Bulgaria
Did I have a lovely Christmas that year? ..Well ..no ..Not as such. Knowing of my plans, Mum 'phoned the day before Christmas Eve to wish Jenny and me well. During that conversation the subject of winter ailments was discussed; I clearly recall explaining to Mum that I'd become impervious to the Common Cold because each day I drank up to three health giving litres of water. Naturally enough, it was within less than two hours of that conversation it became obvious I'd started the inevitable dreaded Christmas Cold Straight From Hell. Within four hours, I sounded like Donald Duck, both nostrils totally blocked but still managing to drip salty water. Eyes red and watering ..freshly sandpapered throat ..Still, no worries: It's Christmas and I've got a few days at home warming my feet before a roaring log fire, haven't I? ..No.. Regardless of the many extremely ominous weather forecasts, Id decided we would spend Christmas in our two-berth caravan up on the north coast of Devon. For information, three days before and right up to the day we departed, force 8 to force 9 gales bearing NW were confidently forecast for Christmas and Boxing Day. But, the previous Christmas we'd planned to camp in our tent at a campsite near Bude in Cornwall and gales had prevented us. And similarly, the year previous to that, our first together in Devon, both Jenny and I had succumbed to an earlier but equally virulent strain of the inevitable dreaded Christmas Cold Straight From Hell and we'd both been too ill to make it to the coast.. Most of Christmas that year, wed spent conversing via sign language and meaningful sniffs, both of us having simultaneously lost our voices. We passed the time coughing up miniature frogs and wondering how our Christmas food and drink would taste if we could taste it. Anyway, I digress; that was 1997 and during the first quarter of 1999 we'd bought ourselves a caravan, so sod the weather and the inevitable dreaded Christmas Cold Straight From Hell; third time lucky, we were going anyway.
The next morning was Christmas Eve. That sounds like a lot of bollocks, doesn't it? How can a morning be an evening? It's all beyond me ..I know, we'll call it Christmas Mevening ..OK, picture this. It's 09:10 on Christmas Mevening and Jenny and I begin our day by fleeing naked from the window cleaners ..But only from all three of them. Out of bed we get, both of us entirely naked except for the patina of Christmas-Cold-Straight-From-Hell Dried-Up-Snot that temporarily cemented us together during the night. In similar fashion to a memorable scene from The Life of Brian , I fling back the curtains and there I am, face to face with window cleaner number one. There he stands, on his ladder, frozen mid-wipe.. It's initially uncertain who is the more surprised. Eventually and inevitably, his eyes are drawn downward to my willy. His eyebrows rise ever-so slightly, but exactly enough to convey pity. And so, clutching the parts that other window cleaners cannot reach, Jenny and I flee naked from our bedroom onto the landing to discover window cleaners number two and three in wait up their ladders artfully positioned at the windows of the two front bedrooms whose doors are wide open and facing the landing. We almost fell down the stairs. ..Synchronised Window Cleaning at 09:00 on Christmas Mevening? ..beats me..
Well, here goes.. The farm at which we habitually stored our caravan was 7 miles from home. About an hour after paying the window cleaners without actually making eye contact, were in the car, a full 6.5 of those 7 miles from home, and Jenny shouts to me above the pounding of the wind, "I suppose you have brought the address of the camp site and the directions?" ..Utter silence.. And there it was; it had started.. We'd entered the Twi-Sh*te Zone: That dreaded parallel dimension in which absolutely everything goes hopelessly wrong and people sing, Im Dreaming Of A Sh*te Christmas . So.. In the continuing gale force 8 to 9 wind and pissing, horizontal rain, I drove us the 7 miles back home. There, I retrieved the instructions, (written on one of those little yellow 'Post-It' notes with an adhesive top). Back in the car, I stuck the note on Jennys side of the dashboard and drove us back the same 7 miles through steadily worsening weather. At the barn housing our caravan I hitched up and checked the electrical connections were working properly ..No.. Of course they weren't. No brake lights on the car or caravan ..Never mind. Would Sir Edmund Hilary have let something like that stand in his way? ..No.. Now, I swear to you, having driven no further than half a mile from the barn, I asked Jenny to adjust the car's near side extended side mirror, (for seeing past the caravan). She opened her window and of the sentence, "Jenny, look out, I think the instructions written on the little yellow Post-It note which is stuck on your side of the dashboard are just about to be blown out the window without touching the sides and disappear forever in the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain," I actually managed to say, "Je.," before the little yellow 'Post-It' note stuck to Jennys side of the dashboard leaped straight out of the open window without touching the sides and disappeared forever, blown away in the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain. I won't inflict on you the few words I did actually manage to say in their entirety very shortly after this. Occasionally, during momentary lulls in the howling wind and pissing, horizontal rain lashing around us, the sound of gently grinding teeth could be heard as we continued toward the vicinity of the campsite.
Id booked the venue months earlier and all we could remember was an approximate locality and that the campsites name was something like Roadway Farm ..Suddenly, aha! Look! ..there it was, right there in front of us, just visible through the rain and half-light, a great big friendly sign reading, "Roadway Farm". Great! ..our luck must have changed. It had.. It had got worse. The drive seemed a bit steep as we drove down it. Steeper and steeper it got. Jenny said, "This is jolly steep", which just proves I'm not exaggerating. We eventually found ourselves at the bottom of the drive and I halted the car beside a farmhouse. After my ears had readjusted to the areas low altitude air pressure, I got out of the car and was immediately obliged to adopt the classic Startled-Ski-Jumper position, which involves leaning forward at 30 degrees to horizontal whilst moving tentatively through the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain. A lady answered the door of the farm. ... Hello I said, What terrible weather, Im Laurie Dignum I pointed toward the car, And thats Jenny Kane, were booked in for two days .. The lady looked puzzled.. I experienced a sinking feeling as I added, This is Roadway Farm, isn't it? (The answer was indecipherable due to the howling wind).. "Pardon? Sorry, no, ..LOOK, YOU'LL HAVE TO SHOUT, I can't hear you above this gale force wind and pi.. er, horizontal rai.. Ow! ..Oooh! ..Christ! ..horizontal hailstones! ..Hang on, I'll just put my coat over my head" The lady winced as a stray gust clattered hailstones against her front door, she nodded.. Well, yes she replied, This is Roadway Farm, but do you actually want Roadway Farm? ..No.. Of course we didnt.. What we wanted was Little Roadway Farm which, amusingly enough the lady told me, didnt have a drive like the North Face of the Eiger and was situated only 300 metres further along from where we'd turned into Roadway Farm's vertiginous drive. Through gritted teeth I agreed with the lady how extremely funny this was. Particularly hilarious we agreed was the fact that even she and her husband had trouble getting up their drive in a Land Rover with four-wheel drive selected and the back axle's differential locked..
And so, with the front wheels of the Cavalier spinning and the bonnet slewing about, the caravan swaying from side to side, horizontal hailstones disintegrating into shrapnel against the car windows and cold sweat dripping from our brows we willed ourselves up Roadway Farm's precipitous drive. At the top we began breathing again and I turned left, drove the said 300 side-splitting metres, turned left again and proceeded along Little Roadway Farm's drive which, as cheerfully predicted, was almost perfectly level and, as it turned out, almost perfectly flooded. There appeared to be nowhere to camp other than in a field to our right, but it seemed such a shame to disturb the shivering sea gulls and array of small icebergs floating on it. We continued, therefore, between dilapidated farm buildings and through the flooding in the unmade road to a position where it became patently obvious that it would be absolutely impossible to turn the car and caravan around. I tried, though. After three increasingly hopeless attempts, I carefully analysed the situation and did what any mature, intelligent and responsible adult would do.. I got out of the car, walked to the rear, leaned forward, and screamed the word, "SH*T" directly at the tow bar. At that precise moment, from nowhere, mien host and owner of Little Roadway Farm unexpectedly joined me for the tow bars christening. Later, Jenny told me hed visibly flinched as I Power-Insulted the tow bar. Anyway, he then proceeded to demonstrate that he wasnt a mature, intelligent and responsible adult by calmly unhitching the caravan, turning it around by hand and re-hitching it without screaming the word, "SH*T" at anything at all, the smart-arse.. Well, it takes all sorts doesn't it? ..Later, as directed, I drove us back to the beginning of the flooded road and parked up on a very picturesque area of mud and water. It was getting dark by now, so after deciding to leave unhitching until daylight, I left Jenny to unstow our Christmas provisions, collected our water container and its filling pipe and announced I would fetch water.. Now, because my spectacles werent equipped with de-misters or wipers and the lenses werent manufactured from bulletproof glass, I thoughtfully removed them before setting out. It was, therefore, with unavoidably impaired vision that I carried the empty water container the quarter of a mile along the flooded road to the farmhouse. This actually wasnt too bad as the skull denting horizontal hailstones had temporarily ceased and it was merely the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain that drove at me from behind. Thankful for this small mercy and congratulating myself on having the foresight, (no pun intended), to remove my glasses, I walked right past the standpipe situated just 15, (Fifteen), paces from our caravan. It was a quarter of a mile less these 15 paces, therefore, to where the farmer eventually pointed through the pissing, horizontal rain, all the way back up the flooded road and said, "It's only 15 paces from where you've parked your van!" and flinched slightly in preparation for me screaming, "SH*T" at him. He neednt have worried.. I was incapable of speech. Back in the classic Startled-Ski-Jumper position leaning forward at 30 degrees to horizontal, I slopped, squelched and staggered back along the quarter mile of floods and mud to the standpipe 15 paces from our caravan. Once there, with hands now mauve and painful from the cold, I removed the water container's carrying handle and its screw top. I placed the water container in the mud beneath the standpipe's tap. I connected the filling pipe to the tap and placed the opposite end inside the water container. Standing in the slowly freezing mud, I turned on the tap. ..Yup.. Nothing.. Water water everywhere and not a single, miserable, stinking, God-cursed drop to drink. ..I didn't scream the word, SH*T , I didnt say anything. In fact, I didn't do anything. I just stood there, swaying in the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain with icy water trickling through my hair and beard and dripping into the neck of my soaking wet clothes.
Eventually the will to continue life returned, albeit weakly and leaving the water container right there in the mud, I walked back that quarter of a mile down the flooded road to the farmhouse and knocked the side door. "Guess what I said.. There's no water coming out of the standpipe".. The farmer gave a preparatory flinch but relaxed when he saw I was a beaten man.. "Well, the pipe must be frozen then ..But still, never mind he said cheerfully, You can fill up here, look", and he pointed to another standpipe right by the farmhouse door. Yes, after re-assuming the classic Startled-Ski-Jumper position I walked back almost a quarter of a mile through the mud and flooding and gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain to the standpipe 15 paces from the caravan. There I extricated our water container from the mud, removed our filling pipe from the frozen tap and walked back that quarter of a mile through the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain to the farmhouse. There, I filled our water container, re-assumed the classic Startled-Ski-Jumper position and staggered back that quarter of a mi.. Oh, you know.. About three weeks after announcing I would fetch water, I arrived back at the caravan where Jenny innocently asked what had taken me so long. I began to explain but froze as I remembered, with utter horror, the last time I'd stowed away the caravan in its barn 7 miles from home, (or 21 miles if youre an idiot), I'd carefully and lovingly disconnected a plastic pipe from the water pump in case the winter weather caused any water trapped inside it to freeze, expand and damage the pump. Wheres this pump? No worries at all.. it's situated right in the middle of the caravan's underside just less than a foot above the expanse of freezing water and thick mud upon which wed camped and it was now pitch dark. So, I unpacked the entire contents of the caravans single wardrobe to retrieve from it a large sheet of plastic. Then, mindful of our very limited space, I carefully replaced the entire contents of the wardrobe and clutching my plastic sheet and a torch I re-launched myself back out into the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain. Outside, like a man possessed, I fought with the plastic sheet as the wind attempted to snatch it away to the English Channel. Eventually I lay half in the mud and freezing water and half on the plastic sheet beneath the caravan and only dropped the torch into the mud three times as I wrestled with the cold hardened plastic tubing. Having removed the obligatory layers of skin from both my knuckles and elbows and rendered the torch useless, I finally got the pipe onto the pump and arose like a demented mud monster only to have the cold stiffened plastic sheet suddenly wrenched from my painfully frozen fingers. I watched it disappear at 85 mph in a southerly direction, and for light relief, (pun intended), with every ounce of strength remaining, I flung the useless torch in the same direction. If it ever fell back to Earth, I neither saw it, nor heard it.
After this, I entered the swaying caravan and turned on the tap ..What else?.. Nothing.. More sodding water water everywhere and still not a single, miserable, stinking God-cursed drop to drink. ..Again, for a while, I didn't say anything and I didnt do anything ..I just stood with salty snot drops dripping every three seconds from my nose. Then, not once, but three times in all, I went back outside again and lay, (because my plastic sheet was now sunning itself off the French Coast), directly in the freezing water and mud and re-wrestled with the pump ..Lying there prostrate in the mud, the rain became intermingled with bullets of ice and the gale force wind began driving hailstones at an average speed of 85 mph straight up my trousers and for weeks afterward I had pitted testicles ..and all to no avail. ..The pump was knackered. And so, from within the caravan, I collected some smaller water containers and squelched back outside to where the newly filled 25-litre water container was visibly sinking under its own weight into the mud. The operational stand pipe was, of course, a quarter of a mile away along the flooded muddy track and the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain was again viciously turning into pieces of ice shrapnel travelling at around 85 mph so, there was no realistic option. Using a full 25-litre container I attempted to fill two 1-litre plastic bottles and a kettle. I clutched one plastic bottle under an arm to prevent it following the plastic sheet southward and wedged the other bottle against the caravan's near side rear wheel. I picked up the unwieldy, slippery and very heavy 25-litre container and attempted to pour water from its 2-inch diameter aperture into the 1 litre plastic bottle's half-inch aperture. Now, this would have been difficult enough in ideal circumstances; you know, in daylight - wearing a stout jock strap - using a funnel - being sane and in normal weather conditions.. No chance.. The water didnt pour downward in an arc ..No, it hurtled directly sideways at 85 mph and ended up penetrating the brickwork of the farmhouse a quarter of a mile distant. Eventually, I worked out a system for pouring water from the 25-litre container. This involved sending barely controllable ragged gout of water 3 metres horizontally not so much into as at the 1-litre bottle canted over at about 45 degrees to horizontal. I managed to half fill one bottle and set up the next. Eventually, I half filled this too, but only to discover that, a) Id neglected to refit its screw top, b) it had been blown over, c) it was empty again, d) it was covered in mud, and e) there is no God. After five hernias and blasting about 20 litres of water a quarter of a mile sideways at 85 mph, I was eventually the proud owner of approximately two pints of sepia coloured water in muddy bottles and another pint in a muddy kettle and just the mildest doses of frostbite and hypothermia.
Afterward, I entered the caravan and took off all my clothes because they were so wet, if I'd fallen in the sea wearing them I'd have come out dryer. In grim silence, I dressed myself in the only other dry clothes I'd taken and announced I was about to get the television set up. This involved cunningly putting my booster aerial inside a plastic bag, (to protect it from the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain or hailstones). Then, to this bag I cunningly tied a length of string. My idea was to place the booster aerial inside its bag, on top of the caravan and pass the string back into the caravan via its roof-mounted ventilator. Inside the caravan, I would then cunningly tie the string to a convenient hook thereby restraining the aerial's natural inclination to streak off at 85 mph and splash down into the English Channel. And so, clutching my booster aerial cunningly secure inside its bag and cunningly tied to its length of string, cunningly pre-empting a possibility of the wind catching the caravan door, I braced myself and cracked open the door half an inch. Again, I swear this is true, immediately the howling wind caught the door which, if let go would have flung open at 85 mph and disintegrated the caravan, and with a double handed death grip on the door handle, I was literally heaved outside and cunningly hurled knees first into the water and thick glutinous mud alongside the caravan. All the clothes Id taken with me were now soaked in mud and water. Subsequently, muttering in a new language comprising whining noises, lurid swear words, insane threats and horrendous blasphemy, I attempted to place the booster aerial inside its bag covered in mud onto the roof of the caravan in a wind gusting up to 90 mph. Why? ..You tell me.. I suppose I'd gone mad by this time; Id not far to go anyway.. Every time I attempted to feed the muddy string back inside through the caravan's ventilator, the wind whipped the bag containing the booster aerial off the roof and deposited it several metres away into the centre of a small but visibly growing lake of mud and flood water. I can't be sure, because the farm house was a quarter of a mile down wind but, as the third attempt failed, I'd like to think the farmer flinched again as I assessed the situation and like any mature, intelligent and responsible adult, screamed the word, "SH*T" directly at the booster aerial as it bobbed merrily about on its mini lake. Eventually though, I did it.. Eventually.. After an unknown number of thwarted attempts, I eventually succeeded in tying the booster aerial onto the roof of the caravan. Afterward, again literally soaked to the skin, covered in mud and resembling a demented Black and White Minstrel, I re-entered the caravan where, due to some excellent pre-planning on my part, I again took out the entire contents of the same wardrobe in order to remove our B&W television from its storage place. I then put back all of the contents of the wardrobe prior to setting the television in place on top of the caravan's little fridge immediately beneath the caravan's ventilator. I carefully wiped the mud off the aerial jack plug, inserted it into the television and pressed the ON button. No surprises at all ..Nothing.. Not a sod.. Either the television itself or its booster aerial had given up the ghost. No words were possible at this time. Silently, therefore, but with imminent stroke-warning blue veins pulsing at my temples I re-removed the entire contents of the wardrobe and replaced the television. I then re-replaced the entire contents of the wardrobe. Then, by way of a finale, I sneezed. Then I sneezed again.. And then I sneezed again, and again.. and again, and yet again, and then, by way of light relief, I continued sneezing. By this time and at my own request, Jenny was taking notes on the entire fiasco. I originally wrote this missive with her notepaper by my skinned left elbow. Her note read, "Sneezed for 2 hours". Afterward, we agreed it had seemed like two hours, but it was an exaggeration. We did agree, however, that whilst I sat dripping water for what seemed like two hours, in truth, I sneezed at least 30 times &So romantic.
Throughout that night I lay awake awaiting the mutant gust of wind that would put our caravan onto its side.. Quite early on, I got up, and by the cheery illumination of lightning flashes, removed articles from the shelves immediately above our heads lest we be brained during the night. It was like being aboard a boat. The caravan was rarely still for more than ten seconds at a time, thunder vibrated us - the caravan - and everything in it. I decided the only way wed sleep through this hullabaloo was by getting slightly pissed.. Jenny and I didnt actually drink that much. But determined as I was that our Caravan Christmas was going to be absolutely perfect, Id wanted us to have available a drink of whatever we fancied. Three months prior to that Christmas, therefore, Id begun hoarding a serious booze collection. We took with us the following.. 1.5 litres of Vermouth, a litre of Brandy, standard 70cl bottles of Whisky, Drambuie, Vodka, Bacardi, Dark Rum, Bailey's and two bottles of port comprising white and red. In addition to that lot wed taken six bottles of red and three bottles of white wine, plus a Stone's Ginger Wine, blackcurrant, lime and orange cordials and three 1-litre bottles of tonic. During the earlier part of the night, it was Jenny who had us crying with laughter. Inside the caravan, it was like hell. Everything was wobbling about and we were obliged to shout above the incredible combined din of wind, thunder and driving hailstones. After a while, Jenny frowned and said, "Hey, I think we'd better not drink any more of this booze . I remember thinking, You can do what you like, mate, Im getting pissed, hopefully before I go insane & Why? I shouted.. After another ear-splitting clap of thunder, Jenny shouted back, It's the only thing keeping the caravan on the ground!"
The following day was Christmas. So, naturally enough, we arose, donned wet suits, hats, boots and gloves and in the unrelenting gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain, we entered the frigid sea at Woolacombe. True to form, within minutes the pissing, horizontal rain changed to 85-mph hail that drove straight at us off the sea. To avoid faces similar to my testicles, we turned our backs until it passed. When the murderous hail was replaced by mere gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain we went in a bit deeper. The surf was strange. The water height varied between about a third of a metre and two metres in height and quite regularly a vigorous backwash caused in-coming waves to stand almost motionless. This happened and whilst a wave stood, another larger wave galloped up from behind in the 85 mph wind. The two waves combined forces and surged forward. The only bit of Jenny exposed to the elements was her face which was slowly changing from Hypothermic-Mauve to Death-Blue. She was standing in about one and a half metres of water and I reckoned the bitter cold wind plus this new two-metre, Two-For-The-Price-Of-One wave would bowl her over. I lurched forward and hastily lifted her up just as the wave arrived. Below the surface, as the cold and unprepared ham-string tendon tore agonisingly in my left leg, I swallowed about half a pint of freezing sea water and decided there and then, that it was time to hobble out, act like ordinary people and return to the caravan to get slightly pissed and open our Christmas presents. Which we did. With my newly acquired inability to walk or stand without severe discomfort, we gave up and returned home the following day.. No rain. No wind. No hailstones and throughout the next two days there were blue skies and brilliant sunshine. Oh, and by the way, Jennys son James, spent Christmas with his dad in Cheltenham where the weather had been glorious.. Still, he missed all the fun.
I hope some of this has given you a laugh.. Jenny, incapable as she was of finding humour in anything not involving mild innuendo and slapstick, never did see the funny side of that Christmas.. What is a pity though, is that time was the villain of the piece. Another year had ended and with it, I suppose I'd learned some more humility the hard way. But, as a young man all of it would have been a bloody good laugh. Instead, it proved to be a nightmare and several more nails for the coffin in which our on-off relationship would eventually be lain to rest. Wed so looked forward to our alternative Christmas: Life has a wonderful way of demonstrating how little we control of our destinies, doesn't it? After some reflection, the next year, I decided, we'd put on Christmas slippers, drink tepid Ovaltine, turn up the central heating, take the mick out of the Queen's speech and her inevitably stupid hat, and roast some turkey, and watch all the crap on TV, and not even open the front door except maybe to tell carol singers to bugger-off..
Well, just over a week after that debacle, we went to Tenerife for Jenny's 50th birthday.. I remember hoping to Christ the island wouldnt be suddenly inundated by volcanic eruptions, hurricanes or torrential rain. As a postscript, I can subsequently report that Tenerife is an unusual island. I may eventually get around to writing a report on our holiday there. As a taster though, before closing, a word about Tenerife:
&CLINKERS&
The next morning was Christmas Eve. That sounds like a lot of bollocks, doesn't it? How can a morning be an evening? It's all beyond me ..I know, we'll call it Christmas Mevening ..OK, picture this. It's 09:10 on Christmas Mevening and Jenny and I begin our day by fleeing naked from the window cleaners ..But only from all three of them. Out of bed we get, both of us entirely naked except for the patina of Christmas-Cold-Straight-From-Hell Dried-Up-Snot that temporarily cemented us together during the night. In similar fashion to a memorable scene from The Life of Brian , I fling back the curtains and there I am, face to face with window cleaner number one. There he stands, on his ladder, frozen mid-wipe.. It's initially uncertain who is the more surprised. Eventually and inevitably, his eyes are drawn downward to my willy. His eyebrows rise ever-so slightly, but exactly enough to convey pity. And so, clutching the parts that other window cleaners cannot reach, Jenny and I flee naked from our bedroom onto the landing to discover window cleaners number two and three in wait up their ladders artfully positioned at the windows of the two front bedrooms whose doors are wide open and facing the landing. We almost fell down the stairs. ..Synchronised Window Cleaning at 09:00 on Christmas Mevening? ..beats me..
Well, here goes.. The farm at which we habitually stored our caravan was 7 miles from home. About an hour after paying the window cleaners without actually making eye contact, were in the car, a full 6.5 of those 7 miles from home, and Jenny shouts to me above the pounding of the wind, "I suppose you have brought the address of the camp site and the directions?" ..Utter silence.. And there it was; it had started.. We'd entered the Twi-Sh*te Zone: That dreaded parallel dimension in which absolutely everything goes hopelessly wrong and people sing, Im Dreaming Of A Sh*te Christmas . So.. In the continuing gale force 8 to 9 wind and pissing, horizontal rain, I drove us the 7 miles back home. There, I retrieved the instructions, (written on one of those little yellow 'Post-It' notes with an adhesive top). Back in the car, I stuck the note on Jennys side of the dashboard and drove us back the same 7 miles through steadily worsening weather. At the barn housing our caravan I hitched up and checked the electrical connections were working properly ..No.. Of course they weren't. No brake lights on the car or caravan ..Never mind. Would Sir Edmund Hilary have let something like that stand in his way? ..No.. Now, I swear to you, having driven no further than half a mile from the barn, I asked Jenny to adjust the car's near side extended side mirror, (for seeing past the caravan). She opened her window and of the sentence, "Jenny, look out, I think the instructions written on the little yellow Post-It note which is stuck on your side of the dashboard are just about to be blown out the window without touching the sides and disappear forever in the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain," I actually managed to say, "Je.," before the little yellow 'Post-It' note stuck to Jennys side of the dashboard leaped straight out of the open window without touching the sides and disappeared forever, blown away in the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain. I won't inflict on you the few words I did actually manage to say in their entirety very shortly after this. Occasionally, during momentary lulls in the howling wind and pissing, horizontal rain lashing around us, the sound of gently grinding teeth could be heard as we continued toward the vicinity of the campsite.
Id booked the venue months earlier and all we could remember was an approximate locality and that the campsites name was something like Roadway Farm ..Suddenly, aha! Look! ..there it was, right there in front of us, just visible through the rain and half-light, a great big friendly sign reading, "Roadway Farm". Great! ..our luck must have changed. It had.. It had got worse. The drive seemed a bit steep as we drove down it. Steeper and steeper it got. Jenny said, "This is jolly steep", which just proves I'm not exaggerating. We eventually found ourselves at the bottom of the drive and I halted the car beside a farmhouse. After my ears had readjusted to the areas low altitude air pressure, I got out of the car and was immediately obliged to adopt the classic Startled-Ski-Jumper position, which involves leaning forward at 30 degrees to horizontal whilst moving tentatively through the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain. A lady answered the door of the farm. ... Hello I said, What terrible weather, Im Laurie Dignum I pointed toward the car, And thats Jenny Kane, were booked in for two days .. The lady looked puzzled.. I experienced a sinking feeling as I added, This is Roadway Farm, isn't it? (The answer was indecipherable due to the howling wind).. "Pardon? Sorry, no, ..LOOK, YOU'LL HAVE TO SHOUT, I can't hear you above this gale force wind and pi.. er, horizontal rai.. Ow! ..Oooh! ..Christ! ..horizontal hailstones! ..Hang on, I'll just put my coat over my head" The lady winced as a stray gust clattered hailstones against her front door, she nodded.. Well, yes she replied, This is Roadway Farm, but do you actually want Roadway Farm? ..No.. Of course we didnt.. What we wanted was Little Roadway Farm which, amusingly enough the lady told me, didnt have a drive like the North Face of the Eiger and was situated only 300 metres further along from where we'd turned into Roadway Farm's vertiginous drive. Through gritted teeth I agreed with the lady how extremely funny this was. Particularly hilarious we agreed was the fact that even she and her husband had trouble getting up their drive in a Land Rover with four-wheel drive selected and the back axle's differential locked..
And so, with the front wheels of the Cavalier spinning and the bonnet slewing about, the caravan swaying from side to side, horizontal hailstones disintegrating into shrapnel against the car windows and cold sweat dripping from our brows we willed ourselves up Roadway Farm's precipitous drive. At the top we began breathing again and I turned left, drove the said 300 side-splitting metres, turned left again and proceeded along Little Roadway Farm's drive which, as cheerfully predicted, was almost perfectly level and, as it turned out, almost perfectly flooded. There appeared to be nowhere to camp other than in a field to our right, but it seemed such a shame to disturb the shivering sea gulls and array of small icebergs floating on it. We continued, therefore, between dilapidated farm buildings and through the flooding in the unmade road to a position where it became patently obvious that it would be absolutely impossible to turn the car and caravan around. I tried, though. After three increasingly hopeless attempts, I carefully analysed the situation and did what any mature, intelligent and responsible adult would do.. I got out of the car, walked to the rear, leaned forward, and screamed the word, "SH*T" directly at the tow bar. At that precise moment, from nowhere, mien host and owner of Little Roadway Farm unexpectedly joined me for the tow bars christening. Later, Jenny told me hed visibly flinched as I Power-Insulted the tow bar. Anyway, he then proceeded to demonstrate that he wasnt a mature, intelligent and responsible adult by calmly unhitching the caravan, turning it around by hand and re-hitching it without screaming the word, "SH*T" at anything at all, the smart-arse.. Well, it takes all sorts doesn't it? ..Later, as directed, I drove us back to the beginning of the flooded road and parked up on a very picturesque area of mud and water. It was getting dark by now, so after deciding to leave unhitching until daylight, I left Jenny to unstow our Christmas provisions, collected our water container and its filling pipe and announced I would fetch water.. Now, because my spectacles werent equipped with de-misters or wipers and the lenses werent manufactured from bulletproof glass, I thoughtfully removed them before setting out. It was, therefore, with unavoidably impaired vision that I carried the empty water container the quarter of a mile along the flooded road to the farmhouse. This actually wasnt too bad as the skull denting horizontal hailstones had temporarily ceased and it was merely the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain that drove at me from behind. Thankful for this small mercy and congratulating myself on having the foresight, (no pun intended), to remove my glasses, I walked right past the standpipe situated just 15, (Fifteen), paces from our caravan. It was a quarter of a mile less these 15 paces, therefore, to where the farmer eventually pointed through the pissing, horizontal rain, all the way back up the flooded road and said, "It's only 15 paces from where you've parked your van!" and flinched slightly in preparation for me screaming, "SH*T" at him. He neednt have worried.. I was incapable of speech. Back in the classic Startled-Ski-Jumper position leaning forward at 30 degrees to horizontal, I slopped, squelched and staggered back along the quarter mile of floods and mud to the standpipe 15 paces from our caravan. Once there, with hands now mauve and painful from the cold, I removed the water container's carrying handle and its screw top. I placed the water container in the mud beneath the standpipe's tap. I connected the filling pipe to the tap and placed the opposite end inside the water container. Standing in the slowly freezing mud, I turned on the tap. ..Yup.. Nothing.. Water water everywhere and not a single, miserable, stinking, God-cursed drop to drink. ..I didn't scream the word, SH*T , I didnt say anything. In fact, I didn't do anything. I just stood there, swaying in the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain with icy water trickling through my hair and beard and dripping into the neck of my soaking wet clothes.
Eventually the will to continue life returned, albeit weakly and leaving the water container right there in the mud, I walked back that quarter of a mile down the flooded road to the farmhouse and knocked the side door. "Guess what I said.. There's no water coming out of the standpipe".. The farmer gave a preparatory flinch but relaxed when he saw I was a beaten man.. "Well, the pipe must be frozen then ..But still, never mind he said cheerfully, You can fill up here, look", and he pointed to another standpipe right by the farmhouse door. Yes, after re-assuming the classic Startled-Ski-Jumper position I walked back almost a quarter of a mile through the mud and flooding and gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain to the standpipe 15 paces from the caravan. There I extricated our water container from the mud, removed our filling pipe from the frozen tap and walked back that quarter of a mile through the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain to the farmhouse. There, I filled our water container, re-assumed the classic Startled-Ski-Jumper position and staggered back that quarter of a mi.. Oh, you know.. About three weeks after announcing I would fetch water, I arrived back at the caravan where Jenny innocently asked what had taken me so long. I began to explain but froze as I remembered, with utter horror, the last time I'd stowed away the caravan in its barn 7 miles from home, (or 21 miles if youre an idiot), I'd carefully and lovingly disconnected a plastic pipe from the water pump in case the winter weather caused any water trapped inside it to freeze, expand and damage the pump. Wheres this pump? No worries at all.. it's situated right in the middle of the caravan's underside just less than a foot above the expanse of freezing water and thick mud upon which wed camped and it was now pitch dark. So, I unpacked the entire contents of the caravans single wardrobe to retrieve from it a large sheet of plastic. Then, mindful of our very limited space, I carefully replaced the entire contents of the wardrobe and clutching my plastic sheet and a torch I re-launched myself back out into the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain. Outside, like a man possessed, I fought with the plastic sheet as the wind attempted to snatch it away to the English Channel. Eventually I lay half in the mud and freezing water and half on the plastic sheet beneath the caravan and only dropped the torch into the mud three times as I wrestled with the cold hardened plastic tubing. Having removed the obligatory layers of skin from both my knuckles and elbows and rendered the torch useless, I finally got the pipe onto the pump and arose like a demented mud monster only to have the cold stiffened plastic sheet suddenly wrenched from my painfully frozen fingers. I watched it disappear at 85 mph in a southerly direction, and for light relief, (pun intended), with every ounce of strength remaining, I flung the useless torch in the same direction. If it ever fell back to Earth, I neither saw it, nor heard it.
After this, I entered the swaying caravan and turned on the tap ..What else?.. Nothing.. More sodding water water everywhere and still not a single, miserable, stinking God-cursed drop to drink. ..Again, for a while, I didn't say anything and I didnt do anything ..I just stood with salty snot drops dripping every three seconds from my nose. Then, not once, but three times in all, I went back outside again and lay, (because my plastic sheet was now sunning itself off the French Coast), directly in the freezing water and mud and re-wrestled with the pump ..Lying there prostrate in the mud, the rain became intermingled with bullets of ice and the gale force wind began driving hailstones at an average speed of 85 mph straight up my trousers and for weeks afterward I had pitted testicles ..and all to no avail. ..The pump was knackered. And so, from within the caravan, I collected some smaller water containers and squelched back outside to where the newly filled 25-litre water container was visibly sinking under its own weight into the mud. The operational stand pipe was, of course, a quarter of a mile away along the flooded muddy track and the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain was again viciously turning into pieces of ice shrapnel travelling at around 85 mph so, there was no realistic option. Using a full 25-litre container I attempted to fill two 1-litre plastic bottles and a kettle. I clutched one plastic bottle under an arm to prevent it following the plastic sheet southward and wedged the other bottle against the caravan's near side rear wheel. I picked up the unwieldy, slippery and very heavy 25-litre container and attempted to pour water from its 2-inch diameter aperture into the 1 litre plastic bottle's half-inch aperture. Now, this would have been difficult enough in ideal circumstances; you know, in daylight - wearing a stout jock strap - using a funnel - being sane and in normal weather conditions.. No chance.. The water didnt pour downward in an arc ..No, it hurtled directly sideways at 85 mph and ended up penetrating the brickwork of the farmhouse a quarter of a mile distant. Eventually, I worked out a system for pouring water from the 25-litre container. This involved sending barely controllable ragged gout of water 3 metres horizontally not so much into as at the 1-litre bottle canted over at about 45 degrees to horizontal. I managed to half fill one bottle and set up the next. Eventually, I half filled this too, but only to discover that, a) Id neglected to refit its screw top, b) it had been blown over, c) it was empty again, d) it was covered in mud, and e) there is no God. After five hernias and blasting about 20 litres of water a quarter of a mile sideways at 85 mph, I was eventually the proud owner of approximately two pints of sepia coloured water in muddy bottles and another pint in a muddy kettle and just the mildest doses of frostbite and hypothermia.
Afterward, I entered the caravan and took off all my clothes because they were so wet, if I'd fallen in the sea wearing them I'd have come out dryer. In grim silence, I dressed myself in the only other dry clothes I'd taken and announced I was about to get the television set up. This involved cunningly putting my booster aerial inside a plastic bag, (to protect it from the gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain or hailstones). Then, to this bag I cunningly tied a length of string. My idea was to place the booster aerial inside its bag, on top of the caravan and pass the string back into the caravan via its roof-mounted ventilator. Inside the caravan, I would then cunningly tie the string to a convenient hook thereby restraining the aerial's natural inclination to streak off at 85 mph and splash down into the English Channel. And so, clutching my booster aerial cunningly secure inside its bag and cunningly tied to its length of string, cunningly pre-empting a possibility of the wind catching the caravan door, I braced myself and cracked open the door half an inch. Again, I swear this is true, immediately the howling wind caught the door which, if let go would have flung open at 85 mph and disintegrated the caravan, and with a double handed death grip on the door handle, I was literally heaved outside and cunningly hurled knees first into the water and thick glutinous mud alongside the caravan. All the clothes Id taken with me were now soaked in mud and water. Subsequently, muttering in a new language comprising whining noises, lurid swear words, insane threats and horrendous blasphemy, I attempted to place the booster aerial inside its bag covered in mud onto the roof of the caravan in a wind gusting up to 90 mph. Why? ..You tell me.. I suppose I'd gone mad by this time; Id not far to go anyway.. Every time I attempted to feed the muddy string back inside through the caravan's ventilator, the wind whipped the bag containing the booster aerial off the roof and deposited it several metres away into the centre of a small but visibly growing lake of mud and flood water. I can't be sure, because the farm house was a quarter of a mile down wind but, as the third attempt failed, I'd like to think the farmer flinched again as I assessed the situation and like any mature, intelligent and responsible adult, screamed the word, "SH*T" directly at the booster aerial as it bobbed merrily about on its mini lake. Eventually though, I did it.. Eventually.. After an unknown number of thwarted attempts, I eventually succeeded in tying the booster aerial onto the roof of the caravan. Afterward, again literally soaked to the skin, covered in mud and resembling a demented Black and White Minstrel, I re-entered the caravan where, due to some excellent pre-planning on my part, I again took out the entire contents of the same wardrobe in order to remove our B&W television from its storage place. I then put back all of the contents of the wardrobe prior to setting the television in place on top of the caravan's little fridge immediately beneath the caravan's ventilator. I carefully wiped the mud off the aerial jack plug, inserted it into the television and pressed the ON button. No surprises at all ..Nothing.. Not a sod.. Either the television itself or its booster aerial had given up the ghost. No words were possible at this time. Silently, therefore, but with imminent stroke-warning blue veins pulsing at my temples I re-removed the entire contents of the wardrobe and replaced the television. I then re-replaced the entire contents of the wardrobe. Then, by way of a finale, I sneezed. Then I sneezed again.. And then I sneezed again, and again.. and again, and yet again, and then, by way of light relief, I continued sneezing. By this time and at my own request, Jenny was taking notes on the entire fiasco. I originally wrote this missive with her notepaper by my skinned left elbow. Her note read, "Sneezed for 2 hours". Afterward, we agreed it had seemed like two hours, but it was an exaggeration. We did agree, however, that whilst I sat dripping water for what seemed like two hours, in truth, I sneezed at least 30 times &So romantic.
Throughout that night I lay awake awaiting the mutant gust of wind that would put our caravan onto its side.. Quite early on, I got up, and by the cheery illumination of lightning flashes, removed articles from the shelves immediately above our heads lest we be brained during the night. It was like being aboard a boat. The caravan was rarely still for more than ten seconds at a time, thunder vibrated us - the caravan - and everything in it. I decided the only way wed sleep through this hullabaloo was by getting slightly pissed.. Jenny and I didnt actually drink that much. But determined as I was that our Caravan Christmas was going to be absolutely perfect, Id wanted us to have available a drink of whatever we fancied. Three months prior to that Christmas, therefore, Id begun hoarding a serious booze collection. We took with us the following.. 1.5 litres of Vermouth, a litre of Brandy, standard 70cl bottles of Whisky, Drambuie, Vodka, Bacardi, Dark Rum, Bailey's and two bottles of port comprising white and red. In addition to that lot wed taken six bottles of red and three bottles of white wine, plus a Stone's Ginger Wine, blackcurrant, lime and orange cordials and three 1-litre bottles of tonic. During the earlier part of the night, it was Jenny who had us crying with laughter. Inside the caravan, it was like hell. Everything was wobbling about and we were obliged to shout above the incredible combined din of wind, thunder and driving hailstones. After a while, Jenny frowned and said, "Hey, I think we'd better not drink any more of this booze . I remember thinking, You can do what you like, mate, Im getting pissed, hopefully before I go insane & Why? I shouted.. After another ear-splitting clap of thunder, Jenny shouted back, It's the only thing keeping the caravan on the ground!"
The following day was Christmas. So, naturally enough, we arose, donned wet suits, hats, boots and gloves and in the unrelenting gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain, we entered the frigid sea at Woolacombe. True to form, within minutes the pissing, horizontal rain changed to 85-mph hail that drove straight at us off the sea. To avoid faces similar to my testicles, we turned our backs until it passed. When the murderous hail was replaced by mere gale force wind and pissing, horizontal rain we went in a bit deeper. The surf was strange. The water height varied between about a third of a metre and two metres in height and quite regularly a vigorous backwash caused in-coming waves to stand almost motionless. This happened and whilst a wave stood, another larger wave galloped up from behind in the 85 mph wind. The two waves combined forces and surged forward. The only bit of Jenny exposed to the elements was her face which was slowly changing from Hypothermic-Mauve to Death-Blue. She was standing in about one and a half metres of water and I reckoned the bitter cold wind plus this new two-metre, Two-For-The-Price-Of-One wave would bowl her over. I lurched forward and hastily lifted her up just as the wave arrived. Below the surface, as the cold and unprepared ham-string tendon tore agonisingly in my left leg, I swallowed about half a pint of freezing sea water and decided there and then, that it was time to hobble out, act like ordinary people and return to the caravan to get slightly pissed and open our Christmas presents. Which we did. With my newly acquired inability to walk or stand without severe discomfort, we gave up and returned home the following day.. No rain. No wind. No hailstones and throughout the next two days there were blue skies and brilliant sunshine. Oh, and by the way, Jennys son James, spent Christmas with his dad in Cheltenham where the weather had been glorious.. Still, he missed all the fun.
I hope some of this has given you a laugh.. Jenny, incapable as she was of finding humour in anything not involving mild innuendo and slapstick, never did see the funny side of that Christmas.. What is a pity though, is that time was the villain of the piece. Another year had ended and with it, I suppose I'd learned some more humility the hard way. But, as a young man all of it would have been a bloody good laugh. Instead, it proved to be a nightmare and several more nails for the coffin in which our on-off relationship would eventually be lain to rest. Wed so looked forward to our alternative Christmas: Life has a wonderful way of demonstrating how little we control of our destinies, doesn't it? After some reflection, the next year, I decided, we'd put on Christmas slippers, drink tepid Ovaltine, turn up the central heating, take the mick out of the Queen's speech and her inevitably stupid hat, and roast some turkey, and watch all the crap on TV, and not even open the front door except maybe to tell carol singers to bugger-off..
Well, just over a week after that debacle, we went to Tenerife for Jenny's 50th birthday.. I remember hoping to Christ the island wouldnt be suddenly inundated by volcanic eruptions, hurricanes or torrential rain. As a postscript, I can subsequently report that Tenerife is an unusual island. I may eventually get around to writing a report on our holiday there. As a taster though, before closing, a word about Tenerife:
&CLINKERS&
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