Heatwave - Staying Cool!

 

We spend the chilly, dreary, dark days of winter hoping we get a decent summer, and then when it comes it can be too much. Luckily, here in the North West, the temperature touched about 32 degrees centigrade, which I think is slightly more comfortable than the hotter southern areas. Small mercies. Is it safe to say the heatwave has gone yet? I’m fine with the warm 22 degrees today offers, along with a fresh, gentle breeze. I’d had enough of feeling sticky and having streams of perspiration running down my back. Anyone wearing glasses may relate to the annoyance of them sliding down their nose, frames sticking to their cheeks and being a thorough nuisance. I would take mine off except that I can’t see a thing without them.

The garden has had it for this season. Vibrant colour of vital blooms looks parched and neglected for all my efforts of conserving water from the kitchen to use outside. Being away for two separate holidays with only one week at home in between is the cause of ruin. Normally we might expect two days of sunshine to be counter-balanced with three days of constant rain. Not this time, no rain for ages and what came wasn’t enough to stop the damage. Within the next few days I will attempt to tidy out the dead stuff and make an effort for autumn and spring. I can live with whatever happens in my small garden. I feel sad for the farmers who are trying to make a living. Some counties have declared a drought. Not us, though, yet.

I think I was the only person carrying a cardigan into Bloomfield Road football stadium at the last home match. It was an incredibly hot day and I was in shorts, sandals and my team shirt, but we sit in the shady and cool west stand so I anticipated shivering. Shady it was, as always, but cool, certainly not. It was roasting, not a breath of air. Away fans in the sunny rows of the east stand must have been melting.

The heatwave of 1976 was widely mentioned in the media as a comparison. I remember the warm sunshine day after day, seemingly forever and walking up and down Blackpool promenade in platform sandals, flared jeans and cheesecloth shirt knotted at the midriff. Oh I was at the height of fashion in those halcyon times.

With global warming, summer heatwaves are to be expected. It is up to all of us to do what we can to lessen the effect, and to look after ourselves and each other when the temperature rises beyond comfortable.

I found this on PoemHunter.com,

A Wail of the Heat Wave

The usual thing it used to be
Our summers to decry,
Because they were too wet, you see,—
We longed to have them dry.
But now for months, from morn till night,
We've basked in Sol's bright rays ;
Yet few you'll find who show delight,
Or speak in terms of praise
Of these aggravating, irritating,
Half-cremating, wrath-creating,
Mercury-raising, semi-blazing, scorching summer days.

One feels much like a jelly-fish,
Or limpet washed ashore ;
If this is getting what we wish,
We'll crave for it no more.
Each man you meet reviles the heat
In none-too-classic phrase ;
To be polite, one cannot write
Exactly what he says
Of these hot, oppressive, fierce, aggressive,
Sweat-producing, fat-reducing,
Liquid-yearning, throttle-burning, parching summer days.

O, for a trip to either pole,
With Peary, or with Scott!
Where icebergs rear their white forms tall,
And heat waves trouble not.
A month or so 'mid Arctic snow
Our drooping hearts would raise ;
And soften down the angry frown
Which everyone displays
These roasting, boiling, toasting, broiling,
Record-breaking, sweltering, baking,
Ultra-torrid, beastly horrid, melting summer days.

William Baron,   October, 2010

Thanks for reading. Stay cool. Pam,x

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Holidays and Other Disasters

Holidays. The word evokes in me a mixture of excitement and trepidation, in equal measure.  I have had so many disasters and near disasters that it’s a wonder I ever set foot outside the house, much less venture to foreign climes.  Add to the mix the unreliability of buses, taxis, trains and planes, not to mention other people, and it becomes clear that I really should be in my house knitting, making bread and sending out for supplies.

It all began with my honeymoon in Paris, where the new husband got food poisoning and I had to attempt to translate 'my husband has diarrhoea and is throwing up,' into passable French. Judging by the puzzled looks on the assistants' faces (yes, plural, several were called over to help/snigger) I failed miserably (managing only a rather self conscious, ‘mon mari’ to a suitable standard) and resorted to the one thing I hadn't wanted to do - a laughable charade of something being expelled from my bottom (fast), swiftly followed by holding my nose and wafting my other hand under it, before executing the well known mime for vomiting.  They gave me some huge, lozenge shaped 'horse' pills along with instructions I couldn't understand, and I scuttled back to our tiny, stinking box room in a back street pension.

At this point, I have to say, the smell wasn't just emanating from the new husband (or we might have been divorced now) but from a small cupboard in the corner of the room. Hidden in there, for reasons now incomprehensible to me, was a large, very ripe Camembert, wrapped loosely in a piece of brown paper.  To this day, we don't know whether the husband should have taken the medication by mouth or by 'other means' but, either way, he recovered and seems to have shown no ill effects over the past forty one years.

Then there was the year we set off for Turkey and ended up in a Travel Inn in Gatwick with daughter and hyper four year old grandson, asking where the pool was. There was a (fairly) simple explanation for this. At Manchester Airport we discovered we had missed the plane. By twenty four hours. As neither the husband nor I was sure whose fault this was we simply stared at each other for a few seconds before asking when the next flight was scheduled. We weren't expecting to be told it was four days hence. After a short, hissed discussion on our options we gritted our teeth, bought four more outbound tickets from Gatwick, scheduled for less than twelve hours later, and settled down to study the train timetable. It was at this point we realised the slow night train with numerous changes would pull in to Gatwick approximately four hours after we should have boarded the plane.

A taxi was eventually secured at great expense, and we set off for Gatwick, booking the Travel inn en route.  The following morning, after a particularly stressful conversation with the Turkish manager of our intended hotel (in which we hoped he'd understood we still wanted the rooms, and weren't cancelling the whole holiday) in yet another taxi, bound for yet another airport, we were slowed and finally stopped by a multi vehicle accident on the motorway.  As I alternately bit my nails and stared worriedly at my watch, the grandson sang 'The Wheels on the Bus' on a continuous loop and scanned the horizon for a swimming pool.  We eventually landed at our hotel, twenty four hours late, hot, sticky and tired, to be greeted by a bemused manager, trying to get his head around these strange English arrangements.

Lanzarote was the biggie. In fact, Lanzarote was so memorable for its catalogue of disasters that I subsequently documented the whole episode and distributed it to all participants. It was a treat for sixteen members of the family out of my dad's recently cashed retirement fund, and involved travelling to Lanzarote for a short Christmas break. What hadn't been on the agenda was a lost passport (involving a last minute 400 mile round dash); the realization that the sight of our Dominican son-in-law with a non-British passport would throw airport staff into a frenzy of searching and interrogation; a sudden attack of a mystery illness, a frantic rush though winding roads, accompanied by flashing blue lights, and an insurance scam resulting in the husband removing the drip from number two son's arm and making a break from the hospital whilst being chased by an irate band of doctors and nurses; a taxi dash (the taxi having been commandeered from the unfortunate couple who had booked it and were making their leisurely way towards it when the husband and son shot out of the hospital exit and jumped aboard, like something out of a James Bond film); and the consequent subterfuge and element of farce caused by three male members of the family possessing the same surname. The grand finale came as we left. Two serious looking hospital representatives were spotted at the reception desk, asking for a Mr Carrington (of which there were three).  We crept past and threw ourselves on the waiting bus, yelling at the stunned driver to, “GO GO GO!’ 

And finally, there were the holidays that never were….

Cuba, the expensive treat to ourselves in the year of our sixtieth birthdays.  The husband injured his back, skiing, two weeks before we were due to go.  We were planning to get insurance the day after the skiing holiday….. A lot of money to lose and a hard lesson learnt (although we did finally make it six months later); the cycling holiday with my two brothers and their wives (a present for one brother and wife), when, a few weeks before trip, the husband got something caught in the spokes of his wheel, went over the handlebars and broke his elbow so dramatically that it required two operations and a full year of rehabilitation.  We’ve rebooked for next year, when the husband will be confined to the house for a good month before we go; the weekend in Paris that was booked for the wrong dates, swearing done, losses cut and rebooked.  For the same wrong dates again.  We went to Windermere.

If I ever invite any you to accompany me on so much as a weekend away, I think you know the correct response?

                                    Turkey, when we finally got there…..

Not having time this week to write my own poem, I was searching around for something appropriate, when I came across the verses below.   The poem amused it as it reminded me of my childhood holidays, when my dad would take me, my mum and two brothers to stay with our cousins in Margate.  We kids were beyond ourselves with excitement and anticipation, and felt so sorry for my dad, having to drive us all that way and then drive back and go to work. Little did we realise that this was dad's holiday: a day at work, followed by a peaceful evening in front of the fire with pipe, slippers and total peace.

Holiday by Robert William Service

I love the cheery bustle
Of children round the house,
The tidy maids a-hustle,
The chatter of my spouse;
The laughter and the singing,
The joy on every face:
With frequent laughter ringing,
O, Home's a happy place!

Aye, Home's a bit of heaven;
I love it every day;
My line-up of eleven
Combine to make it gay;
Yet when in June they're leaving
For Sandport by the sea,
By rights I should be grieving,
But gosh! I just feel free.

I'm left with parting kisses,
The guardian of the house;
The romp, it's true, one misses,
I'm quiet as a mouse.
In carpet slippers stealing
From room to room alone
I get the strangest feeling
The place is all my own.

It seems to nestle near me,
It whispers in my ear;
My books and pictures cheer me,
Hearth never was so dear.
In peace profound I lap me,
I take no stock of time,
And from the dreams that hap me,
I make (like this) a rhyme.

Oh, I'm ashamed of saying
(And think it's mean of me),
That when the kids are staying
At Sandspot on the sea,
And I evoke them clearly
Disporting in the spray,
I love them still more dearly
Because . . . they're far away.

Thanks for reading    Jill

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Let's Take Off in a Motor Home

The summer holidays of my childhood seemed to last forever and it was always warm and sunny. Day after day playing on Blackpool sands wearing cool, cotton dresses or shorts and blouses, always with Woolworth’s plastic sandals that rubbed blisters on my bare feet. This was long before the comfortable ‘jelly shoes’ my children wore.

As a family, we didn’t go away on holiday very much. When we moved to live in Blackpool, everything was here literally on our doorstep. My father had taken a pub on South Promenade. My sister and I would be taken across four lanes of traffic and the tramlines, usually by Auntie Kathy who looked after us. It was the mid-1960s and Blackpool was packed with holiday makers. We would have to search for a space on the beach, away from the donkeys. I’m happy to have such fond memories to look back on.

These days, my holiday expectations are very different.

I’m not the only person of a certain age dreaming of taking off in a decent sized motor home for as long as a chosen trip takes. The first part of my journey would be to Wales, to revisit the glorious Pembrokeshire coast where my husband and I spent many wonderful holidays with our children.  Family members owned a static caravan on an exclusive cliff-top site and we were privileged to be offered to stay there every summer. We explored every sea-side, paddled in the clear, clean water, stuck paper flags in sand pies and had picnics and ice-creams in our beach tent. We trekked parts of the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path, visited castles and places of interest, but most of all, we relaxed in fresh air, slept well and came home refreshed and ready to start the new school year, complete with freckles and sun-kissed hair. Our children are parents themselves now and would love to make the same memories with their offspring. I hope they do.

The second part of my journey would be to sail from Fishguard to Rosslare and travel the coast to County Cork, kiss the Blarney Stone and visit Cork City. I would take time to see as much of Ireland as possible, the beauty of the west, and the waves of the Atlantic Ocean crashing against the Cliffs of Moher. I’d taste the briny air on the coast and march my wellington boots through lush, green fields inland.  I’d travel to the north-west then come back to Galway and drive across the country to the bustling, lively Temple Bar area in Dublin where I would hope to hear the singing of Irish songs filling the streets from the busy pubs and have dinner at Gallagher’s Boxty House. From Dublin, I would travel into Northern Ireland. No tour would be complete without a trip to see Giant’s Causeway. I would visit Belfast and leave flowers at George Best’s resting place.

The third part of my journey would be to take the ferry from Belfast to Stranraer then a drive up the Ayrshire coast to see Ailsa Craig, the granite isle, majestic in the sunshine. From here, I would travel east into my favoured Dumfries & Galloway to enjoy some quiet time and watch the red kites flying over the forest as the sun sinks into the Solway Firth. I’d stay a long time here before heading home.

This is a fantasy holiday, but it is do-able, sometime in the future when I have retired, (well, that should have already happened but someone moved the goal posts), or if I win the lottery or other such wind-fall.  And I haven’t got a motor home yet, either.

We’ve recently returned home after a restful holiday in Dumfries & Galloway, where our much visited chosen location is quite hidden away, miles from anywhere with no wifi and a phone signal a ten minute walk up the lane. We’ll be there again in a few weeks, I can’t wait.

 

 



 

 

 

I was a young teenager in 1968. Twiggy was my idol. I wanted high heels in bright colours, crocheted mini dresses and some lipstick. I wanted to wear a cow-bell round my neck like the young people on the promenade. I still wanted to play out on the beach. My poem, written a few years ago, captures that summer. By the way, I wasn’t allowed a cow-bell.

 

This Was My Blackpool In ’68.
Taking a tram from North Pier to Starr Gate.

A summer of fun and staying up late.

This was my Blackpool in ’68.

 

Anne, Auntie Kath and me, all holding hands

Crossing the Prom to get on to the sands

Where the grumpy deck-chair man always stands.

This was my Blackpool in ’68.

 

We were young ladies with panache and style,

Playing the penny arcades for a while,

Frittering our spends on the Golden Mile.

This was my Blackpool in ’68.

 

Spinning the Waltzers three times in a row.

Make it go faster, we don’t like it slow,

And then the man said, “That’s it, off you go!”

This was my Blackpool in ’68.

 

Out to a summer show, straight after tea.

Engelbert tonight at the ABC,

A back-stage delight for my mum and me.

This was my Blackpool in ’68.

 

Got to get ready, there’s no time to lose!

My trendiest outfit is what I will choose…

A pink mini dress with bright orange shoes.

This was my Blackpool in ’68.

 

A time of peace, love and Flower Power,

Charlie Cairoli and Blackpool Tower,

Seaside and sunshine for hour after hour.

This was my Blackpool in ’68.

 

Pamela Winning,   2013

 

Thanks for reading, Pam 

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Pirates: A Cautionary Tale

This week on the blog, we'll be looking at the theme of Pirates. Looting, pillaging, drinking, dancing pirates- and I don't just mean the population of Manchester, which has been crowned illegal download capital of the UK. They know how to party there.

Apologies for the slightly late post: I decided to write a poem, based loosely on an experience from childhood. Those family holidays were well spent, let me tell you. Enjoy.


Pirates!

If you should find yourself ashore
an island divided in the Med
Take heed a Traveller's warning
Beware the one eyed head.

From the street, quick split our group was lifted
Set to sail on crowded deck
A land of golden sunrise promised
Free drinks provided until sunset.

Into a galleon bar we swayed
Our glasses over flowing with brew
The children were rounded around an old baise
Topped with the dullest of jewels.

Then in swooped the man with the motive
The ship's mate with swashbuckling pen
Bright pinbadge, sharp brochure, a real Mr Suave
Peddling his wares there and then.

We began to fear this was an ambush
Our captors it seemed, hearing no end
And the captain who steered home the one final push
Was an eyepatched old seaman called Ken.

These days Ken said he preferred finance
No danger, he said, no loose cannons,
Much rather a veranda with such red evening views
Drinking rum with a view to being hammered.

By sundown conversation had petered
Reluctantly, Ken let us go
Said he'd broken the rules he'd knocked so much off
No such offers in all Limassol.

So stand firm should they ever approach you
Selling timeshares and other such scams
I assure you, you'll lose a full day of your trip
Before taxiing home, head in hand.




Thanks for reading,
S

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