I no longer send postcards when I go on holiday. I wait until I am home and write a satirical account of the holiday. This is emailed to my friends. It has gathered quite a following, so I thought I would share my last one with you. I live in southern England and satire is appreciated here. (I have changed my wife’s name to Rachel)
You may be amused or not - but it may give you some respite from the usual subjects hammered out on the forum.
Well Hello,
For all my sins, I have been forced to go away on yet another holiday. This time two weeks in a charming stone cottage nestling just above Ambleside in the Lake District . Just the place for Lakeland Lovers - they only provide the lakes. We were fortunate enough to enjoy a heat wave, no rain for two weeks and still light at 11.00pm ‘up Narth.’
Over the two weeks we covered 1,000 miles by car, in all, and 140 miles on foot, mostly over mountains. Rachel won’t tie her laces for anything less than 10 miles. Onwards and upwards, I focused on Rachel’s small but beautifully formed behind and blocked out the fatigue.
‘Such beauty makes me philosophical,’ I declared, as I absorbed the breathtaking scenery.
‘Full of something,’ she replied.
Using up energy faster than a leaking well head, we climbed into the realms of the gods. Over the Old Man of Coniston, Langdale Pikes, Wansfell, Wast Water, Irton Fell, Borrowdale, Aira Force et al, we climbed a stair every day.
Complete strangers greeted us. I put it down to the high altitude.
‘Why is everyone pretending to be nice?’ I asked Rachel.
‘People are nice,’ she assured me.
Unconvinced, and with much effort, I strove to be nice for the whole holiday; More of a challenge than the walking. I stopped to give a hiker a lift.
‘Why are you stopping for him?’ Rachel asked.
‘Because I am being nice,’ I replied, with a Tony Blair smile.
Our evenings were spent savouring the softer side of life and planning our next conquest. Ambleside is a quaint Victorian town, full of delightful restaurants which have considerately raised their prices to meet the expectations of tourists.
On TV we watched BP trying to cap the well. They seem unable to produce a cap that fits tightly and won't leak or blow out. I am so glad they don’t make condoms!
Before our sojourn, I had acquired two walking poles; not to be confused with walking sticks.
‘You will look ridiculous!’ Rachel declared.
‘Looking ridiculous is something I have long become accustomed to. Just being here is an achievement.’
I explained that they enabled me to spread the exertion through my whole body, providing balance, exercise and stress reduction by employing my upper limbs.
‘You mean using your arms,’ she replied.
Ah! The beauty of simplicity.
As the miles passed and I vaulted up the inclines, Rachel became more contrite. It appeared that all the serious walkers were employing their upper limbs. After 10 days, a breakthrough. She agreed to sample my mobility aides and now wants some of her own!
My original 20 year old walking boots, which I should have placed in a museum, finally met their end on the stony walk over The Old Man of Coniston, and fell apart. An omen perhaps?
‘You’re very fit for an older man,’ Rachel remarked.
‘You’re very fit yourself,’ I replied sparingly.
Despite our evening excesses, I lost 5 pounds. Rachel lost nothing, being perfected already.
One minute’s walk from the cottage was a rustic organic wine store run by a charming Italian ‘ Uomo. ’ I spent so much time there that Rachel began asking questions.
Saturday morning came too fast. Suntanned, sated, sober and chastened, we thrust ourselves back down the motorway to rejoin reality. We have climbed every mountain, forded every stream and I have found my dream - the fragrant Rachel. Despite her best efforts, she was unable to out-walk me and my poles.
I hope this satirical postcard finds you well and that you too will find time to make a grape escape and reconnect with your passion for the stuff of dreams.
Take care