I was thinking about what to write today when I
realised that what I might write could put me in the same ‘shooting in foot’
category as my pretendable passengers. Yes
it is a real word, I’ve just made it up, so there. Pretendable, because my passengers would pretend
to be all posh because they bought their toilet rolls in a different shop to me. If I let you know my views on my little Lugga
Bus you lot might believe that I wasn’t always windswept and interesting, that I
might not be regal material. Of course
if my passengers were any way posh at all they would have their staff buy their
toilet roll for them. I know I’ve always
said that when it comes to motorcars I’m a Jaguar man. I like power, I hate the fact that the most
popular colour is ‘British’ racing green, and generally they are pretty well
made, but so are most motor cars these days.
My little Lugga Bus was a Ford Transit van,
capable of carrying eight passengers and I have to admit one of the best family
vehicles I have ever experienced. In
fact I fantasised that if I ever came in to possession of enough money I would
buy myself a brand new, long wheeled base, Ford Transit and then have it
customised. I wanted a muscle van but I wanted a soft top version with a stereo
where the volume knob went all the way up to eleven. So there you all are now thinking good ol boy,
rather than Master Candle Maker, High Chief of the Clan O Neil and the true
king of Ireland. The first ‘boys’ trip I
can remember was at Christmas time. The
two oldest boys ripped open their Christmas presents and looked strangely at all
the fishing equipment they had received.
There were no rivers, or lakes, or even canals close by. The only known use for fishing rods in Skelmersdale
was to hoik them through letter boxes to steal car keys. Next day I loaded the oldest two boys into
the van announcing that we were off to Holyhead in North Welsh Wales for some
fishing.
The children were excited, as was I, who always
loved getting back over to North Welsh Wales.
I had been planning this trip for some time. The weather had been rotten and I had kept my
eyes on all the forecasts. It was Boxing
Day and the weather forecast said that the weather would be fine. It was which was great, as it had been
snowing heavily for the previous two weeks.
Being such a genius I hadn’t thought about the snow that had already fallen
and endured a two hour drive, across rough, rutted, compacted snow all the way
across the North Welsh coast, wondering if the fillings in my teeth would
remain there. We had a grand day fishing
and caught absolutely nothing. We didn’t
spend all day fishing; we spent some at the local Bangor hospital. This wasn’t for old time sake but because my
line had become snagged. I stood
applying tension to the line hoping my hook and weight would break free, and it
eventually did.
I stood there watching the weight, initially a
tiny little dot, zoom across the ocean, then smack me in the head. So apart from a bonding exercise and a bit of
craic fishing, I was able to introduce the boys to practical first aid. I didn’t have a mirror with me so that I could
check the wound, but from the amount of red stuff on my hand, when I took it away
from the place that hurt on my head, I was able to deduce that I might need
some help patching this up. The resulting
discomfort and headache didn’t help with my concentration as we rumbled our way
back across North Welsh Wales and home. Irene
couldn’t stop laughing as she declared I was the only fellow who could go fishing
and end up beating myself up. Don’t you
just love a supportive spouse?
And yes I did support Irene, in fact the duty
of taking the mother in law out for Sunday lunch fell to us. One of our favourite haunts was at a place called
Rivington. Rivington was a small Lancashire
village which was surrounded by reservoirs.
We discovered that each of these reservoirs had a footpath around them
and it allowed the adults to enjoy a very pleasant stroll around the water
while the children went berserk in and around the trees. One reservoir, Anglezarke I think was the
name, had various lumps of forest sculpture dotted around and made the experience
much more magical. Initially we did the usual
Sunday taking mother in law out thing and found a restaurant or pub for lunch
but realised that this restricted us. We
couldn’t really visit any establishment after our walk for most of us would
have been covered from head to toe in mud, so we ended up as the sandwich and
soup brigade.
It didn’t matter what the season was we were
out and about and having a laugh. One
day I decided to tale the children up into North Wales, to Ogwen Cottage. Up behind Ogwen cottage is Llyn Idwal and I
knew a spot there where you could find natural crystals. Of course to the children these would be
diamonds but that would just add to the magic.
Again it was a winters day, thankfully we had a clear drive to and from Ogwen. We took it easy with the mother in law as the
trek up can be a little arduous. The wind
was like a scalpel slicing across any area of exposed skin, however when you
are hunting for diamonds a little discomfort doesn’t matter. We got to Llyn Idwal which was frozen over. The children, as children do, had to lob
stones and rocks out on to the ice to try and smash though it.
I was just glancing about when I heard a little
shriek and saw Irene slid across the ice in front of me. It was quite funny as a gust of wind had
caught her and was skittering her across the surface. The mother in law was very quiet, not a bit
of wonder as we were within sight of the Devils Kitchen where the witches lived. Then there was this blood curdling scream as
eldest boy Gerard is now being blown across the ice, like his mother. Number two son, James, is still lobbing rocks
out onto the lake surface and as Newton’s laws of motion state; an object
either remains at rest or moves at a constant velocity unless acted upon by an external
force especially when lobbing rocks in windy and icy conditions. I’ll kill that Newton fellow if I ever get a
hold of him. James was concentrating on
throwing stones out as far as he could and Gerard’s head got in the way, more
red stuff. What I can take away from that
day is the fact that one day Gerard and James will hopefully turn to their children
and ask if they want to go find some diamonds.
You probably have the impression that
Skelmersdale is a bit of a dump, and if I’ve have written about it correctly
you would be right. But the one thing
you cannot take away from Skelmersdale is its location. For short days out you had Rivington, and all
the reservoirs, forty minutes away. For fishing
and getting in to the mountains, Snowdon and Holyhead were two hours and a bit
away, while the waterfalls and Kendal mint cake factory, in the Lake District,
were only two hours up the road. By the
way, if the weather is good then stay away from the Lake District because every
BMW driving sales rep, in the country, takes his mother, or mother in law, to
the Lake District for a let’s pretend we are posh Sunday lunch.
I of course cannot be posh, I am working class Irish
scum, someone who started at the bottom and liked it, which is why our first
hotel Sunday lunch in the Lake District was our last. The hotel had good reviews but I would
question the reliability of the reviewer’s taste buds, it was overpriced muck
that could have been served more professionally by a blind man with a limp. For us the Lake District became another soup
and sandwiches destination, cheese sandwiches and tomato soup if you must know. And if you feel that you need to visit the
Lake District make sure that you have a Ford Transit van under your feet because
the back roads are very narrow. It is a
great problem for BMW drivers, especially when they meet, coming the other way,
a good ol boy throwing a Ford Transit van along these lanes, at speed, for what
other way can a good old boy drive?
There’s the Beatrix Potter museum, a pencil museum
in Keswick even Wordsworth’s house in Grasmere but the most popular destination
would be Lake Windermere. It’s surrounded
by loads of attractions and shops and activity centres. Our focus for the day had been the Aira Force
waterfall where I had been pleasantly surprised. We pulled in to the car park, found a spot
and parked. The National Trust were
looking after the place so it was well managed.
I climbed out of the van and a fellow approached me. “Here,” he said, handing me a parking ticket. “There’s still an hour and a half left on
this, you may as well use it.” That really
made my day; I should have asked him how Irish he was. We thoroughly enjoyed the waterfall and the
getting wet, for children it is brilliant, even big kids. Heading back I decided to catch the ferry
across Lake Windermere.
It’s only a small ferry that would carry
perhaps between nine and twelve vehicles, open sided, sort of drive on and sit in
your vehicle while we cross, affair. It
was quite pleasant going for a sail in my little Lugga Bus and I really was
quite unaware of all the other drivers and passengers surrounding us. Irene knew that I was up to something as she
could see an evil smile begin to stretch across my face. As we neared the centre of Lake Windermere I
did the only thing any decent fellow could do, well; that is any decent fellow
with his mother in law with him. I leapt
out of the van and ran to the front of the vehicle where I began to jump up and
down shouting, “Sink you bastard, sinkl!” The only response I was interested in was that
of the mother in law, who didn’t disappoint, as she grabbed a hold of the seat in
front of her and wondered what to do. I’ll
never forget the look of shock on her face.
It was only afterwards that I noticed everyone else on the ferry was looking
at me as well and some of them didn’t seem to be too pleased as many of them were
holding on to the seat in front of them too.
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