We are windswept and salty and tousled but we have very reluctantly left Blackpool.
Obviously we were late.
We slept brilliantly well. We had parked the camper van right beside the sea front in the end, and it was splendid. The winds and waves roared along the promenade and the camper van trembled and shook. Eventually I woke up having had a dream that I had backed my taxi into something, and was relieved to discover that I hadn’t. We were awake then, so we had a cup of coffee in bed and enjoyed the sensation of being rocked.
When we finally emerged we took the dogs down to the sea front, and the waves hurled themselves at the promenade steps until we were first sticky, and then crusty from the spray.
We came back, gasping and glowing, and made our best camper van breakfast. This is a portly version of healthy food, being a happy mixture of muesli with dried fruit and honey yoghurt and a large dollop of cream. We never eat this anywhere else, and indeed the tupperware box of muesli has sat undisturbed and undesired in the camper van during its entire almost-two-year restoration period.
It did not seem to have gone off, so when we woke up realising that we were in the camper van, of course we ate it, because of muesli being a ritual part of a camper van day. Neither of us had indigestion, so I can give you the economical tip here that muesli keeps for ages. You do not need to throw it out if it looks and smells all right.
Once we had filled ourselves to our satisfaction we met up with my father and caught the tram along to the Tower, where we leaned into the wind and became pink-faced and breathless walking out along the pier.
The sun was out, and the pier was just opening, lots of wind blown, sunburned gypsy-looking men were drinking coffee and unpacking things at the Helter Skelter and the Hook-A-Duck and the shooting range and the Blackpool Rock stall. We wandered about looking at things and deciding not to buy ice cream so soon after breakfast.
I would have liked to buy a dangling construction made out of shells from an enchanting little stall which absolutely festooned with them, so much so that you had to push your way through, and which smelt slightly suspiciously of stale seaweed. Mark did not seem to feel the need for a jingling thing made out of hundreds of shells, though, so we didn’t in the end, and I made up for it afterwards by purchasing a pink candle holder from a Chinese man on the promenade.
This was pretending to be a little dressing table, and was liberally covered with pretty mouldings of roses studded with stick-on diamonds, and I was very pleased with it.
We ate some doughnuts, because of breakfast now being some time ago, which we shared with an envious pigeon, and then caught a tram back. We intended to have a cup of coffee in the bar at the Hilton, but accidentally had a glass of wine instead, which made us feel warm and sleepy. We said a regretful farewell to my father, who was heading home, and took the camper van down to Bispham, where we had a little snooze next to the beach.
This was nice, because there were a lot of people about, and every now and again we could hear people saying kind things about the van and smiling, which was ace, how nice to make people laugh.
When we woke up it was time to go home, but we didn’t. The tide was out, and the sands stretched clean and fresh in front of us, so we took the dogs and went for a paddle.
Roger Poopy loves the sea, and bounded excitedly in and out of the water barking at things. He found a souvenir of his own in the shape of a dead seagull, which he carried about for a while in the hope of being allowed to keep it, but to his sadness he wasn’t.
Eventually we knew that we had really got no more excuses, because of having to earn a living, and sadly battened everything down and set off.
Coming home was cheered up by the discovery of lots of nice things, not least that the lodger had done all of the children’s washing and left it folded in tidy piles on the table. Then there was a kindly letter from Gordonstoun telling us that they liked Oliver, with some ace photographs of his weekend: and finally a large box.
This last was from a friend of ours who sells olives, and jolly good they are too. She is starting a mail-order olive business, and to our immeasurable delight, asked a couple of weeks ago if we would mind very much if she tried out the delivery company by sending some to us.
This is the sort of favour that I wish was asked of me every day.
The olives were in sealed tubs which had been carefully packed in ice and were absolutely perfect.
We felt hugely cheered by their presence.
We are eating spiced olives and roasted tomatoes on the taxi rank as I write these very words, it is as if a little sunshine has come to the Lake District.
Being at home is not so bad after all.
If you would like to have some olives posted to you they are called Oliviccio, and can be found on the mighty Internet. I can promise you that it is a very pleasing thing to come home to.
