A la recherche du temps perdu

With Diane driving, Caroline and I visited Carol in The Peak District.

We had last done this in 2022, but what time of year was it when we came before?
We attempted to figure it out by referencing our memories of the weather and wildlife.
What temperature was it?
Were there swallows?
Was the golden saxifrage in bloom?
We couldn't quite remember.

Then we went for a walk through the fields.
At the end of one field, a tractor turned and started heading ominously towards us. It was dragging a muck spreader which was flicking out gobbets of poo.

An overpowering rural smell assailed us.

And just like Proust's madeleine with limeflower tea, it triggered a memory.

Ah yes, I remember. It was EXACTLY this time of year when we visited before!

Beware the split-level patio

Carolyn and David travelled from the North East, Nigel and I from the South East, and we met up in the Peak District. As usual the agenda for the weekend was long walks, pubs, a bit of culture and a trawl of charity shops.

However, this time our attention was grabbed by the landlord of our accommodation.

Carolyn had very kindly made the booking, and soon began to receive very long emails with detailed instructions for the house.  Amid the many paragraphs were concealed vital information like the postcode, keycode and wifi password.  It was like a very inconvenient wordsearch puzzle.

When we entered the (very pleasant) house, the folder which was left out for visitors did not disappoint.

There was a lengthy screed on how to raise and lower the (perfectly normal) blinds.

The patio was on two levels and there was a whole page about not tripping or falling down the four-inch-high step, and outside, an outsize yellow traffic cone to mark the hazard.

The section on using the wood-burning stove was positively Dickensian in its detail.

After all this, I saw Nigel hesitating in the hallway, a frown on his face.

‘Anything the matter?’

‘Yes.  I couldn’t find the instructions for how to walk up the stairs.’

 

A Test of Friendship

We have spent many a weekend with our friends the Thompsons. Once we lived in County Durham, in a village next door to theirs, had our first children within a year of one another. Now we live hundreds of miles apart.

All our youngsters are living independently. Hannah even got married. So nowadays it is just us four old codgers meeting up.

We meet in the Peak District since it is half way between.

Since it was July, we decided to camp.

The forecast looked okay. Perhaps a little rain on Sunday.

Not long after we had pitched our tents on Friday, watery clouds began to frown-out the sun.

We checked the forecast – some rain now on Saturday too.

By Saturday afternoon, we had retreated early from our hike.  Wet and listless we explored Bakewell, crowded with damp tourists.  

Then we began to get the hang of it – basically the forecast had been wrong- it was going to rain heavily all weekend.

Well, now we knew.  We made plans for Sunday – we’d go to Haddon Hall where there was also an “Artisan Fair” (like a craft fair but without the teasel hedgehogs and decoupage) and then on to the cinema to see Yesterday.

The guides at Haddon Hall crammed us with interesting anecdotes, the artisans told us their secrets – how to hunt problem gulls with a lanner falcon, how to fly fish for brown trout.  Best of all, we met several alpacas, making their weird humming bleats.

Yesterday was entertaining and its (many) flaws gave us plenty to discuss.

Then on Monday morning, at last the sun shone.  We walked miles, took all our photos and dismantled our tents in the dry.

“Monday will be the day we remember!” said Carolyn.

But I’m not so sure – I’ll always hold onto the memory of good friends who were able to make even a wet weekend in tents fun.

A Profound Learning Experience

I left Buckingham Palace in my fascinator and court shoes, took the tube to Euston and caught a train to the Peak District. 

I loved the stateliness of the Garden Party, but I would enjoy hiking in the Peak District even more.  Walking in the hills would encourage contemplation and help me to answer some of the Questions that Life Poses.

Carol, Caroline and Diane were there waiting for me as night fell on Buxton Station.  They told me my fascinator looked “Lovely!”  I preened coyly.

Unfortunately, when I removed my court shoes that night, I discovered that I had sustained a Garden Party Injury – a large, raw blister.  It limited the scope of our walks.  The others were very patient.  Although at breakfast the next day they did suggest that I might like to stop wearing my fascinator now.

However, in spite of our walks being curtailed, I DID discover the answer to one of the Questions that Life Poses.   Carol was kindly putting us up in her house so I was not surprised to see an unopened pot of my jam in her larder. 
I was surprised however to see that it was Mirabelle jam.  I have not made Mirabelle jam since July 2014.

I had thought that I had begun to see the rolling eyes of panic when I handed friends their annual selection of jams and chutneys at Christmas, but when questioned directly, they always pronounced them “delicious”. 

So I had two choices.  The first was to re-think my entire food-manufacture and gift-giving policy; the second, to carry on regardless. 

I think there is a photo somewhere of me eating toast heaped with three-year-old jam, my fascinator crammed firmly on my head.