai curry in coconut milk,” as my supper, knowing full well that “hot” in Thai terms wasn’t “hot” in Taff terms.
Wrong.
It was scorchingly hot, vindaloo hot, Phal hot even, lava hot. I therefore had the prospect of a 29 hour plane journey with a bad case of “ring of fire” to look forward to.
Saturday morning we went to “Paddy’s Market”, a venerable old Sydney institution, full of stalls selling …well… bloody odd stuff really. If you’re ever short of wigs, stuffed kangaroo paws, cheap vile knock off perfumes, or a quick massage, Paddy’s Market’s the place for you. I got a few things for the kids back at home. We returned to Blacksmiths cottage and gave the dogs a walk, before catching the train to the airport.
The goodbyes were tearful, it’s not my fault, I’m a soft old sod.
After they’d gone off, I did some last minute duty free shopping, and, by being a clever bugger, scored some free liquorish. I love liquorish. (The shops liquorish was all out of date. I pointed this out. The sales woman was going to bin it, so I pleaded that I was suffering from liquorish depravation, and she gave me a bag, gratis.)
The flight to Dubai wasn’t of any great interest, despite them now having 200 + films, touch screen TV’s and a host of other entertainments to help make it less boring. But, being a perverse bugger, I ignored these and read a book instead. Two books in fact.
I must say here that the vegetarian meals I’d requested, and was dreading, turned out to be the best vege meals I’ve had on any airline, so full marks to Emirates catering.
We arrived at Dubai twenty minutes ahead of schedule. This gave me a chance to see some of the duty free shopping there. I only saw a little of it as it was HUGE. I scored some cheap Laphrohaig, very cheap in fact, but they didn’t have the camera I’d set my heart on buying.
I was back on the plane inside two hours.
On the Dubai – London leg, I got a window seat, so was able to fire off a great number of pictures. After departing Dubai, I watched the scrolling map, and found out our first passage was along the length of Iran. Oh frigging great, Bush will just have to choose today to start bombing the sodding place knowing my luck. Fortunately the stupid little man didn’t. We also passed over Iraq, including Bagdad, and Egypt.
Just for the hell of it I decided to watch the latest “Harry Potboiler” movie. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. This possibly may be due to my taking two of the sleeping tablets I had on me. Although, I must admit, that Bethy normally translates the Harry P movies for me. Between bouts of shouting; “please shut up you Welsh git,” at me that is.
I arrived in London, just as the full effects of the sleeping tablet kicked in.
After a slight tussle in baggage collection, (It was identical to my bag I tell you! By that point I couldn’t have given a fuck if it was Osama Bin Laden’s baggage I was leaving with,) I eventually got to the coach station. Christ knows how.
If you ever feel sad. If you ever feel ugly and unattractive. If you ever feel that you have fallen to a new low in life, go to Heathrow Coach Station on a wet Sunday, look at the people there, and thank fate that you will never be them.
I spent an unedifying hour, gasping at the price of things, trying to make sense of British money, boggling at the aliens and strange otherworld creatures that inhabit bus station café’s, and spending a small fortune on things I didn’t want, just in order to make change for a phone call. Just as my bus pulled in I managed to work out what a 20p piece was for (I’d been trying to use it as a mystical charm to rid the world of the fat beasts of Heathrow bus depot. It hadn’t worked.) I finally got it together to phone my mother, to warn her the imbecile son had landed, just as the coach driver stared shutting the boot.
She, of course, was out.
I’d managed to get a copy of the Sunday Times, but to be quite frank, I wasn’t even up to reading the “Sunday Sport” by this point. The journey back to Swansea was like the acid trip from hell. Between bouts of extreme wakefulness, I managed to doze and collect drool all the way down my front. I kept waking with a start, and wondering where the hell I was. Not “where in England/Wales” I was, but where in the world I was, or even what planet I was on. I didn’t even recognise Cardiff castle when I passed it.
Getting to Swansea I asked the coach driver how to get to the train station; “Just stay on the bus pal, I’m going back to the depot, and I’ll drop you outside the station.” What a nice chap. Mind you, I think he was only so generous as I looked like an escapee from the “institute from the homeless criminally insane.”
An hours wait, and a train trip in the dark, and I was back in Llanelli for the first time in two and a half years. Well most of me was.
Walking down my road, which fortunately is close to the station, I saw the council had in their wisdom installed street lights not dissimilar to the spotlights used at Auschwitz. This scared the hell out of me, until I remembered this was Llanelli Council, the people who set the UK’s “Gold Standard for Frankly Barking Planing.”
Mam was at home to let me in, thankfully, as I had no key. After a warm embrace she set a plate of salad and a baked tatty in front of me, and some semblance of normality was restored.
I gave Mam her presents, and then we watched the three DVD’s on our home in Canberra, the city and the bush, which I’d spent two months making for Mam. I think she enjoyed them. I couldn’t tell, I wasn’t there at the time.
I bunked down for the night in the spare room on the inflatable mattress we had left there on our last visit. Mam, unfortunately, in her enthusiasm had somewhat over-inflated this, so I spent the night rolling off it and getting back on. Funnily enough, this all struck me as rather amusing. At the time it was anyway.
The next morning I got up bright and early, or so I thought. I decided to go into town and change some dollars for quids. I walked into town, weaving and wobbling a little, but still, with a good tack and a following wind I made it. I was up just “early’ then, forget “bright”. I called into the bank that my old mate Jonesy works at. He greeted me, and we shared a chat in his office. He had a chat, I was just hallucinating big time at this point. If anyone else had been acting the way I was, I’d have diagnosed psychosis.
We agreed to meet up for a pint later in the week.
I went to the cashier and asked to change $200 into quids. The cashier, making polite conversation, asked how I had them; “have you been on holiday there recently?” I explained my situation as best as I was able. She replied with the quote of the week; “You’re living in Australia, and you’ve come to Llanelli for a holiday. Is there something wrong with you?” At that point the only honest answer would have been “Yes, lots.”
I went home had a cuppa and chatted with Mam for a while, but was still restless. I took a stroll over to my sister’s house and chatted with her and my nephew Sean. I gave Sean a mounted sharks tooth, which we’d got for him at “Paddy’s markets”, (You want odd? Paddy’s Market has odd!) Fortunately he loved it. After wibbling for a while, I strolled home, by now I was so knackered I was falling asleep standing up. As an example of how knackered I was by this point; I spent the evening drinking Laphrohaig, and watching “Pobl Y Cwm” and “Coronation Street’ with Mam. And they both made perfect sense. Which was worrying.
I went to bed early, but awoke at 2.00 am, and was unable to go back to sleep. Fun, fun, fun. I finished another book off.
Despite being awake from the early hours of the morning, I found it damn nigh impossible to get out of bed. But eventually I got up, and faffed around, and went to my sisters house, and phoned Lee-Anne. I told her of how jetlagged I was, and promised not to do anything silly, or life threatening, until I got over it. Me and my sister watched the DVD’s of Canberra I had shot, and she seemed to enjoy them. Well at least she didn’t nod off, or leave the room.
I went home and got changed and headed into town, to a new gym which had opened there. Kill or cure on the sleeping front. Totally forgetting what I had promised Lee-Anne, and to the great amusement of the guy running the place I did one of my usual work-outs. “Ha! You wont be pushing yourself like that when you’re my age!”, said Mike, the guy running the place. I asked him how old he was. “44”, he said. I didn’t have the heart to tell him, I know the effect living in Llanelli has on people. I had a sauna and a steam bath after the workout, just to soothe my aching body, which was all very nice indeed. I haven’t had many saunas since I’ve been living in Aus, for obvious reasons. I do miss them though; I used to have one daily.
I got home, and, soon after, my best mate Jamesy came round calling. We chewed the fat and caught up, and I lumbered him with the job of getting a crew together on Friday night for a piss-up.
Jamesy kindy gave me a lift to Wynn’s house. I got there to find Wynn just about to embark on giving some young lad a guitar lesson. Coincidentally another old chum Lun was visiting Wynn. I hadn’t seen Lun for some time, so we took the opportunity to mooch off to his house, while Wynn was teaching, to catch up. Over an inappropriate amount of wine, Lun and I re-bonded. By god we had some catching up to do, some bridges to rebuild, and some ghosts to lay to rest. I only hope we did that, as by now the whirlies had set in again.
All I can remember from the rest of the evening was more wine, jolly chatting, and stuff, and Wynn telling me; “He’s good that kid, he may go far. But every week I ask him to practice something, and the next week when he comes back he hasn’t practiced it at all, but he does have some new speed tricks to show off.” Wynn has the patience of a saint.
I staggered off home, bumping into wall and taking pictures of …well… nothing really. I was surprised to find them on my camera the next day. Loads of pictures of walls, car parks, empty road junctions, the pavement, all shot without flash, so they were too dark to make any sense of at all. I’m sure there was a damn good reason behind them at the time though.
Mam pointed out to me the next morning that I’d had one proper meal in three days. Oh, that may explain a lot. Especially the diarrhoea.
On Wednesday morning, I took a walk to the beach to clear my head. Llanelli beach has had millions of pounds poured into it, almost literally, and it’s all rather nice and twee down there now. The beach is looking like a beach, rather than the mud-hole it’s been for many years, and there are swish new apartment buildings there. In fact the whole place is a developers dream at the moment. I took a look around one of the show apartments and made the pretence of being interested in one as a “buy to let” property.
Buy one at those prices? They have to be kidding! At the prices they were asking I’d expect at least a view of Cannes, not a view of the cockle pickers, from the window. I was tempted to knick some of the display furniture though.
I strolled around and about, revisiting my childhood haunt, and remembering all the times I’d had on the beach, fishing and fucking about. I virtually lived there from the age of 12 till I was 21. One thought kept returning; “Why did I piss away so much of my life on this bloody beach?”
It was probably due to the fact that I couldn’t get laid for love nor money in those days.
I went into town. I’d promised my old youth-club leader, who I’d recently got back in touch with via the net, that I’d call in and say hello when I was next in town. I went up to the big chapel where he’s now pastor or vicar or whatever, but it was locked. I was going to walk away, but guilt at how good he’d been to us in the past made me explore further. Around the corner of the chapel and down some steps, I peered into the window, and there was David looking back. He called me in with great enthusiasm, and to my surprise I found myself walking in. The bigger surprise was that the room was full of old biddies, and I was now in bible study class. Oh balls.
David informed me that they were nearly finished, and that I should take a seat. Great. I sat down and watched David masterfully explain to these doting old biddies, who he obviously had in the palm of his hand, how, whatever they though was said in Exodus was wrong, and what the bible really meant by it was the exact opposite. Or something.
Then we had a prayer.
Yup, a prayer.
After the prayer, and while the old biddies fussed about, David approached me, and said; ”Thanks for coming, who are you?’
I didn’t hit him.
I explained who I was, and he roared with laughter and delight! We had a good old chat, and, thirty years after the event, I actually managed thank him properly and sincerely, for his time, tolerance, forbearance and general good will to the teenage me. I’m sure he saved me from a lifetime of being someone who hadn’t gone to youth club.
I’ll still never forgive him for taking me to see Cliff Richard though.
I hit the gym again, and after my work out, down in the changing room, I found my trunks. There they were there on the locker door where I’d left them the day before. Handy that, as I fancied another sauna. Disconcertingly though they were still wet, and putting them on was not a pleasant experience. Who else had used them?
I carried on up to town. I bumped into Big Frank, an old martial arts comrade of mine. Funny to see him after all these years, but great to catch up with him again. Sadly, he informed me that his old man, a lovely, gentle-giant of a bloke, had passed on. Does there always have to be a tinge of sadness to dilute the joy of an unexpected reunion?
It was that this point that I realised I had been feeling odd, strange odd, not unwell odd, since I landed. At first I had put this down to jetlag, but I was just about over that, and yet the oddness remained. I sat on a bench in the town centre and thought about it. I was probably the only person thinking for miles. I realised what it was, there was a big hole in this trip, a hole due to the absence of Lee-Anne and Bethy. There was a pointlessness about being there, and void where my family was, a great big emotional emptiness. We don’t spend much, if any, time apart, and being in the UK, especially being in the UK, without them made it all seem meaningless. Now that I understood this, I could deal with it. I reasserted my reasons for returning, mainly about Mam and family and friends, and then value of being where I was and who I had and would be with, and the oddness went. The void remained, but I could nurture myself through it.
I resolved to phone home, (there’s that word again), more often.
I walked into Boots the chemist, to make another old acquaintance, I strolled up to the pharmacy counter and asked; “Does Amanda still work here?”
”Yes I do,” said the woman I was asking.
Luckily she didn’t recognise me either. A nice, but brief, chat was had again.
While in town I picked up a load of Quorn and Linda Mc Farty products, for a protein rampage, and in order for me not to make the same mistake again with regards to drinking on a very empty stomach.
I got home, and to my amazement, Rattenbury called in. Neil, (aka “the Rat” aka “Ratty”,) as we sometimes call him, me, and Jamesy grew up within spitting distance of each other. This was very handy for spitting at each other when we fell out, which was every other day. But Neil, and I’m sure he won’t mind me saying this, and I don’t care if he does, is ABSOLUTLEY FUCKING DREADFUL AT KEEPING IN TOUCH.
There that’s off my chest now, I feel so much better.
Neil, like the rest of us, has had a “interesting” career, with the usual trials and trauma’s of relationships, but on the plus side he is now Dr. Rattenburry (fucking glorified tooth puller) and has a beautiful young wife, and lovely kids, which I certainly don’t begrudge him.
Ok, not much.
Funny to catch up with him after god knows how many years, and great to see that our childhood bonds felt as secure as ever, or as ever when we actually meet.
He promised to join the booze up on Friday, as long as…(insert long list of conditions here, including “if my wife will let me”).
After bloating myself on pies and sausages, not a vegetable in sight, I went down to the beach to walk it off, and to wonder why the hell I was back there pissing more of my life into the wind on this bloody uninteresting beach. Just to spite me there was an amazing sunset that evening, which made the whole place back into the magical playgrounds of youth.
The sorry permanence of the
lighthouse, remains.
In the mystery of the bounding shores,
so close but too far away.
The rumour of their secret places,
where the fish jump from the waters into your waiting lap.
The Seaside boys, took refuge from the home.
Made shelters from imaginary storms,
built empires of shared fears,
and forgotten tales of evermore.
The irresistible call of the sea to laughter, play,
to be our confidant, to lullaby us in its murmur.
The fishless oceans were, for excuse,
our hunting ground,
though we drew nothing but dreams and hopes,
from the ever-shifting shoreline
The firelight of tens of thousands of days of youth,
and the dunes forever fading away,
to marram grass and empty dens.
Away, to the shorebirds calling,
the sirens of the dark.
We baited, waited, and grew closer.
Friendships made to last forever,
in the sun which is forever setting.
I then took a walk to an old pub haunt of mine, and had a decent pint of Buckley’s, the first one in years. Feeling peckish again, I asked if they did anything vegetarian as a bar meal. The inevitable “vegetable lasagne’ was procured.
There is a law, which anyone studying for the diploma of bloody awful pub grub must obey, which states; “Should anyone have the temerity to order a vegetarian meal, your only recourse should be to provide a vegetarian lasagne. This should be covered in molten cheese of a type which tastes like milk solids gone off. The centre should have semi-cooked sheets of lasagne like substance, and various unidentifiable vegetables. Half of the vegetable matter should be, despite the nuking of the dish in a radioactive microwave, still frozen, or at least only partially thawed. The sauce should taste of Heinz tomato ketchup and leave stains impervious to modern washing machine powders.”
This one was a masterpiece of that type. Oh well, at least the beer was still good there.
I got back to Mam’s and asked if she had any soft drinks there, to take away the still cloying taste of the lasagne. She told me “there’s some orange juice in the fridge, I bought it for the kids a while back.” Some while back in fact, “Best before end; July 07.”
I stuck to the Laphrohaig.
Feeling nicely knackered I went to bed, with the direct instruction to Mam; “If anyone rings , don’t wake me, I’ll call them back tomorrow.” Quarter of an hour after I hit the sack, and just as my eyes were shutting, Mam knocked on the door; “Your mate Mark Nicol’s on the phone, seeing as you only just came to bed…”
Could I get off to sleep after yakking to that daft ginger twat?
I actually didn’t sleep too badly that night, and awoke refreshed. I strolled into the town centre. This not having a car was getting me down badly, I mean, I’m stuck in Llanelli for fucks sake, how do I cope?
I spent the morning in the pissing rain taking “character shots” of locals. This was rude of me I know, but interesting all the same, and fuck’em in any case.
I visited the local market and got some homemade “Welsh cakes” which were palatable, and a cheese and onion pasty, which was foul.
I visited my sister again, used her internet for a short while, and phoned Lee-Anne. She told me our net connection was down, and the phone was playing up. The latter was rather obvious. On the plus side though she did say Bethy had got into a Div.1 Basketball side and she’d got 94% in her first Japanese test. All good stuff.
I went to the gym again. I can’t remember anything about it. The big difference though, coming to think about it, between the Llanelli gym and “Bodyworks” in Canberra, which I normally use, is the complete lack of overtly gay blokes in the Llanelli gym. Either they’re less “out” in Llanelli, or the really is an “only gay in the village”, and he doesn’t work out.
That evening I was a guest of Jamesy, and, as Rachel was away on a council freebee, lots of scotch was the order of the evening. Me and Mark spend the evening supping, eating, and watching old “Deep Purple” concerts on DVD.
We debated, rather heatedly, in the way old good friends can, the relative merits of the various members of the band, past and present. The only thing we both agreed on was that Ritchie Blackmore is a complete arsehole.
I crashed there overnight, on a proper bed, luxury.
The next day I had the same dilemma, what the hell do you do in Llanelli, on a rainy day, with no transport?
I visited an exhibition by local artists at the library. Yes I was that bored. It wasn’t bad, but I didn’t buy anything. I entered the raffle. If I win, the cost of the postage on the painting, which was offered as the prize, will be more than the value of the painting.
I went to the gym again. Only this time I went to Jamesy’s gym with him. This is in a local hotel, one which as a drunken adolescent, I once threw up in a flower pot in. I then fell in the flower pot, it was a big one. The fact that I had thrown up in it escaped no one’s notice. This was mainly due to the fact that it was in the centre of the main ballroom. And the disco was in full flow. They should think themselves lucky. At least I didn’t piss in it too.
Anyway, no one recognised me, so I must have got away with it then? So I was able to train. No overtly gay guys in this gym either. I wonder if there’s a gay gym in the area?
Jamesy did something amazing. He did an hour on the treadmill. Fit old bastard. Not only did he do an hour on the treadmill, but when I joined him for a warm down, his pulse, after an hours slogging, was gradually going down, not up. Either he’s more fit than I thought, or he was dying.
The big get-together of the week happened that night. In a local pub, which last time I was home was a department store, we met. First me and Neil, then Jamesy arrived, Pickles arrived soon after, then Jonesy and his wife Bethan joined us. This was spooky!
We’d all grown up in the same area, and been mates when we were 14-18 years old, and members of the youth club I was blathering on about earlier. Now, for the first time in 25 + years, we were all back in the same room together. Even Neil.
Funny that. All of us were from working class backgrounds, three of us were grammar school kids, three went to secondary modern schools. We’d all lost touch / kept in touch with each other for various reasons, and for varying lengths of time. Most of us had lived away from Llanelli at some period in our lives. And yet, here we were again. (Two other ex-youth club members who later heard about this get together were greatly saddened to have missed it.)
So from a group of snotty nosed kids from the Seaside area, what had we produced? Not bad actually. Dr Rattenbury, Deputy Head Bethan, Jonesy the banker, Jamesy the planning officer, Pickles and me. Four out of six, successes. I haven’t the foggiest what Pickles now does, I don’t think he does either. I will say this for him though; he’s the funniest man on the planet. He’s the sort of guy who says what everyone else is thinking about someone, but in a way that is only semi-offensive, and with such a breadth of surreal humour. He really missed his calling, he’d have been funnier than Billy Connolly if he’d have gone into stand up. Within five minutes of arriving he had us all in tears of laughter.
Talking to Jonesy he came up with: “You live in Pen Y Fai lane now? You wouldn’t catch me up there, it’s full of “Big Issue” sellers and snake charmers.”
WTF? Funny as hell though. (You had to be there, obviously!)
So we drank, and caught up, and chatted, and laughed and laughed. I was rather disappointed to see how many of the old crew were now drinking lager, soft pansies that they are. What’s wrong with good old Welsh bitter ale? The beer I had there, in every pub we visited, was first class. I don’t know, no standards some people. One round I went to the bar, and shouted for; “One pint of bitter (Rev James, great ale) and five and a half pints of piss weak lager for the girls.”
That’ll teach ‘em. Though the barman wasn’t too impressed with me, I don’t think.
One thing I quickly realised is that if I ever get big headed, ever get too full of myself, ever get conceited, then all I have to do is return to Llanelli and go out for a beer with these buggers. Not one of us was spared the caustic humour and personal debunking from the rest. I’d forgotten how good we all are at it. Nothing like a good old mate to let know what your fallibilities, shortcomings, physical deformities, incapability’s, and other failings are. Or, if those aren’t being discussed, then a brief reminder of the stupid and dangerous things you did as an adolescent serves just as well.
Funnily enough while we were there, another ex-youth club lass, Andrea, joined us. But she was bit weird so I ignored her. We decided to go to another bar. And then another, and then another. At the last bar we met up with Jamesy’s lovely daughter, Rebecca. I think I was rude to her.
Everybody else, being boring middle age gits, drifted off leaving me and Neil and Jamesy to hold up our tradition of staying until kicking out time. Or at least we would have, if someone hadn’t remembered it was 24 hour drinking in the pubs there these days.
Even I couldn’t hold out forever, so I bid them two adios, and staggered off home, stopping only to flash my arse at them in the time honoured fashion.
Saturday, walk into town again. If I was bored at least I was keeping fit. I posted some cards to work and to Bethy and Lee-Anne. I also bought Bethy a set of Harry Potter stamps in a presentation pack. I went to Louise’s, still phone problems at home so we chatted briefly. I walked back into town and bought some bits and bobs.
That night Jamesy picked me up and we went up to his place, his lovely partner Rachel was back, so we caught up with each other again. I forced them to watch my DVD’s, and they kindly repaid me buy feeding me and laying on a surfeit of wine. A Rugby world cup match was on and so we ate, drunk and watched the Sais (English) beat the Frogs. Strange way to view a match, it’s a bit odd wanting both sides to loose. Later that evening Jamesy and me revisited “The Old Gray Whistle Test,” on DVD’s, and again heatedly argued which bands music had stood the test of time, who was a fit bird in those days, who was a crap/great singer/guitarist/band, and I was right and he was wrong. By the time this was going on Rachael had retired to bed, and left the two old farts to revive their past, and who can blame her?
I again crashed at their place, grateful for the evening, the food, the wine, the conversation, but incredibly grateful for a proper bed.
After a morning of chat I took my leave and went to Mam’s. The whole, or the majority rather of my family were visiting. My nieces Carly, Shelly and Jemma were there, all with their kids, and my nephew Jon dropped in to. I’m a great uncle, just not a very good one. And I’m crap with kids. I’m forever upsetting them, or dropping them, or aggravating them in some way. All I have to do is walk into a room and they start crying. Well they all survived. I think. And it was great to see them.
That evening I watched the Argies play South Africa, another match where I couldn’t have cared less who won. In fact I only watched it to see if there were any decent punch-ups.
The next day I took myself down the beach, and again pretended to be interested in buying one of the flats there. They got all coy when I told them I would be a cash buyer. Still didn’t manage to knick any of the furnishings though. Shame, they would have made a nice present for Mam. I said goodbye to the beach, and to my younger self who still haunts the place.
I went into town and had a last session and sauna at the gym. I popped into the bank and said goodbye to Jonesy.
I was walking through the market and saw Xmas cards were on sale. I thought “I’ll get some Welsh Xmas cards that’ll amuse the Aussies.” I went up to the stallholder and asked if he had any Xmas cards in Welsh, only to find out to my dismay that he was an idiot.
Not only was he an idiot, but I then had to listen to his long diatribe on; “You can’t get Welsh cards see, there’s no printing firm in Wales printing them, no call for them see, people don’t want cards in Welsh, there’s no market for them so you can’t get them, I’d get them if I could but I can’t ‘cos there’s no printing firm in Wales printing them, no call for them see, people don’t want cards in Welsh, there’s no market for them so you can’t get them…”
But the thing that made listening to this crap worthwhile was that the twat didn’t have a tooth in his head, apart from two, half-rotted, central incisors (front teeth, bottom jaw.) These made him look such an oaf I could have listened to him all day.
I left the market and across the road was a Welsh knick-knack shop, run by Jamesy’s cousin Alison. (The shop is called the “Dragon’s Lair”, let’s not speculate shall we?)
I bought some Welsh stuff for the folks back home and asked Alison; “You don’t know where I can get some Welsh Xmas cards do you?” She pulled a dozen different packs of them from under the counter; “How many do you want?” I bought several.
It was really tempting to go back to the market and wave them under the idiot’s nose, but he had enough bad luck in life to cope with without me adding to his burden.
That evening I went up to Wynn and Jackie’s. It took me a great deal of time to get there, as I couldn’t find the road. Not the house, the bloody road. I lived in the sodding town for 22 years, and I get lost finding one of my best mate’s houses? I’m stuffed, I really am.
When I finally arrived there Wynn’s old dad Iuean was visiting. As soon as I entered he ripped into me mercilessly. I wouldn’t have expected anything else, and he’s so good at it, it’s like watching, listening to rather, an old virtuoso play. Talking of virtuosity, I had the great delight of listening to Dylan, Wynn and Jackie’s son play his drums, and their daughter Bron play electric violin. Bron is 12 and Dylan is younger, but believe me they can play! Not “play” as in “scratch a tune out”, but “play as in “musically talented at a level which would be envious in someone ten years older.”
Jesus, I was so bloody envious. It helps of course when your dad is a guitar virtuoso, and your mother a talented artist. But I was still bloody jealous. Mark their names now, you will hear of them in future.
We ordered in a curry, and I forced them all to watch my DVD’s. I was certainly getting my moneys worth out of them!
It was great to chat, and talk we did late into the night, before I bid them farewell and off again into that good night.
For the next day my diary reads;
Heavy rain.
Into town.
?
So lets leave it at that, shall we?
I know I spent the evening at home with Mam, as it was the last one before I left Llanelli for another couple of years. (One year actually, if our plans work out.)
The next morning I took a train into Swansea. I used to know Swansea well, as I studied there for a while. But, taking no chances, I asked a very pretty young police constable the way to the car hire firm. I still got lost though.
Eventually I found the place, and after burning my credit card down a little more, they gave me a nice little Citroen something or other with only ten miles on the clock, to play with.
I drove back towards Llanelli, only getting lost twice, including finding myself on the motorway, the one I had been desperately trying to avoid, going the wrong direction. I eventually got back to Llanelli, and found that, due to cross communication, Mam had gone to town with my niece, Jemma, who was on “driving Mam” duty this week. I whizzed round to Louise’s (wheels, bloody deep joy, wheels!!) and said goodbye to her and Shaun. Louise rung Jemma on her mobile, and got Mam to wait outside the supermarket to say goodbye.
I caught her outside the Asda, and said goodbye, odd place to do so, but there you go.
I have to apologise to Pete G here, as I’d really have loved to drop into his place while I was passing. But his shifts and my bad planning had ruled it out. Sorry Pete!
Sorry to all the rest of you I missed too, I’ll aim better next time. (Waaa-waaa-waaa-waaa!!)
I headed off down the M4, crossing the Severn into England, and then taking the M5 southwest. It was a journey I had done so many times in the past, it was almost like time travel. Except I didn’t feel any younger for it. The rain stopped, the road dried out, the sun shone, and I was back in Devon.
It was only a short time later I found myself travelling, very slowly, down the lanes of the South Hams, to Ugborough, winner of the award for “the most beautiful village with the ugliest name” three years running. By god, living in Aus had changed my driving! The bloody lanes hereabouts are so narrow compared to Aus roads, that for once in my life I found myself doing 40 mph, where in the past I’d done 70 mph. Bugger, the opportunity to scare people rigid was lost.
I pulled up at the Nicol’s close. Mark and Jen’s house, although nothing prepossessing to look at, is set in a wonderful position. This coupled with the fact that Mark is an ex-handyman, and his suffering OCD, means that inside it’s almost perfectly fitted out and decorated, and is a wonderful and truly enviable place to live. The view from the living room is beyond pricing. And they’ve got rid of the sodding plastic bead curtain at last.
I had parked up and was walking towards the house, when a voice cam from behind me; “Oy! You deaf Welsh twat.” Which is a traditional greeting from Mark. Hugs ensued. He was working on their campervan, and also, after showing off this palace on wheels, showed me their new soft-top Astra, a car any hairdresser would be proud to own.
Mark got me to follow him in my car, as he was dropping his campervan at the menders to get something fixed. To my shame, I now found I couldn’t keep up with him in the narrow Devon lanes, even though he was driving a van, and I was in a small compact. God alive, this just isn’t right!!
Mark dished up pizzas, and soon Jen and her stupendous legs (Jenny is over six foot tall, most of it is leg,) came home. And after hugs, then wine and chat were the order of the evening. Bliss.
Even more bliss was to be back in their spare room, on a proper bed again for the night.
The next morning I woke late, Mark and Jen having gone to work. I helped myself to tea, and then drove into the lovely little market town of Ivybridge. I grabbed a pasty for breakfast, (not great 2/5). I wanted to get my photos off my camera, and burned onto disc, to make room for more.
The guy in the photo place took my chip, and told me to come back in 30 minutes. With nothing better to do I grabbed a paper and waited. When I returned to the shop, there was a sign in his door “back in ten minutes”. Twenty minutes later he got back, looking flushed and pleased with himself, like he’d just nipped home to give his wife a seeing to. Or seeing as he looked so happy, give someone else’s wife a seeing too.
I was going to spend the day on Dartmoor, taking photographs of one of my favourite places on the planet, definitely in my top five. I drove off from Ivybridge, and decided against buying a map so that I could get lost without help. I crossed Lee Moor with its abominable clay pit, and wondered at just how fucking beautiful Devon is in the autumn? I mean, it’s just absolutely perfect. Even the clay pits looked lovely.
I started shooting then, loads and load of images. I mean loads, 350 in a day.
I found myself overlooking the village of Shaugh Prior, and decided to visit my old climbing haunt, the Dewerstone. This is a cliff of some three hundred foot in hight in places, where I had been dragged, quietly, or more often not so quietly, shitting myself, up some low grade climbs in the years 1983 to 1990.
My palms still sweat even now thinking of the day when me and Clarkie soloed three climbs each over 250 foot high. Pete G, who was with us, suffers from vertigo, couldn’t even look down from the top to take photographs of us. Luckily he had handed his camera to Clarkie, and to this day the shot he took remains the finest shot of me climbing, ever. (It’s just me, with 200 foot of air below my heels, and no rope. Magic!) Just after I got down from the third climb, I decided to climb a little crack at the bottom of the cliff, I got 15 foot up it and shot off, barking my shins badly in the process. “I bet you’re glad you didn’t do that fifteen minutes ago,” said Clarkie with a grin. The idea still haunts me.
Anyway, I couldn’t find it. Even though it had been a major playground for me for over fifteen years, I couldn’t find the car park for it. S I gave up, turned the car around and decided to head for Sheepstor. So then I found the Dewerstone car park. I strolled up to the cliff, this was heaving with school parties, every climb had a rope down it, or a climber shinning up it. Few seemed to be enjoying it, and instructors and teachers were either yelling instructions, begging kids to not solo, or comforting the absolutely bloody terrified. Outdoor education enthusiasts have a lot to answer for.
I was going to solo an old favourite (i.e. easy) route to the top, but there was a queue of five waiting to climb it, so I strolled on. I got to the top of the hill, with its amazing view of the Plym vale, and rested. I found some curious chiselled stones (18th century graffiti?) and took some scenic shots. An odd couple strolled up and asked me to take their pictures, so I did, and then they took mine for me. Nice.
I ambled back down, nothing on my mind, and less in it. I realised passing through the ancient and spooky oak woodland, and along the beautiful Plym River, how content I was.
I drove on and visited Leather tor, a wave shaped tor with one climb on it. I didn’t do that one either. Not because there was anyone on it, just because, that’s why.
It’s a lovely tor, not far from the road, with glorious setting. I got more pictures, and as there were people on the top, got another snap of myself taken.
Shaped out of force, and unkind nature.
The habitation of man long gone.
Ground rendered by reek and mire.
Land no one tills, no one to disturb the
grazing sheep.
They have no need to wonder,
who or what created this beauty.
Artifice in the containment of the ground,
all attempts to impose order are lost,
yet add to the view,
In the distance other hills,
their tops crowned with lesser glories of stone,
are forgotten.
The wave that will never break,
stands testament to timelessness.
Once, when young and foolish,
(as opposed to old and foolish, as I stand here now,)
I climbed here.
Hands sore, safe in the artifice of my encumbrance,
Dragging ropes and rocks.
A route too short deserve a name, but named.
To reach the summit no glory,
yet not to not reach the summit unthinkable.
But now as I walk the easy way up,
to the top I wonder why.
At the time it all seemed to have meaning.
I live in hope it still does,
as for trivial things we still quit grave affairs.
And the wonders of becoming,
the permeance of the memory,
sounds of the far distant laughter,
are ends in themselves,
and remain important beyond words.
At least to me.
I wish I believed in a god,
I’d have someone to thank for all this beauty.
I did another few short walks around the Merrivale region, took more pictures and realised I was getting peckish. So I drove into Tavistock. I like Tavi, it’s very middle English, but still, quite nice. I lived there between 1986-90, and am still fond of the place.
I picked up a pasty, (not bad at all 4/5), and a copy of Gordon Ramsey’s “Playing with Fire” for Lee-Anne. She’s a big fan of biography.
I decided to drive back to Mark and Jenny’s to catch up with them. Seeing as it’s been seventeen years since I lived in Tavi, I made the big mistake of misjudging the rush hour traffic, basically there was none when I lived there. But by buggery getting back down to the A30 to get to Ugborough was a nightmare. But at least I had the sense not to take any of the short cuts I remembered from my days of living there, I’d probably still be there now if I had.
I got back to M&J’s and they agreed to allow me to cook for them. This as a brave decision by them, as the last time I stayed there and cooked for them, let’s just say I was not at my best. This involved a lot off giggling, staggering into walls, burned pans, and dropping of food on my part, and a four-hour wait to eat on their part. Luckily the meal was up to my usual standard and great. Or it may have been that they were so hungry after waiting that long, that lightly grilled socks on stale toast would have tasted good.
One of the reasons they let me cook, was that they knew Chas was coming over for the evening, it would be a god given opportunity, (not that any is ever needed by them,) to rip the piss out of me again if I screwed up.
Chas turned up, and great to see the old fart it was too. He was looking surprisingly happy for him. Chas and Mark launched into a long discussion on the relative merits of differing campervans, and as listening to them two being obsessive, and polite to one another, is as exciting as watching milk curdle, I busied myself in the kitchen.
I cooked my favourite meal; “what’s edible in the larder? Ok, let’s boil it!”
Obviously it was a bit more complex than that. But it’s the sign of a good, no, a great cook, that when you give him any random ingredients you have about the house, he can churn out a fine meal. And so I did, and begrudgingly the bastards ate it, and even more begrudgingly informed me it was the best meal they’d had this year, if not decade.
After eating we settled back, and I showed them my DVD home movies and they were incredibly rude about them and me. Which was as it should be. And the evening went downhill from there until we were weak with laughing, and/or pissed.
You may think that all my friends are incredibly rude people, and so am I. But they are not, we just share a sense of humour, and most of the time it’s rude and crude and virulent and attacking and down-putting. But these people are the best on the planet, and I’d trust them with my life, and have done in most cases. If you have a ¼ of the number of friends of the calibre that I have, you are truly blessed. I love them all.
No I wasn’t drunk when I wrote that last bit.
Where was I?
So the following day I spent another day on the moors, revelling in its beauty, and remembering when I was young, and becoming me.
“Cry like a child, for these years make me older”.
Ian Curtis.
I visited Bonehill rocks which was just a climbers playground when we used to go there years ago. Now though it’s been “developed” as major bouldering venue, and has it’s own website guide written for climbers. I went up Haytor, a “honeypot’ tourist trap of a tor, but still retaining it’s dignity and beauty, just.
I was peckish, so decided to go to my favourite tea van, “The Hound of The Basket meals” as they serve fresh tea and the scummiest home made teacake in the UK. So I drove to Hound tor, and the bloody thing wasn’t there. Come on Alan, you’re a permanent fixture, or at least supposed to be.
I visited some old hut circles, and then strolled around Bellever forest. I once got laid on Bellever Tor, in the rain, on top the cold granite. I didn’t mind, after all, she was warm, and underneath me. Ah, fond memories.
Having filled my camera, with another 350 shots I drove back to M&J’s and we ordered in a curry, and, being perfect hosts, they let me pay for it. Chas turned up in time to eat, and another evening of playing “embarrass Taff” was had.
Wankers.
Oh yes, for some reason best known only to myself, and I don’t know it, from here on in I didn’t fill in my diary any longer, so this next bit is all from memory.
The next day Jenny was all excited as we were going flying. She really has a hard on for flying at the moment, lucky old Mark.
We filled the van with equipment and drove off through the South Hams, with Mark, justifiably to a degree, boasting that this was his work patch, and how he spent his working days driving around the most beautiful part of Devon. If he was trying to make me jealous, he was almost succeeding.
We stopped off at one of the wonderful “Venus café’s” that dot some of the beaches hereabouts, and had a coffee.
We eventually got to Streete, and I remembered that the last time I had flown here I’d crashed into a tree. Oh dear.
A few other pilots joined us, and, after a couple of them had launched Mark started hassling me to take off. Ok, I was being a wimp about it, and having not flown coastal, and not flown in cold, and not flown this site for ages, I was, understandably in my book, rather hesitant. However when Mark started getting aggressive, I decided to teach him a lesson. I put on his harness, threw up his glider, and looked for the thorniest tree to crash into.
The headland was catching the wind perfectly, the wind-strength was right, and we cruised at 500 feet above the posh houses. There’s some lovely old places ion the cliff tops here, with their walled gardens and tennis courts. You do feel rather smug though being up there, what with the views and the sheer exhilaration of flying. And it’s always interesting to look down into people’s houses, though I’ve not yet caught anyone naked.
Mark and Jenny were up in their tandem kite, and Jenny kindly took a large number of pictures of me, having a ball. (For the pictures see here.)
Eventually though everyone started going down, and after a brief scare at not making any headway into wind, and a foray out over the sea to see if I could lose some hight, I got low. I landed without embarrassing myself for a change. Mark gave me a hand packing up his glider in the way he prefers. (That’s his OCD kicking in again.) We went to the rather nice thatched old pub just down the road, and Mark bought me a pint. He had to actually, as I’d left my wallet back at his place. (Snigger)
That night we went over to the lovely old cottage of Mike and Belinda at Peter Tavy. This was in order to celebrate Mike’s birthday. A group of old mates were getting together, and such a wonderful pleasant evening of conversation (as in “lets embarrass Taff”) was had. So good to see this crowd again, all lovely people, and if I’ve not got the history with them that I have with, say Mark for instance, I still feel part of the crowd and accepted. Great grub too, Mark made his hommity pie as his contribution, and I love that. He should be good at it he’s cooked it weekly for the past twenty five years. Oh, I wish I’d caught Belinda for her pate recipes, they were yummy.
But I must add, before I sound too obsequious, that that night the Rugby World Cup Final was on, and these old hippy bastards weren’t interested in watching it. So I missed England having their arses handed to them on a plate. Bollocks!!
The next day I said a goodbye to Mark and Jenny, and thanked then sincerely for their friendship, generosity and for giving me my highlight of the holiday in the flying.
I drove into Cornwall, on what should have been a nostalgia trip, but, due to the roads all being revamped, was more of a mystery tour
I got to Sennen after two pastys and two trips up the wrong roads. I called in to see Janet and Howard, my good friends who had been so kind to me when I lived in Sennen. Great to catch up with them, and they made me instantly at home. This is not surprising as their house was my home for a while.
I borrowed their dog, kai, a dog who’d give my mutt Barnum a run for his money in the “super fit, but super stupid,” stakes, and headed off down for a coastal walk.
I traversed the fields along the path that leads to my house. Mick, a builder mate from the village had replaced all my windows and doors, and re-roofed the shed, and I wanted to see how the old place looked. It looked great!! Boy was I impressed. Helen, my tenant wasn’t in unfortunately. I knocked on the door of PT and Sara, my old next-door neighbours, but they were out to. I called up at the farm, and saw Graham, the gentleman of a farmer who runs the land here about. We discussed the drainage problem he was having with my sewerage system, and we agreed to put it right a.s.a.p.
I carried on my walk, to the top of Nanjizal bay with its sandy beach, around the beautiful headlands hereabouts with their tor like outcrops and sheer cliffs, and onto my favourite headland, Pordenack. I spent some time just sitting on the grass there, remembering and wondering.
At the end, there is always the sea.
Nothing survives but these rocks.
In our imagination,
the ragged knight still faces the sunset,
as the holed stone breathes the ocean.
This land exists in myth,
though the rounded sea granite claims permanence.
The softness of the headland,
cosseted in grasses and sweet heather.
The waves below tell tales of lost Lyonnesse.
Here I will remain,
entranced in this sunset place,
when mortality inevitably lets me down.
Scatter my ashes here,
let me forever hear the sea,
lie soft abed the grass,
anchored to this coast by rock.
I carried on through the abomination of Land’s End, and the ridiculous bloody amusement arcade it’s become. One of the buildings there is now a huge Tardis, for a “Dr fucking Who” exhibition. Honestly, what bloody tacky crap.
Setting off from this monstrosity and along the path once more, I was glad to see that they’re doing some good reconstruction of the paths there at last. We came to the headland over looking Sennen cliffs, and I settled down for another refresh of old bittersweet memories.
Clearly now the past mistakes,
the giant steps we had to take.
The path that ever promise made,
to die in dream, dissolve and fade.
My heartland, heartland, heartland
A.W.H. Taylor.
I strolled down through the cove, past the Old Success Inn which was once my local, and went down to the beach car park. There, in their campervan, were PT and Sara. I was grateful for the opportunity of a cuppa and a catch up, and a chance to thank them for their kindness in looking after my house during the building works. We talked about the sewerage problem, without putting ourselves off our teas, and agreed to get it fixed.
I walked back up to the top road, past an old Cornish mutterer, who seemed to remember me, I certainly remember him. He’s a harmless old cove, quite jolly in his madness.
Sennen’s had some new housing built, reasonably appropriate in style for the area for a change. Also, some lucky bugger has converted the old Methodist chapel into a home.
The “First and Last Inn” which went to the dogs following a series of crap landlords, is now apparently on the up again. (No one could ever make the place as good as it was when Rob and Linda run it!) The pubs been through about eight landlords or more in ten years, but is now under the care of Daphne, the last person to make a fair fist of it. Unfortunately I didn’t have the time to call in for a pint, shame
I had a great meal with Janet and Howard, and caught up with their stunningly beautiful daughter Vickie, and her lovely sprog. I inflicted my DVD’s on them. Both Janet and Howard, and Vickie and her partner are coming over to Aus, but on separate trips next year. I’ll be most offended if they don’t visit and stay!
The evening was spent at Rob and Linda’s place with them and Janet and Howard. Wine and chat again, but how could you ever get bored with spending the evening drinking and reminiscing with such fine people? I did it all holiday, and am thankful for every second of it. But I did forget to take the DVD’s along. Bugger.
The next morning after more farewells, and promises, and tears, I set off down to my house again. Still no bugger about, so I took some snaps, and was glad I’d decided to keep the old place.
When I bought out my ex’s share in 2000 I took out a mortgage for £52,000 (I bought a new paraglider, out of this as well.) The work I’ve recently had done on the house, in total cost around £8000. But! Due to the work, and the rampant house price inflation in the UK, the house is now worth in the order of £260,000.
My last mortgage statement showed I owed £47,000, on the house. Thanks to a small windfall we got Lee-Anne and I paid a lump sum of £5000 off the total remaining recently, leaving a mortgage of £42,000.
While I was in my home town Llanelli, I realised I could sell my cottage, and buy TWO new-build flats/apartments there outright. Worth considering. While staying with Mark and Jenny in the heaven that is Devon, I realised that if I sold my cottage, I could buy a reasonable townhouse there outright.
But while down in Cornwall inspecting the work, I realised that if I sold the bloody place, I could never again afford to buy a stone-built barn-conversion cottage, on a farm, in the warmest part of the UK, within 2 minutes walk of the sea, with a village and two pubs within 4 minutes walk, a place of perfect peace and solitude.
Me, Lee-Anne & Bethany will be returning to the UK to live for a few years, in about 5-7 years time. We’ll decide what to do with it then.
Ok, it’s a golden investment I admit, and the chances are it will at least hold its value in years to come. But I take no pride in its increased value, it’s just the way the dice have fallen pretty much in my favour.
I drove off, and managed to get out of Cornwall without getting lost. I was heading for Barnstaple and my last stop of the holiday. I said goodbye to the moors at Oakhampton, promising to myself to return in a year’s time.
On radio 4 was an interesting documentary on Public Art. This boiled down to the fact that local authorities have money to spend on public art, but seem totally clueless on what to buy with it. Most councils seem to end up buying stuff that totally pisses the locals off. One such “artwork’ was a series of slate slabs stuck in the earth of a Barnstaple roundabout. This was viewed with particular approbation by all and sundry. When I got to Barnstaple I checked it out. They were right, it is total shite, and the stone isn’t even local. I was planning on going down and throwing a few tins of paint over it, but then thought better of the idea.
I drove onto Alan and Jo’s place. Both of them were out, but their two young sons, Tom and Jack, were in. They entertained me royally, looking after my every need. What a fine pair of boys, I’m proud to be a godfather to them. I gave them the gifts I had brought over, which were a bit crap to be honest, (sorry boys!) But what do you get for teenage boys? I suppose they’d have been more happy if I’d given them a couple of porn DVD’s and a bottle of Scotch. I know their father would have been.
We discussed all the important things in life, rugby, cricket, school, holidays, and they got me up to speed on how they are doing. “Bloody brilliantly” is the best way to describe that. Tom’s thinking that, if he doesn’t get into the English rugby side, then he’ll join the police. Jack is looking to the English gymnastics squad, but not beyond that. Tom showed me the gym his dad had built in the garage, and we compared muscles. Fortunately I’ve still got bigger biceps than he does. Just.
Jo came home, and she kindly fed and beered me , and we caught up and reminisced. Alan, unfortunately, was working until 2.00 am, (unfortunately for him that is.) But luckily he was able to take a break and come home. Wonderful to see him, and I must say he looks more like Bruce Willis every day, except shorter. He should start wearing a vest and an AK47.
After sharing a brief but very welcome time with Alan, me and Jo and the boys settled in front of the TV, and we watched…guess what?
I even left the DVD’s with them, as I was returning to Aus the next day, so that Alan can watch them. I bet they’re never out of his DVD player.
Jack kindly gave up his bed for me, and crashed in his brother’s room.
The next morning I was up at 6.00 am. Jo kindly got up to see me off, and after a cuppa or three, and yet another goodbye, I drove off into the sunrise. I then drove back and got my jacket, which had my wallet in it and which was hanging up in their hallway.
The deal with the hire car was, when I picked it up it had a full tank of petrol. This I bought at a discounted rate off the hire company, as they get the fuel retail and pass on the saving. Therefore it was in my interest to return the car as empty as possible.
I kept topping it up every time it needed it, with the bare minimum I could get away with. One petrol station I took out most of my loose change, counted it and put 127p worth of petrol in the car.
Unfortunately when I got to Heathrow airport I was driving on fumes. And then I got lost, very lost. Seriously “miles from any petrol station” lost. I drove for miles, quietly screaming at the car to keep going, trying to force it on by sheer willpower. Anyone who knows me will know that willpower isn’t my strong point. I was honestly thinking of abandoning the car, which would have meant losing my deposit (only fucking £550!) and legging it to terminal 3, when I found the hire place. As I got into their yard the car stalled, and it wouldn’t start up again, it was dry!
Sheepishly grinning at the guy there, I made sure of my refund, and got to terminal three with an hour before my flight was due out.
I won’t bore you with the journey home. Suffice to say; nine hours wait in Dubai airport wasn’t any fun, but the Irish pub and the duty free Scotch salespeople loved my stay there.
Stopping at Bangkok for two hours was worse.
And the bus ride from Sydney to Canberra was hell.
I got home and slept for twenty-three hours straight, and then had a weekend of deep joy with my family.
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