Day 4 Thursday,
11 September 2014
Barnard Castle
The food was tasty and copious and the bill, with tips, was just £30 for four of us. The sun had burst through at 11 ‘o’ clock and the day was fiercely hot. However, the restaurant was dark and cool and, in fact, my mother was obliged to don a cardigan. The only other customers were a mixed group of eight who had obviously booked a table for an office lunch. They were so subdued that I assumed they all worked in the banking sector, the sector that dare not utter its name in public. The atmosphere was so sombre that I managed to utter just a single witticism. Somebody, perhaps a little great-great grandchild, had been tampering with my mother’s mobile phone. That person had added several zeros to my wife’s phone number, which meant that none of seven texts my mother sent my wife that day was ever received. “I wonder who was responsible?” my sister said. “It must have been the ‘o-zone layer,’” I replied. Only my sister laughed.
After our meal, we walked slowly down the main street, my sister buying clothes, my mother a watch and handkerchief, my wife an expensive harness for the dog. I splashed out on some pencil leads for my propelling pencil. I was tempted to buy a Panama hat (£46) from an upmarket milliner’s and a picnic set with three extra compartments for wine bottles (£45) from an antique shop. The salesman at the antiques emporium was German. “It iz not a true enteek,’ he said. ‘It came from Debenham’s.’ I bought neither the hat nor the antique picnic set. My sister almost bought an ancient Chinese wooden chest, but her bid of £150 was some way short of the asking price. “Nein,” the German said. “Ve must insist on the esking price being met, uzzerwize ve vill soon go out of business.”
Mother and sister both came back to the caravan. We sat, on a glorious afternoon, eating cream cakes and drinking tea. I borrowed some tools from my sister to help me replace the breakaway cable when I finally get round to buying another one. I said goodbye to both and received a hug and a peck on the cheek in exchange. They went on their way at 5 ‘o’ clock.
I went for a stroll with the dog. There was an old Mark I Ford Transit caravanette across the way, near the toilet block. I photographed it. It was pale blue and in good nick. I owned one back in 1983. It was red and it wasn’t in good nick. The floor fell out and I had to get rid of it at a huge loss. The man inside reminded me of Landburger Gessler from William Tell. He must have been about 25 stone.
Darkness fell quickly, and the site became silent and sombre. The last pipistrelle flew past the awning window, and a cloak of inky blackness descended. Ominous shadows flitted past and even though they were just people going about their business, seeing them was vaguely disconcerting. Even the rooks were silent.
VALENTINE’S DAY
In which we entertain mother and number two sister to
lunch and almost buy some precious antiques.
I awoke at 07:40. A heavy haar hung in the air and visibility
was restricted. The distant trees were
clothed in mist. It was a spectral
scene. I had finished my morning chores
by eleven ‘o’ clock. I had hung out the
damp towels, swabbed out the bathroom, washed the dishes, folded back the side
awning entrance (tricky, because I’d forgotten how to do it) and cleared out
the detergents cupboard. To celebrate, I
drank Colombian coffee and looked contentedly around the site, like a cow
chewing the cud. The normally boisterous
rooks in the huge oak tree opposite had quietened down, so much so that I could
hear the ‘chack’ of some distant jackdaws squabbling amongst themselves. I heard a woman’s voice from behind the hedge.
She said: “There is a boos, but thou has to walk down t’end of t’road to catch
it.” A man rolled his water carrier along the metalled road alongside the
caravan. The carrier made quite a noise,
but the man was not embarrassed.
Embarrassment melts away when you have communal toilets.
I had to entertain my
mother and number two sister at lunchtime. I chose Valentine’s restaurant in The food was tasty and copious and the bill, with tips, was just £30 for four of us. The sun had burst through at 11 ‘o’ clock and the day was fiercely hot. However, the restaurant was dark and cool and, in fact, my mother was obliged to don a cardigan. The only other customers were a mixed group of eight who had obviously booked a table for an office lunch. They were so subdued that I assumed they all worked in the banking sector, the sector that dare not utter its name in public. The atmosphere was so sombre that I managed to utter just a single witticism. Somebody, perhaps a little great-great grandchild, had been tampering with my mother’s mobile phone. That person had added several zeros to my wife’s phone number, which meant that none of seven texts my mother sent my wife that day was ever received. “I wonder who was responsible?” my sister said. “It must have been the ‘o-zone layer,’” I replied. Only my sister laughed.
After our meal, we walked slowly down the main street, my sister buying clothes, my mother a watch and handkerchief, my wife an expensive harness for the dog. I splashed out on some pencil leads for my propelling pencil. I was tempted to buy a Panama hat (£46) from an upmarket milliner’s and a picnic set with three extra compartments for wine bottles (£45) from an antique shop. The salesman at the antiques emporium was German. “It iz not a true enteek,’ he said. ‘It came from Debenham’s.’ I bought neither the hat nor the antique picnic set. My sister almost bought an ancient Chinese wooden chest, but her bid of £150 was some way short of the asking price. “Nein,” the German said. “Ve must insist on the esking price being met, uzzerwize ve vill soon go out of business.”
Mother and sister both came back to the caravan. We sat, on a glorious afternoon, eating cream cakes and drinking tea. I borrowed some tools from my sister to help me replace the breakaway cable when I finally get round to buying another one. I said goodbye to both and received a hug and a peck on the cheek in exchange. They went on their way at 5 ‘o’ clock.
I went for a stroll with the dog. There was an old Mark I Ford Transit caravanette across the way, near the toilet block. I photographed it. It was pale blue and in good nick. I owned one back in 1983. It was red and it wasn’t in good nick. The floor fell out and I had to get rid of it at a huge loss. The man inside reminded me of Landburger Gessler from William Tell. He must have been about 25 stone.
Darkness fell quickly, and the site became silent and sombre. The last pipistrelle flew past the awning window, and a cloak of inky blackness descended. Ominous shadows flitted past and even though they were just people going about their business, seeing them was vaguely disconcerting. Even the rooks were silent.
