It has been a very full sort of day.
Mostly it seems to have been full of difficulties and dreadful things, with one small highlight in the middle when we saw Oliver, and had a happy hour in Ampleforth’s glorious abbey, listening to the splendid singing and grinning at him.
Apart from that things seem to have gone terribly wrong from beginning to end.
It started when I opened the post this morning to find a very rude letter from Manchester City Council with a photograph of the camper van. It would appear that in an absent-mindedly lost moment we have driven down a bus lane.
I looked hard at the photograph. There are no other cars or indeed buses on the road which is in the picture. It is a picture of a lone camper van, driven by some people from rural parts who have become confused in the city.
I put it in my in-tray and left it until I am feeling combative. I will write to them and argue, but do not expect marvellous results.
After that I was cross, and late, and rushed round trying to organise things to put in the van. Mark organised other things, and did them wrong, so we had an argument.
I felt cross all the way to Ampleforth. It was a lovely day, with bright autumn sunshine and the smell of fallen leaves, but it did not soothe my disgruntled feelings.
Of course it was ace to see Oliver. Matron has organised a new tweed jacket for him, it is almost big enough for Mark to wear. It will last him for ages, and has got room for a couple of his friends to join him in it should he feel sociable.
They sang very nicely.
We went to this event at Ampleforth last year as well. It is a school, and an abbey, and it is run by the monks.
This sort of thing always intrigues me, and I looked hard at the chap doing the service. He was called Father Somebody, incongruously, because of all the things that he had decided never to be, a father was right on the top of the list. He would have struggled to be a genial uncle, to be honest, he had a world-weary look about him. I looked at him with great curiosity, but could find no hint in his face about why he might have chosen austerity and incense above nappies and sticky sheets.
We handed over Oliver’s pirate costume and sleeping bag, because tonight was his night for sleeping underneath the shark tank, and then set off back.
We had arranged to go and see my friend Kate on the way home.
Kate lives in Sedbergh, which is a small place situated roughly about twenty miles away from anywhere that anybody might like to go.
The route to it is along the winding pass between the fells, and is isolated and grim.
Think of Wuthering Heights.
We were having another argument along the way when Mark stopped the van to make a cup of tea to sort things out.
When we got into the back of the van we gasped in horror.
The back window had smashed.
There was broken glass everywhere.
We carry our bicycles on the cycle rack on the back of the van, and we thought that somehow they just have jolted and the handlebar jabbed through the window.
We stopped to clear it all up, and blocked the back window up with the blind and a table, propped up by some cushions.
It was dark and cold by then. It was not nice.
We argued a bit more over the next few miles.
We were almost at Kate’s house when suddenly, unexpectedly, the road stopped.
The sign said that it was closed.
We had to drive back through the unfriendly blackness for fifteen miles. Then we had to take another road and come back again.
By then we were almost out of fuel.
There is nowhere at all in the middle of the Yorkshire moors to purchase diesel, and Mark chugged down the winding road at an economically slow pace.
I really mean nowhere. There is nothing except sheep for miles.
In the end we puffed to a stop outside Kate’s house. She is the sort of friend who does not complain in the least about this sort of thing. She was warm and friendly and generous even though we were disgruntled and tired and hours and hours late.
She had got dinner ready.
The warmth of the fire and the hot food seeped into our souls. We ate everything and drank more.
We could not go home. We have got to wait until the petrol station in Sedbergh opens in the morning.
We are getting ready for bed, in our camper van without a window.
It is warmer than you might expect, but upsetting all the same.
I jus want it to be tomorrow. Today has been horrid.
It was lovely to see Oliver, and also to see Kate and her family.
The rest of the day needs to be forgotten quickly.
I am going to think about something else and go to bed.
I haven’t taken a picture. Have a picture of some drink.
