Clarissa et al.

After my lovely week in Wales I was back to work this week. Actually we had a staff meeting on the Friday before I went away, and most of my colleagues were kept quite busy last week. I've had delightful infants doing 'Step Inside' where they go to the Victorian cottage and meet "Mrs Kirkby" who shows them round, talks about life and her children, has no comprehension at all of what they mean when they talk about computers, radiators, washing machines etc. and assumes they must all be very rich when they talk about having bathrooms.

Today it was the turn of some equally delightful juniors doing History Detectives (discovering all about a farm labouring family using primary sources in the Farming Museum) and the Victorian School. This was Nettleton School who last time they came set the standard for all other schools for a couple of terms afterwards. They were still very good, but Sir hadn't read his notes and was less well prepared than he should have been, and there was one silly giggler amongst them. I took the risky course of making him Miss Jones's bete noir (he was also left-handed) and told the visiting 'school inspector' (actually his head teacher) that the boy was a complete fool. This worked, and he delighted in being made to stand in the corner wearing the dunce's cap at the end of the session. The class opinion seemed to be that I should have caned him, but I don't actually want to be charged with assault.

The class was very impressed that not only did I know their school, but also knew the names of the people who live in the old schoolhouse.

SATURDAY

Set off early-ish. Well, about 11 o’clock by the time we had the car properly packed, so we stopped for picnic lunch in Clumber Park not long after noon. My pretty route across the country worked very well, although our proposed visit to Chirk was curtailed to afternoon tea (Bara Brith mark 1) as the castle itself had closed its doors by the time we reached the top of the long steep drive.

The cottage, back garden, back garden with view of Manod mountains, living room, dining room, grandfather clock, my bedroom and Joe's bedroom.

The cottage itself was delightful (and very easy to find), spotlessly clean and furnished with antiques. We brought things in and I made a pot of tea while Joe figured out the television and tuned into the final of How do you solve a problem like Maria? Then, while Joe sorted things out, I drove into Blaenau Ffestiniog to find fish and chips. They eat cod in this part of the world which is a change from haddock.

Since Joe is foot taller than I am I let him have the double bed while I took the single. Both were very comfortable and we slept well.

SUNDAY

We went to Church in Llan Ffestiniog where the service was in a mix of Welsh and English – the whole thing printed in both languages with duplicated bi-lingual copies of the readings. On reaching the Lord’s Prayer we were told to say it in our preferred language – not just a choice of two, but a cacophony of traditional and modern as well, plus a couple of Dutch visitors. My guess is that they were probably related to the priest whose name was Ariadne van den Hof.

This morning was the only time all week that it really rained during the day, but the sun came out in the afternoon and, despite the BBC’s dire predictions for the week, remained out for the rest of the week – sometimes a little hazy and on Monday it was very windy, but (as usual) the weather remained lovely for my entire holiday.

After going back to the cottage for coffee we drove through Snowdonia to Penrhyn Castle which Joe particularly wanted to see because of some local connections as well as his delight in all things Victorian. Now, I remember being pleasantly surprised by the very ornate nineteenth century Norman style thirty years ago when I first visited and on two subsequent visits, finding it less oppressive than most Victorian Gothick houses. I suppose it is a matter of expectation because, after a gap of years when it had become in my mind the nicest house of its type and period, this time I honestly did not care for the décor at all. We stopped at the tea room for Bara Brith mark 2.

We took a slightly different route back to Ffestiniog, and had chicken supreme for dinner – a very easy dish to cook in a hurry.

MONDAY

Another day heading north: this time our destination was Conwy - Castle, Walls, Bridges, Harbour: it is one of my favourite places. The Castle Hotel, where we spent a memorable night in 1963 when Helen and I were 6 and 8 respectively, has finally closed its doors to guests and now sells reproduction armoury. (The Conway Castle Hotel shares equal bottom place for cleanliness with two other small hotels - one in Cockermouth and the other near Lille. We visited these a long time ago too and they will either have closed or improved. The Castle Hotel however was still open for business a mere 20 years ago, and the coffee was still terrible.)

Conwy itself has not benefited as much as one would hope from the improved road system: the shopping streets seemed drab and depressed compared with my memories, although it is now possible to cross them without taking your life in your hands. Aberconwy House has been furnished in a variety of styles reflecting its 700 year history, and now really works as a place to visit in its own right. Plas Mawr closes on Monday. Bother! I’d have liked to see it again.

After Conway we drove along the coast to the Great Orme where we were nearly blown into the sea as we visited the tiny ancient church of St. Tudno.

On the way home I scandalised Joe by stopping by a lake and going for a paddle. I’m not sure if he thinks I’m too old, or that it is too late in the year, or that there was a notice demanding payment for launching a boat, or that paddling is common, or what, but he sat in the car exuding disapproval of my harmless little pleasure. It isn’t as if I stuck my skirt in my knickers or anything really embarrassing!

Spaghetti for dinner.

TUESDAY

North for the third and last time. Today our destination was Anglesey.

We started off in Beaumaris where we had coffee, looked in some antique shops (Joe’s choice) and round the castle. Health and safety has done a silly and the outer walls are now closed to visitors where once children (including Richard aged about 3) rushed up and down the steps and along the battlements now considered unsafe even for adults. I climbed up to the top of the limited area of the inner walls still open to visitors, admired the view, and realised that I had left my camera in the car.

On to Plas Newydd. This house contains my all time favourite bedroom, beating all other lace and pastel Edwardian bedrooms by dint of its wonderful views over the Menai Straits and its lovely bathroom. I always carry my toothbrush with me and would gladly have moved in. Joe was enraptured by the Rex Whistler tromp l’oeil dining room. Then we had a quickish wander in the gardens before going on to see Joe’s friends, Tony and Margaret Edwards, who keep a boarding kennel near by; they were very welcoming and served us with Bara Brith mark 3 which is made by a local lady who uses all the Edwards' surplus eggs in her small commercial enterprise.

We drove home through the mountains by a route which gave us our closest glimpse of Snowdon itself. The railway is, I understand, going only halfway up at the moment and the café on top is at long last being rebuilt. I recall it being pretty tatty in 1963, so about time too! We had stopped at Tesco on the outskirts of Bangor to stock up for the rest of the week, and bought a selection of Chinese dishes to heat up for supper – just as well as, for the only time in the week, we missed a turning in the gathering dark and took a long route back to Ffestiniog via Porthmadog.

WEDNESDAY

This was the day that we had planned from the start, and the day that I was doing something I had never done before: our trip on the Ffestiniog Railway.

The Earl of Merioneth - which took us on our outward journey

The outward journey was exactly as scheduled – an hour and a quarter across some lovely countryside which, not being the driver, I could look at properly. The on train refreshments are efficient, but over-priced and very basic. The station restaurant, on the other hand, is excellent value for money with large portions of fairly basic freshly cooked food, so I had a bacon bap and Joe had soup of the day.

Porthmadog, I have to say, makes Cleethorpes in the off-season look thrilling. It is a small town on the coast, and that is all. We had the choice of a half-hour turnaround or a three hour stay. We opted for the latter, and it was here that I took the opportunity to buy a new and larger memory card for my camera so that I am no longer limited to about 16 photos per holiday, and have thus taken 113 pictures. Otherwise Joe went to look at the shops and I went to look at the harbour.

The return journey was memorable. Joe and I found ourselves places at the front of the train in a carriage dating from the 1870s. Presumably most people wanted cushioned backs to their seats and/or on train refreshments because we had the whole carriage to ourselves and spread ourselves very comfortably to take the whole compartment.

David Lloyd George which started the journey and Taleisin which rescued us.

We travelled thus for just one station at which point the elastic snapped (well, something went wrong with the engine) and they had to send for another. Because the replacement engine was less powerful they had to take off the front three carriages including ours and send them back with the crippled engine. So we had to join the hoi-polloi in the now quite crowded (1930s?) carriages. The ‘hoi-polloi’ proved very friendly and, by the second unscheduled stop (jammed points) we were all talking and friendly due at least in part to a sociable black Labrador called Jack who picked up his lead and went for a walk along the carriage introducing himself to everyone along the way. Further stops followed as the little engine girded up its loins and built up a head of steam before each of the steeper inclines. The return journey took twice as long as the outward journey. At one point the guard came along the train to find out who was hoping to make a connection with the mainline train at Blaenau Ffestiniog. He then rang ahead and the seven people affected were collected in a taxi at one of the little halts along the way.

We ate steak and salad to dinner together with a shared portion of chips picked up near the station.

THURSDAY

This was the day that the weather forecast at the beginning of the week had scheduled for pouring rain. We awoke to bright sunshine and temperatures which rose well into the seventies. The drive eastward through the mountains towards Bala was magical affording us not only wonderful views, but the sight of what looked like two golden eagles soaring above us!!! The official line is that there are no golden eagles in Wales, so I suppose they must have been buzzards, except that I don't think they were.

We drove around Bala Lake, but despite stopping to view and photograph the lake I thought it less impressive than Llyn Celyn which we had passed earlier mainly because there is very little of Bala Lake you can see from the road as it is more or less surrounded by trees.

We went on to visit Chirk properly. The family has recently moved out of the east range and it will shortly be open to the public, although it is on a short lease which limits what the National Trust can do. In the meantime the curator is taking twice daily tours in which he explains what is being done and why. It was all very interesting. Apparently they had to take up the corridor carpet because the family dogs had, with limited access to outdoor space especially when the castle was open to the public, used the corridor to do that which dogs normally do out of doors. The parquet floor beneath had to be scraped piece by piece, then oiled and polished, and oiled and polished again. The heating had been off all winter and the ladies cleaning had been able to work a maximum of two hours a day during March. Fortunately financial constraints and the shortness of the lease look like precluding the return of the light, airy drawing room to its Victorian former self with dark red flock wallpaper and heavy furnishings.

Twenty year old Joe was enraptured by the 1609 courtyard clock which I remember many years ago had so fascinated three year old Richard. For some reason the chime had not been wound, but that did not stop Joe taking a lot of photographs of the mechanism. The main tour of the house was pretty much as I remember although some of the rooms seem different in size to what they once were - the staircase hall especially had shrunk. The tricks the mind can play!

We called in at Valle Crucis Abbey on the way home, but - between our driving past and parking the car - the attendant had locked up and gone home – early according to Cadw’s literature.

We ate Kidney Risotto on our laps while watching Lovejoy and Pie in the Sky.

FRIDAY

We made our tour of the Lleyn Peninsular starting with Criccieth Castle which, while not the most interesting castle as a castle has one of the most beautiful locations.

I'm sorry, but I had to include this last truly dreadful picture taken at Criccieth - just read the text of the notice to see why.

We then called at Penarth Fawr a tiny mediaeval house which I had never visited before – just one room with a loft area at one end and a cellar/undercroft beneath. Not long after we stopped to buy milk and Bara Brith mark 4 to take home.

And on we drove to Plas yn Rhiw, a house reminiscent of Beatrix Potter’s Hilltop in the Lake District. There is little beautiful about this house, but it has great charm and wonderful views.

These views continued as we made our way to Mynydd Mawr at the very tip of the peninsular whence we could see Bardsey Island where 20,000 saints are said to be buried. You walked the last leg of your pilgrimage over the hill to St. Mary's church (now ruined) where you prayed for a safe crossing and confessed your sins, past St, Mary's Well, the holy spring which miraculously turns sea water into fresh water, and on to the island and sainthood. There was a thin and very distant line on the horizon visible in reality, but not really visible on the photo which is the coast of Ireland.

Our last visit on Lleyn was to Whistling Sands – a beautiful beach where I went for a paddle and Joe stayed in the car. Apparently he had developed a strangely painful twisted ankle quite early in the week which precluded walking round gardens (we did that anyway) or on beaches or hills, but allowed him to walk for hours round houses. It also gave him problems with spiral staircases so that most of my battlement walks this week were done alone, as were my communings with nature on hilltops and beside lakes.

On the way back I took a brief detour to Llanllyfni where Liz and Ed lived when they were first married, and took a photo of St. Rhedyw's church where Richard was baptised. I would have photographed the house too, but there was nowhere to stop and a car close behind prevented even the briefest of pauses.

SATURDAY

Home today, but still making the journey a part of the holiday. We called in to see the Trefor Basin & Aqueduct – a party of pirates went past: they said that they were the genuine article, and you don’t argue with pirates, do you?

Our final visit of the holiday was to Erddig, a house I have visited several times before, and the one which started the fashion for showing the servants’ quarters as much as those of the family. Some things have changed - electricity throughout although lighting is still used only occasionally when the rooms really are dark and where necessary for safety. It truly is a fascinating house.

Joe and I both dislike the V & A's insistence here (as at Belvoir) of keeping the expensively restored state bed behind museum-like glass. I rather approve of places like Goodwood where the owners won't even have the blinds drawn to preserve the fabrics so that the house is seen as a house and not as a museum, although I do realise that where public money - whether government grant or public subscription - is involved there must be an added element of caution which the private owner can choose to ignore.

While on the subject of the state bed, I note that my godson's 30th birthday is now little more than a year away and he still hasn't made that million and bought his mother a similar bed to this as he promised he would about a quarter-of-a-century ago when he first saw this particular bed.

After that we left Wales to drive across Cheshire, Derbyshire, Nottinghamshire and Lincolnshire to get home.

I think this must be my tenth stay in Wales, plus various day trips when staying in neighbouring counties. I am always blown away with the beauty and friendliness of the place, and I always leave with a great longing to return as soon as possible. It is also much maligned in what people say about the weather: assuming each visit lasted about a week that is 70 days in Wales of which one in October 1977 was rainy and now half a day in 2006!

Uncle Frans died this morning though neither father nor I knew until later in the day. Father rang Helen from Lincoln about something completely different and she told him then, and Joe told me when I got in from work.

I suppose 83 isn't at all a bad age, but it seems unfairly early to me especially when they seemed to be beating the odds on ITU and he looked as if he might pull through, but without all the intensive nursing and high tech support he failed rapidly back on the ward.

I haven't got a digitised recent picture, so I'll put up one of him as a little boy with my even little father, and the young man.

On Tuesday we had a very long PCC meeting.

Tomorrow we have our first staff meeting of the new school year.

Tucked in between was dinner with Ken and Rosemary Saunders. Ken is the retired priest who helped us through our last interregnum, and takes a certain amount of the load of seven parishes from Lisbet who is expected to deal with the whole parochial burden as well her more-or-less ful time job as Mental Health Chaplain to both Grimsby and Scunthorpe.

Anyway, over the past several years Carolyn and I have each given a certain amount of hospitality (coffee, lunches, necessary facilities between services) and he felt that it was payback time - and a very nice payback it was too. We enjoyed excellent food and delightful company; what more can anyone ask of an evening?

Lisbet was saying that we must stay with her once she is settled back in Sweden, and I said that she must come back to visit us. What follows is one of those totally trivial bits of statistical nonsense I come up with from time to time like the average number of cats owned by the direct descendants of my maternal grandmother, or the fact that in our family Mary is a dangerous given name with an average lifespan only in the 50s, while as a middle/unused name it gives an average longevity into the 90s. (Jackie, Susan, Clare, Jessie and I like this unscientific statistic.) Anyway it suddenly came to me that virtually everyone who has slept in our spare bed is either a priest or the spouse, son, daughter, nephew or niece of a priest. Plus some cats.

My first choice was booked up (my fault - I kept forgetting to book) so I decided to have a look for alternatives. (Yes, I know that Liz and Ed will be spending the weekend doing loads of amazing places, but that is in the city where you can find lots of things close together - in Lincolnshire there are big distances to cover and my original choice was a guided tour Harlaxton Manor/College two hours drive away.) My back's still not better so I look for somewhere that doesn't involve a long drive to get there or a lot of walking once I'm there. I also decide that I won't go out until the afternoon.

So, I make my choice, go out to the car, find a flat tyre (horse-shoe nail - you don't get those in the city either). Jacob tries to change it, but finds that the lock nut has been broken. We think that when I last had a new tyre somebody over-tightened instead of loosening. So Jacob goes to ask his cousin to help. Cousin has friends with him who work at a local garage - they have the tools. I now have six men all trying to change my wheel. They succeed at last although it is now fastened on with substitute nuts. It is now after 3.00 and it is clear that we are going nowhere today.

My car has one of those irritating 'get you home' spare wheels instead of a proper full-strength wheel. I phone a couple of garages but they are closed. It is now clear that I'm not going to get my new wheel until Monday, and that we are going nowhere tomorrow.

As it is I shall have to beg a lift or borrow a car to get to church. So Book of Common Prayer in Croxby's little Saxon church followed by lunch in my just pre-Victorian cottage will have to do for this weekend's heritage.

Thank you to people who have asked after him: Uncle Frans is still on ITU, but he is a little better and breathing for himself.

It isn't 10 o'clock yet, I have been on the phone for most of the last hour, and the day has already gone pear-shaped.

Phonecall 1 - Caistor Windows to say that another job has finished unexpectedly early so they can come and fix our new back door. Good, but I'm going out in half-an-hour, so we make arrangements to cover this.

Phonecall 2 - Librarian from the mobile - the van's off the road, so I won't be out in half-an-hour to change my books.

Phonecall 3 - me this time to the garage as Jacob has asked me to take his car in for a new exhaust. No, they haven't got the right one in stock. Yes, it will cost twice as much as he thought it would.

Phonecall 4 - me again to Jacob. His mobile is off.

Phonecall 4a - me to Glen with message for Jacob.

Phonecall 5 - me to electrician. Last night the new hob wouldn't switch off - I turned all the switches to off, but the light stayed on, so I turned it (and the oven) off at the wall switch. Father turned it on again to see if he could see what the problem was and the whole system tripped. (Joe and Jess furious as they are watching the very end of the Simpsons which they now miss). Joe, the only one who can reach the new fuse box without standing on a stool, trips the switch back.
I duly explain all this and she says she'll get a man out to us a.s.a.p.

Phonecall 6 - Someone wants to sell me fascias.

Phonecall 7 - Jacob. Not at that price! He's got a mate who'll do it at cost - it'll just take a bit longer. I am even more not going out.

Caistor Windows man arrives, and starts work at once. Knows what he is doing and doesn't need a cup of tea.

Phonecall 8 - Is Councillor Turner in? No, he's at a meeting. All day, but he will be in this evening. Can I give him a message? No, she will ring back.

Phonecall 9 - Joe is locked in. Everyone went out before he was awake and the last person out locked the door behind them. He has, once again, mislaid his key - probably in the drain of a washing machine here or at grandma's or even at home. I haven't got a key to their house, so I tell him to ring Glen.

Phonecall 10 - Electrician will be here in half-an-hour.

11.00
The electrician has been and gone. He has taken the little light away as there is "water in my neon". Apparently the hob doesn't like people to boil pasta, rice, potatoes etc. on it as it shorts out if water gets in. This would seem to be a design fault, but convinces me even more that kitchens are now a status symbol to be looked at and admired, but never ever to be used. I have reached the conclusion that the fancier the kitchen, the less it is likely to be cooked in just as the more bridesmaids the shorter time the marriage will last. Among my friends and relatives the cut off point for bridesmaids seems to be four. Similarly most of my friends cook in something quite old-fashioned and utilitarian including the two who feel they have done their bit for home cooking if the pasta and the sauce come in different packets and they serve it with a side salad. Among my acquaintances the most complete non-cook has the most expensive kitchen and reminds me of the man on the advert which they were showing a few months back - "You're not going to use it!" On the other hand Issy, who is a fantastic cook, uses a kitchen last updated about the year she was born (she's 40 this month).

I hang out the washing at last. I've only been planning to do it since I got up this morning.

Phonecall 11 - Is Tony in? No, he's at a meeting. All day, but he will be in this evening. Can I give him a message? No, he will ring back.

I can now give the glaziers some coffee.

2.00
The glaziers have gone and we have a nice new back door which we sincerely hope won't stick and will lock and unlock without a fight. We also have a letter box which means that the robin can have the box by the gate to nest in without inconveniencing anyone else.

It was Parish Council tonight. We had a very long agenda and my bum is numb. So, I think, is my mind, but I can't be certain . . .

I have served nineteen years on this august body - I think it must be genetic beause I certainly don't do it for the fun of it, but the quickest of glances at the family tree shows generation after generation of civic minded types - preachers, teachers, councillors and magistrates. My dear Papa has been a councillor since before I was born (that's over half a century!) and I sometimes wonder how he has stood it all these years, but he loves it. He still loves it, and as a County Councillor attends vast numbers of meetings including all the Parish Councils in his area, sometimes two or three in an evening! I find my six a year quite enough.

However, I digress from what I was going to say.

Looking at the agenda I decided to found SPUMA - the Society for the Prevention of Unnecessary and Meaningless Acronyms.

So I did this.

Of course, under the terms of the constitution I had immediately to disband the society, but not before I had minuted the case of a mixed race, computer literate rural beat officer with a horse mad daughter, otherwise known as the PC PC at a PC with a PC and a daughter at the PC or the politically correct Police Constable at a Parish Council with a personal computer and a daughter at the Pony Club.

And it's Parochial Church Council (PCC) next Tuesday.

Isn't it the most terrifying thing when the telephone rings in the middle of the night. Anything after about 10.30 at night or before 8.00 in the morning can be a touch unnerving, but 2.00 in the morning is instant panic.

Of course it may just be a drunk with a wrong number, or a relative half across the world whose ability to work out the time difference is absent, but my first thought is always that it is bad news - so bad that it cannot wait until the morning, although there is rarely anything one can actually do other than pray.

And that's all I can do now. The phone call was from Aunt Marion with the news than Uncle Frans (Daddy's older brother) has been rushed into hospital with septicemia and kidney failure. She doesn't want us to do anything as she has expressly forbidden vistiting either the hospital or the house.

So I'm writing this at nearly three in the morning because I have prayed all I can for the moment, sleep has vanished, and the book I am in the middle of reading is not of the calming variety - quite the opposite - and if it weren't a reading club book I would have abandoned it several depressing and pretentious chapters ago.

Monday Afternoon

Uncle Frans is now on ITU where Helen is the Sister. Daddy spent the night in the hospital sitting with him until Helen came on duty, then took Aunt Marion home before coming home himself and falling asleep in front of the television. According to Helen Uncle Frans is conscious off and on and talking - not really recognising people, but capable of answering simple questions like "Are you is pain?" "No" "Are you thirsty?" "Yes". I gather that both Clare and Steve have visited, against what Aunt Marion said she wanted, but probably rightly. I have decided to respect Aunt Marion's wishes for the time-being - probably wrongly.

P.S. I finished the book - every word of it right to its depressing conclusion. I believe it is the first of a trilogy. I shall not be reading the other two.

More of the same, but at Baysgarth Museum this time. They have a country crafts section, but I didn't do anything with that, and simply taught two sessions of corn dolly making to another twenty children in a somewhat wider age range; yesterday's were 6 to 11, today's were 3 to 14 including a couple of very, very neat plaiters. Yesterday I was quite impressed that one family had come all the way from Doncaster. Today we had a family from Colwyn Bay, although I suspect they hadn't come all the way to Lincolnshire for me to teach them corn craft.

Now I return to holiday mode.

Irritatingly I have back ache. This is not something I often suffer from, but it grabbed me quite suddenly just as I was walking quite slowly across a carpark. I am using one of those hot pads which you stick to your clothes and which are supposed to stay hot for twelve hours. So far so good except for one mini side effect: they add weight to the clothes they are stuck to and my knickers fell down in Tesco's carpark. Fortunately I felt them going and was able to catch them with my knees so that they were still hidden by my skirt. Pulling them up unobtrusively wasn't the most elegant, but I achieved it.