In certain circumstances, ‘militant’ is an appropriate adjective to describe my husband. Particularly during the pursuit of ‘family excursions’ he dons the personality of a drill sergeant, refuting questions from the ranks and opting for a dictator-style role within the proceedings. Such an occasion was during the recent half term week when we embarked upon the ‘Walk in the Woods’.

To contextualise the situation: I am nearly seven months pregnant with our second child and consequently not at my fittest; my mother-in-law (the previously written about ‘Harrassed Missionary’) is fit and active but had already completed a four and a half mile walk during the morning; and my husband’s stepfather, who had also already walked, is (as were repeatedly reminded by The Missionary) ‘nearly seventy’.   Furthermore, the day previous to the grand excursion which I am about to detail, I had explicitly requested that any walk we undertake did not exceed a distance of three miles as I was struggling with various pregnancy related aches and pains. My husband’s default when faced with challenges such as this, namely a particular activity which he is determined to complete and a potentially unwilling group of participants, is generally to omit details of his plans and reveal them only when the activity is underway and there is no going back. (A prime example and another chapter’s worth was the first time he ‘accidentally’ led me down The (black) Olympic Face into Val D’Isere ski resort, despite my protestations that I only wanted to do blue and green runs that day.) But anyway, I digress.

On the day in question it had been agreed that we would undertake a walk around the grounds of Balmoral Castle in the Scottish Highlands.  Due to various things (toddler naptime, lunch etc.) we were delayed in our departure from the holiday lodge until almost 2.30pm. In the summertime, this wouldn’t of course be a problem, but we were into late October and consequently faced with short days and dark nights. Our walk began shortly before three o’clock and we set off, led by ‘The Sergeant’, on what was described in the guide book as a ‘flat route’. I began to question this when, after twenty minutes, we were still walking uphill.

The route we had embarked upon was known as ‘The Balmoral Cairn Walk’ and was designed to take in several stone cairns built in the estate grounds under the reign of Queen Victoria. In total, it was around six miles, but we had been assured (by The Sergeant) that we would only be undertaking a portion of it. Looking back, I realise he never disclosed a specific amount and so we were perhaps naïve to follow so blindly with no glance at a map! At about three miles, and three cairns in, there was a hesitant suggestion from The Missionary about turning back, at which point of course The Sergeant posited that we were equi-distant from the beginning to the end of the route so ‘we might as well push on.’   Once again we were reminded of the aged nature of the stepfather and it was also suggested that I might go into premature labour.

And so we persevered in the increasingly dark woods, stopping only to photograph these unique but equally similar stone structures which we had set out to discover. One of our stops did allow us a distant overview of Balmoral Castle which I duly snapped and celebrated that if we did survive the walk I could post my photograph on social media. From this vantage point the ‘flat’ route continued to undulate through the coniferous trees, eventually leading us to a forest track which felt as though it might lead to the end of the route. Our steps picked up an optimistic pace as we felt we were near the end point of our excursion.

As an aside, it is worth mentioning that, given the apparently ‘short’ nature of our afternoon ‘stroll’ none of use had packed any provisions. We were without water or snacks to sustain us having left everything in the car for when we returned. The disasterous reality of this only struck when, half way up a particularly steep hill, we paused for breath and my husband’s stepfather was desperately chewing on a piece of sugar-free mint gum, hoping to draw some sustenance from it. At least our lack of water could have been negated by the various patches of grubby snow which punctuated the woodland!

The final straw for us all came just after some time had been spent on the aforementioned forest track without ever reaching our destination. Given the slightly fractious mood in the ranks I decided to brave it and ask our leader a question about the route. Alas, the answer was not what any of us desired to hear as The Sergeant pointed (almost vertically) up a bank to our left. Apparently the final mile of the route was designed to take in a memorial pyramid erected in memory of Prince Albert, conveniently situated at what must have been the highest point on the estate. It was at this point that we also realised there was in fact no map for us to follow and that we were entirely beholden to a set of written directions, thus meaning we could not deviate and avoid the hill as we would have been entirely lost. It was also at this point that the sun set.

Morale was patchy to say the least as we began the trudge uphill. The sergeant whistled fiercely as if trying to instil some ‘trench-like’ spirit and even the toddler, who until this point had been quite peaceable, began to squirm in the backpack. Half way up what can only be described as the mountain, we stopped to catch our breath (and turn our torches on!). It was then that I turned to see the stepfather, flanked closely by The Missionary, leaning heavily against a tree almost doubled over. Although he assured us he was fine, at that moment I did begin to question it. Of course at this point The Missionary helpfully pointed out that if I went into labour then he would be the attending physician and that we would be ‘in the middle of nowhere.’ The Sergeant’s response here was to resume a march up the hill to finally reach the (admittedly quite impressive) pyramid.

The rest of the walk was conducted at a rather rapid pace and with minimal conversation, all of use conscious of the ever-increasing darkness. The final mile was at least along the road so we were sure of our footing, which was a blessing given that it was pretty much pitch-black and we had only iPhone torches to light our way. On reaching the car park, we all breathed a sigh of relief (even The Sergeant admitting that we had perhaps had a near-miss!) and thanked goodness that we had made it.

That evening we were able to see the funny side of the whole thing, although I was limping for a few days following our ‘adventure’. In future, I think I will certainly be mindful of my husband’s tendency to be selective in his information sharing and perhaps endeavour to bring my own map!

This latest post includes a tale from late last summer…an occasion of much hilarity and hysteria!  Once again, written with only good humour in mind! 

To coin a Durrellian term my mother-in-law is somewhat of a ‘harassed missionary’ -always anxious to resolve whatever issue may present itself and mediate between parties wherever necessary. Consequently, anxiety levels are often high and fraught conversation is often had. No less so than on the occasion of The Thunder Storm in Majorca.

It had been a planned excursion; the in-laws were to head to the historic town of Arta and we were having a day beside the pool. However nature had her way and as the clouds gathered we decided to join them in their trip, baby and all. Upon arrival at the hire car (a modern, but tiny, Ford Fiesta) my husband agreed to let his mother drive: something I have only ever seen following an evening of aperitifs! Thus followed a slightly hairy time through the back roads of Majorca, accompanied by a running commentary of jibes. What my husband did not seem to grasp was that with each quip his mother’s driving grew a little worse and so by the time we arrived at our destination we were all a little green and worse for wear.

That Day in Arta was unremarkable and did not include much worth recounting. We wandered the streets in amongst several hundred German tourists; dodged the showers; stopped for coffee and glanced at trinkets in shops. Several hours later we returned to the aforementioned Fiesta to begin what would become the momentous journey home.

Five of us squashed into the little vehicle, like something from a novel. The men took the front with Matthew commandeering the keys from his mother and his stepfather needing a more ‘spacious’ area (as much as was possible) due to a bad back. And so my mother-in-law and I wedged ourselves into the back alongside the car seat containing my four month old daughter who was grizzling away and in need of a snooze following Our Day Out.

(It is worth mentioning at this point that after weeks of training Olivia was conditioned to fall asleep to the sound of a vacuum cleaner on my iPhone. The result being this sound followed wherever I went and, at the point of this tale, was filling the back seat of The Ford Fiesta.)

As we skirted around the ancient town it was announced that we needed to refuel the hire car before its collection that evening. The limited (but free) map of the island sported a black circle around what purported to be a fuel station just a few kilometres from where we were. The black clouds were circling but the heavens had not fully opened and so we ventured towards the town of Son Severa in search of gasoline. As we approached the clouds parted and what had been a light shower became raindrops the size of grapes pounding the roof of the Fiesta making the hoover noise almost redundant. The baby drifted off to sleep despite the racket and it seemed as though our journey to the fuel station would be without event as we turned off the main road to a junction marked ‘Son Severa’.

Tranquility however, was not to be order of the day and as we drove further off the dual carriageway the roads grew narrower until they could hardly be called roads anymore. As if orchestrated by a master puppeteer at the same time the elements combined to increase to a dramatic monsoon accompanied by forked lightening. At this point the Missionary began clutching her head in her hands and praying for divine intervention punctuated by cries of ‘Help’ to no one in particular. Meanwhile the baby that just moments before was sound asleep awoke with great vigour and proceeded to scream as though she had never been fed in her life.

While the commotion in the back of the Fiesta grew greater and greater and the streets narrower and narrower, my husband seemed to relish the challenge of navigating and grew faster with each turn of the wheel. All this with sign of a fuel station at any point.

After we had endured the winding streets for over ten minutes and the baby’s cries had failed to abate even slightly, the decision was made that we might pull over and at least feed her if we could resolve no other problems in the car we could at least amend that situation! The question then arose as to where to pull in, as the narrow streets offered little opportunity for one car to get through let alone space to stop. The monsoon continued outside and the lightening was now coupled by horrendous thunder claps every few seconds. Eventually we came upon what looked like a supermarket although it was difficult to be sure beneath the deluge. Nonetheless there was a sizeable car park outside and so Matthew swung the Fiesta into the first available space at break neck speed. First thing was to mute the hoover sound which had blasted non-stop throughout the eventful trip and failed to soothe the baby at any stage. Once that was done I quickly plucked her from her car seat and into my lap so I could feed her. The raindrops continued to pound the roof and the lightening was certainly getting closer.

At this point the Missionary decided to take matters into her own hands, as any good missionary does, and leapt from the vehicle in search of a supermarket worker to ask for directions to the, what we now believed to be mythical, fuel station. After an exchange involving lots of gesticulation and, one presumes, Spanglish, she returned to the vehicle like a slippery otter and relayed the news that the garage was but 200m from our current location. We must have passed it several times.

Once the baby was fed the car was pivoted round and we began the ‘short’ journey to our end goal. Alas, we were to be scuppered again as a flood now blocked our path. A 4×4 might just have made it through but the tiny Fiesta was not likely to even begin to manage the task. And so a diversion had to be found. This led to further pleas for assistance from the back, laughter from the front and squeals from the baby who, although now satiated, was thoroughly bored of her car seat and sought freedom desperately! The only diminution in the chaos was the hoover which had not been restarted since the feeding stop.

After another lap around the town and several more prayers from the Missionary we arrived at the fuel station; ironically having used more petrol during the search than we had previously! The master puppeteer was at work once again and as the fuel cap was replaced the rain abated and lightening disappeared altogether. Relief was tangible. Peace was restored, as much as is possible after such an endeavour, and we finally made our way back to the hotel.

Signs flashed for ‘Rancho Willy’s horse farm’ as we passed and we decided not to hire ponies as we had had quite enough adventure for one day in Majorca.

To say that my mother is always on the brink of tears is perhaps a bit strong but there is no doubt that the gap between her and that cliff is certainly much smaller than that of many others. Therefore, many events which occur within our family history involve, or at the very least end with, my mother crying. Whether or not she actually did or not is another matter, but memory is a strangely selective thing and it has served me and my brothers well to include her ‘breakdowns’ in most instances.

One such instance was just last weekend, on the way to the wedding of my first brother, Edward. Fondly called Edgar by me for the majority of his life, primarily because of his utter disdain for that name. At this juncture it is important to mention that another Family Truth (much like mother’s tears) is that Edgar is absolutely the Golden Child, the Favoured One…etc. Frustratingly smooth and successful throughout his adolescence and now adult life, first son and ‘easiest baby’, he has always managed to dodge any kind of real parental judgement, instead enjoying a lifetime of adoration and praise. So of course, it goes without saying that the wedding of such a child would be a momentous event in the family calendar.

Before describing the aforementioned ‘Journey’, it is important that I provide some context. The wedding was in Northern Ireland, a decision which was inconvenient for many reasons but of course could not be argued with. My husband and I flew over from Newcastle on the eve of the wedding with our toddler and stayed in a holiday cottage with my parents and other brother (much less favoured and far more troublesome). Of course, my daughter decided that the night before her uncle’s wedding was the perfect time to stay awake for several hours and keep everyone else up with her. Thus, the morning of the wedding dawned and we were an already fractious household.

My father, a Bishop and perpetual clergyman, was officiating at the service and therefore needed to depart for the church much sooner than the rest of us. How much sooner might have been up for debate but The Bishop is not one for risk when it comes to timings and so he departed extremely promptly for the church, leaving us to bring my mother. Herein should have been the warning. A Note To All: Transportation of The Mother of the Groom to the wedding service should not be a job assigned to two exhausted parents of a one year old in their tiny hire car. The said hire car was the cheapest, and therefore smallest, available. A Peugeot 108 (it did boast five doors) was our vehicle for the weekend.

And so, on to: The Journey. Following a (disastrous for many reasons and almost worthy of a chapter of its own) trip to the hairdressers, my mother and I returned to the holiday cottage. Dresses were hurriedly donned as we scrambled to be ready for The Big Day. The certain knowledge that, as mother-of-the-groom, she would be photographed seemed to be playing further havoc with my mother’s anxiety and I tentatively offered compliments about her apparel in fear of provoking the infamous tear ducts!   Finally ready, we folded ourselves into the tiny vehicle and hit the road to attend the wedding of The Golden Boy.

About ten minutes into the journey, along winding and tedious roads, my mother (who had been navigating until this point) announced sharply that we were ‘going the wrong way’ or at least ‘we weren’t going the right way’. When questioned about her directions, this quickly progressed to statements like, ‘I’ve only been there once’ and ‘I wasn’t driving’ in higher and higher pitched tones. At this point my husband logically suggested that we make use of the modern devices we had in our possession and enter the postcode of the church into a mobile GPS. It was only then that we realised we did not have said postcode.

This revelation reduced mother to something of a jabbering wreck. This, coupled with the lightly feathered hat that she was wearing, gave her the appearance of a distressed sparrow, twittering and flapping around in the cage created by the rear seat of the Peugeot 108. ‘I can’t be late! Not to my son’s wedding!’ came the repeated tweets from the back.   Mobile phones came out again, this time with the end goal of contacting someone who might give us the elusive postcode and thus ensure our timely arrival at the church. Unfortunately, due to the guest list being comprised primarily of university friends of my brother and his fiancée, there were limited options as to whom we could call, each with their own draw backs. There was of course The Bishop – a solid and reliable source but also generally prone to panic; then there was my youngest brother – a reasonable font of information but notoriously poor at answering his phone; finally there was The Groom himself, who, for obvious reasons I was not inclined to disturb. That being said, the tension was mounting, time passing swiftly and the urgency for the post code outweighed the above concerns and we frantically dialled all three individuals on repeat!

Finally, The Bishop came through with the postcode and only a minor note of panic (perhaps tinged with exasperation) and we were able to recommence our journey. I carefully pulled the hire car onto the directed route and drove the first hundred yards to ensure that we were indeed facing the correct direction. Once certain of this, I accelerated to a rapid sixty-five miles per hour (as fast as the Peugeot would travel) and followed the blue dot of the GPS to its destination: The Church. It was about five minutes into our technology-advised route that my mother declared once again that we were ‘going the wrong way’. She began violently gesticulating toward a landmass about three miles to our left, in the converse direction of travel, and squawking, ‘The church is on that cliff, I’m sure of it. We must turn around!’ It was only then that I (having been, I felt, quite restrained) lost my patience and told her in no uncertain terms to be quiet.

Moments later, and with time to spare, we pulled into the lane upon which the church was nestled; the aforementioned cliff sat knowingly behind us. Mother fluttered out of the car, hat only slightly askance, and announced to anyone in the surrounding area that we were here in ‘plenty of time’ and that she had ‘known that was the right way’.

I felt it best to keep quiet and just celebrate the fact that Mother’s infamous tears had only briefly made her eyes sparkle and had never actually made it down her cheeks!