I am sitting on the taxi rank in the Lake District rain.
It is a doleful come-down after the glitter and dazzle of Blackpool, I can tell you.
We had planned to start today with a last cycle along the sea front to buy some rubbish from a gift shop that I especially like, which sells tin animals stuck all over with plastic diamonds. I have already got several tasteful mementoes purchased from there on previous visits whilst in Blackpool, and quite liked the idea of another.
However, it was not to be. We slept late and when we looked out of the window, we discovered that the sea had vanished behind a woolly fog, and rain was bouncing heavily off the promenade.
This meant that suddenly we didn’t feel quite so keen on cycling, even with the possibility of a diamond-studded tin donkey at the end of it. We did consider going for a swim in the hotel pool, but a few moments’ reflection brought the consideration that every juvenile oik in the hotel would be in it already, due to the gloomy weather.
In the end we had an enormous farewell breakfast, with bacon and chocolate brioche and smoked ham and melon, because we don’t get that sort of excitement at home. After that we sadly packed up our things and Mark dismantled our bikes. We splashed around loading up the taxi for ages, before driving slowly away up the seafront, looking at people stomping cheerfully through the puddles in bright plastic raincoats. They still looked to be having a good time, in a stoic, British sort of way.
All the same, we wanted to be at home. We missed Number Two Daughter and the dogs, and Oliver missed his bed, which he said was far more comfortable than the one in the hotel.
We had some minor excitement on the way up the motorway when the windscreen wiper fell off. This was because some months ago I stuck a thing on it supposed to boost mobile phone signal. Mark said that it wouldn’t work, and it didn’t, but stupidly I had not thought to stick it in a bit of the windscreen where the wipers were not, and for ages they have been making a very tiresome clacking noise whenever it rained, finally climaxing in a depressing clatter half way home today.
Mark heroically got out in the rain and fixed it using the bicycle spanner and the windscreen wiper from the other side. He took the rubbish signal booster off and threw it away, without saying that he had told me so, which I appreciated. He was very wet when he got back in the car, but did not say anything grumpy, and just laughed in the sort of way people do when they know they are right but are too nice to rub it in.
When we got home we found that Number Two Daughter had lit the fire and there was hardly any accidental puppy poo anywhere, which was lovely. It was gloriously nice to have the fire, because of the day being so grey and cheerless, and we felt warm and happy to be home.
The poopies charged down the garden to meet us even though it was raining. They clustered around our feet, barking their squeaky little wuffs: and all of them had to be patted and loved and told that they were the best poopies in the world. When we got inside they all jumped all over Lucy, who is all of their favourite. They were so excited to see her again that for a short while she disappeared underneath a mass of fluff and joyously waggling bottoms, and had to fight her way out and disentangle some of the more enthusiastic from her hair.
We told Number Two Daughter about our adventures over a cup of coffee, and she told us about taxis, and we felt as though we had been away for ages.
It was lovely to be home, in our beautiful little house. It smelled happy, of soap and woodsmoke, and only a bit of poopies. I love Blackpool, and I feel terribly sad that the holiday is over, and we have all got to get on with work and prep instead of spending our days doing nice things together: but it will be good to sleep in our own familiar bed tonight.
I don’t even mind that there won’t be bacon for breakfast.
