We are in Barrow, that well-known Cumbrian holiday destination.
We are sitting between the sea and a mass of lights that would make Blackpool Illuminations look miserly, because they are lighting up the nuclear-submarine manufacturing plant for which Barrow is famous. Presumably this is so that the Russians will be able to find it if they come looking for it in the middle of the night.
Certainly they won’t have any difficulties if they do, I would think you could see it from the Moon.
I quite like it, it is huge and awing and splendid, and on the other side of us is the grey night, and the crashing of the waves against the shore.
We have had a lovely day, if you like this sort of thing, which we do. You might recall that we spent last night on the beach in Ulverston, and this morning, when we finally crawled into life, we went for a long walk along the coast.
We walked for miles and miles. The dogs rolled in sand and seaweed and mud, and tore up and down barking at seagulls. We took off our flip-flops, apart from in the bits where the sand was prickly with too many shells, and walked barefoot, which was ace.
It was all very exciting, because it was wet and blustery. The wind was in our faces when we set off, and fortunately at our backs for the long journey back, and we became so wet that when we got back we had to divest ourselves of all our clothes and start again. My dress had become sodden, and had been making nautical cracking sounds in the wind like a wet sail, which was thrilling although not terribly comfortable.
When we got back Mark cooked eggs and bacon, and we ate like ravening tigers, after which we immediately fell asleep again.
We slept for most of the afternoon. When we eventually surfaced we wondered if we ought to go and do something spectacular, like the cinema, or Mark suggested B and Q, but we didn’t. Instead we just read books and looked out at the sea, until eventually we thought we would move on.
Moving on was delayed a little by the discovery that the windscreen wipers did not work. Fortunately it turned out that their fuse was one that had been previously repaired with a little tin foil, and the tin foil had slipped, so a small adjustment and we were on our way.
It was almost dark by the time we reached Barrow, and one of us, actually it was me, had the inspired idea that we should purchase dinner instead of cooking it.
We went to Kentucky Fried Chicken, which was so magnificently youthful and trendy that we stood in front of the counter dithering for ages whilst the young man on the other side sighed and looked bored.
It was almost as brightly lit as the nuclear armaments factory, and there was an utterly incomprehensible list of choices. You could not just say: I would like a piece of chicken, please, you had to choose between a Bargain Bucket or a Krushem or a Captain’s Choice or a Party Special, and we had to read them all carefully so we could work out what we might be getting.
We brought an enormous bucket back to the camper van, which actually cost hardly anything, and pleased the dogs very much. Fortunately we had our own home-made mayonnaise and some salad, which helped, but it was all absolutely marvellous, in a very sticky sort of way, I had to be very controlled not to wipe my hands on my trousers, although I think Mark might have succumbed to the temptation.
We walked on the beach afterwards, once we were stuffed with spicy chicken with a dessert of indigestion tablets. This was far more dramatic than the estuary in Ulverston, with lots of thundering waves, and the dogs charged about joyfully, barking and rolling in the seaweed.
They are collapsed under the table now, exhausted, emitting little guffs of Kentucky Fried Chicken scented wind, and making me roll my eyes. We are just waiting for the water to heat up, and we are going to shower and go to bed.
It has been a lovely holiday.
