Two more days on bastard holiday

Monday and Tuesday

Monday, as mentioned earlier, started rather well as there were Cranston's sausages involved. After writing up to speed at the bar I left Ed and Beth mooching about at the bowling alley and arcade, after all we were due back there just after 1PM as we had an alley booked. Nothing that happens on this horrifically mercenary site is without design. New punters are allowed onto the site at 10:30AM on their chosen arrival day (Monday or Friday) but they are not permitted to access their accommodation until 3:30PM. This leaves thousands of the aspiring middle-class wandering around a massive complex replete with restaurants, bars, cafes and shops with no choice but to part with their hard earned cash to access these tantalising facilities.

Upon my return I was very swiftly hushed into submission by Will. He was crouched halfway across the lounge area facing the partially open french windows. Emma sat to one side brandishing her mobile phone aggressively. A small pile of nuts sat hopefully on the mat.
'What's going on?' I brashly enquired only to be admonished by Emma and Bill simultaneously. I shrugged, Bill pointed at the decking outside in explanation where I saw a flicker of movement, I edged forward and once again was hissed into inactive silence. As I watched, our friend from earlier, a red squirrel we had christened Ian, sniffed his way cautiously forward and onto the nut strewn mat just inside our back door. Of course we took any number of photos but this single incident seemed to awaken an obsession within Emma, she laid lines of nuts on window-sills, floors and tables until I could hardly take a step without crushing something. The highlight was when Ian ventured all the way into the lodge before realising that he could carry no more and fled. The spell was broken some time later when an arguing Ed and Beth clattered through the front door causing a flight of a plethora of wildlife of almost Snow White proportions. Following the curses and complaints we tidied up and left for the bowling alley. The seeds had, however, been sown for further nut related japery.

I am shit at bowling. Even though I used to bowl for a team during my time based in Gibraltar, I am awful. There is a certain macho bravado about getting the heaviest ball and smashing it down the alley (something sexual lurking as an analogy I have no doubt) but even that yields no success or satisfaction for me. I came last, the kids held up the middle order and Emma won. There we go. I had the same chances and opportunities as everyone else but I failed, miserably. There's no more to say really, apart from; on our cycle back to the lodge Emma got lost and ended up cycling twice the distance necessary and in the process her knee complaint worsened. Oh, and something occurred on the way back to the alley that rankled, another final straw to ensure that my decision to return to Center-Parcs (or as I now think of it; Haven Lite) is likely to return a negative response. I had to queue for a piss! Or at least I would have if I had remained at my chosen lavatorial facility, I left and sought solace in the bar. We decided to remain at the lodge for the remainder of the day. The kids soon grew weary of our company and disappeared back to the pool. In the meantime I rustled up a beef stew and we ate quietly, all the while the back doors remained open with a pile of nuts on the mat. Ian failed to make an appearance. Oh, an another little point; do not try to cook at Center Parcs. The smoke detectors are so sensitive that any cooking beyond the steam from a kettle illicit a combined response from a household host of detectors, resulting in a deafening assault. Last night, when I eventually managed to silence the bastards, I could hear dozens of others throughout the site.

The badger channel, now referred to as 'Snuffle-cam' by Emma, provided us with entertaining viewing for the evening. During a break in the badger viewing experience Emma caught up with Coronation Shite and I with some sausage trail research. Did you know that not only is John Snape a sly murdering bastard but that the Sumerians were the first to record a sausage recipe in writing. Can't remember which one was which but both are useful. The stew was insufficient to completely banish our gnawing hunger pangs so, as turn around days (again, Monday and Friday) offer free delivery for all take-way food, I ordered the pizza family feast. The kids returned just before a large Eastern European bloke dropped two large flat boxes on our dining room table and made good his escape. Bill and I opened the boxes and stared at disbelief at their contents. We theorised that as most of the staff here were Eastern European this food must have been cooked with a Polish or maybe Bulgarian clientele in mind consisting as it did of cabbage, onion and the contents of a balti house hoover bag. Still, the bins were full this morning and the wildlife will more than likely eat well, or maybe they have developed a more discerning palette than the standard squirrels, badgers and rabbits.

An early night of sorts; Emma with her knee elevated and me knackered. Beth, Ed and Bill were all in bed and asleep by 11PM.

Next day

As usual Emma was the first up. Miraculously her knee was completely fixed! I struggled awake after yet another world beating cup of tea from my missus to find Ed curled up watching Phineas and Ferb (can we not escape this inane noise?). The plan today? To leave this concentration camp and seek the bright lights of the big Cumbrian city, Carlisle!

A swift departure, when Beth and Ed are concerned is an optimistic dream and this morning was no exception. Our expected 9AM window slowly became 9:30 which quickly morphed into a 10AM target. I went on ahead to send emails etc. and was pleasantly surprised to find that we all arrived at the car at the same time. Something, as they say, was fishy. Well, smelt wrong at least. It was of course Eds latest bag of travel sickness that we had neglected to remove upon arrival.
'Dump it in a bush.' I hissed to Beth as she carried the bag from the car. She didn't hear me. 'Throw it away.' I whispered, loudly as I glanced around. She stared at me blankly. I motioned for her to throw the offending material to one side, she shrugged and held up the soggy carrier bag.
'Dad.' she yelled as I finally reached the car. 'What shall I do with Eddy's sick?' Several fellow inmates in the immediate proximity turned their heads (and probably stomachs) in disgust.
'We'll have to find an appropriate recycling node.' I responded, highly mindful of the aspirations of those also incarcerated here at Whinfell. I am sure I saw a few mute nods of approval.

I took a route new to me through Penrith and discovered that there was indeed a budget supermarket, a Morrisson's, and as such resolved to return to bolster our alcohol supplies on the return journey. Leaving the town it did not take me long to breath the heady fresh air of freedom and marvel at the raw majesty of the Cumbrian countryside. Away from the pines and bicycles of captive Whinfell the bruised dark skies of this crisp October morning seemed to breath a new optimism into my soul and I looked forward to re-visiting my old haunts in Brampton and Carlisle. En-route we would visit Armathwaite, a small town which holds a large place in our family's heart. Not only did Liza and George marry here, a rather interesting day where I first witnesses middle-class mentality, but Emma's father, our children's grandpa has his ashes interred. It had been seventeen years since Liza's wedding, the last time Emma had visited the small churchyard where the commemorative plaque marks the location of her father's remains so today really meant a lot to her.

As we drove through the small town of Armathwaite and passed the turn off to the parish church we opted to stop on the way back to spend some time at the cemetery. Instead we pushed on to find Ruckcroft, a tiny hamlet, not even that I suppose, where Emma, her father and mother had lived when John, that would have been Mister Gradon to the likes of me at the time, was promoted to British Rail area manager of Cumbria and chose his seat of residence. I had visited the impressive house only a handful of times when Emma and I had first started seeing each other but it was exactly as I remembered. After taking a few emotional photographs we pushed on, initially to Croglin, home of the Croglin vampire legend (obviously) but a wrong turn saw us emerging into the town square in Brampton sooner than I expected.

This, in contrast to Ruckcroft, had totally changed. Other than the pubs, The Nag's Head, Howard Arms and The Shoulder of Mutton, and a few others, I failed to recognise practically any of the shops. Cranston's is still there, but, following his major sell out years ago, is corporate and sanitised. I remember the Brampton butcher, the first in his chain, smelling of fat and sawdust with bickering locals standing in line for their order of offal and flesh. The locals are still there but the hallmarks of a local butcher are long gone. Disappointed we piled back into the car and set off for Carlisle Lodge, the ancient seat of the Gledsons 1985 – 1991. A traumatic time for my mum and a time for me and Emma to meet and get engaged, so it was an important place for us. Unfortunately the current owners have purchased a huge chunk of the lay-by and it was not possible to drive beyond the new gates to see our old house. Never mind, at this point I was, disappointingly, realising that I wasn't as emotionally attached to Cumbria as I had originally thought. We pushed on to Carlisle, blimey this sounds like Shackleton's heroic journey.

The Lane's, Carlisle's premium shopping concourse, hadn't changed much. The car park still sported the unmarked concrete posts I had hit a few times with Dad's old Ford Capri, and the lifts were still very, very slow. Predictably, we all separated and got lost. A few frantic calls later we regrouped and set off to look for our goals, rings and clothes. Wedding rings for Emma and I for our vow renewal ceremony and clothes for Eddy at the same. It took some time but we accomplished everything, thanks to Emma. Once more I felt a bit down as Carlisle returned very little in the way of retrospective emotional feelings. I'm not sure what I expected, but it wasn't nothing. Carlisle meant very little to me when I moved there in 1985 with my parents and brothers as I was to join the Navy a few days later. It was as though I had left a life behind and begun something new, worse. I had no feeling for my parents new choice of home so focussed on my new choice. Over the following six or seven years I returned to Carlisle very little. It failed to make an impression on me until I met Emma at the pub (I think the term at the time was PLUB) Annabelles a few days after the 1990 World Cup semi-final loss against Germany. After that I travelled from my base in Fareham, 6 miles from where I now live, back to Carlisle every weekend until Emma moved in with me when I was finally drafted to Portland.

A new paragraph as I could easily become bogged down and distracted. On the way back we did indeed visited the churchyard in Armathwaite and something peculiar happened. We disembarked at the entrance to the small graveyard and followed the narrow, well kempt path to the rear of the chapel where the steep grassy bank, well populated with ancient headstones, rose to a high dry stone wall against which three empty plant-pots lay forlorn and neglected. The inset plaque they framed remained proud and legible, although the lower lettering was obscured by encroaching turf. We all took a hand at enhancing the patch and I hope Emma felt that we respectfully took time to help her with the task of refurbishing her father's final resting place. Eddy, I think, understood more than he should the reality of the situation and it was with a certain relief that we returned to the lodge and he and his siblings quickly jumped on their bikes and rode off to the Canter Parcs inmate activities.