Kate and Nick break the torpor by suggesting a visit to the coast/sea. With an early start they bundle excitedly into the car and head over the moors – it’s spring and the Moors are beginning to recover after the ravages of winter. The Moors look immutably grand and rugged, and everyone’s enthralled by the scenery en route to the coast.
Once at Robin Hood’s Bay the beach is stunning and populated by dogs and their owners and a few walkers. It is here that we discover that Bella dislikes dogs – she was bitten by one when she was 3 years old – so this could be a precarious outing.
Nevertheless, Kate keeps a close eye on Bella who begins to relax on the beach whilst the other girls roam wildly and enjoy rock-pooling. However, it happens to be Bella’s misfortune that she is the one who is blindsided by a large dog and sent flying, landing in the wet sand. Bella is tearful in the sand...until a kindly old Irishman, Francis, comes to her rescue. Kate mistakenly thinks that the miscreant dog belongs to Francis and launches a tirade at him.
Once Bella recovers and the true dog-owner apologises, Nick turns to apologise to Francis...but he has gone!
5½ pages : 1570 words
Showing posts with label North York Moors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label North York Moors. Show all posts
Friday, 12 December 2008
Friday, 5 December 2008
Chapter Six – The wonders of nature
After meeting their aged and deaf neighbour Mavis and some of her cats, Nick and Kate go for a local investigative walk with the girls out of the village and up towards the Moors. This is equally revelatory for Kate and Nick, and the girls – so much wildlife to spot in such stunning and varied surroundings.
Their walk has been wonderful but it’s nearing tea-time in the story and IN FACT so I had to leave the story in mid-chapter as....Kate takes the girls back home whilst Nick decides to flex his professional (photographic) muscles by pushing on northwards as the weather suddenly takes a turn....
2½ pages : 530 words
Their walk has been wonderful but it’s nearing tea-time in the story and IN FACT so I had to leave the story in mid-chapter as....Kate takes the girls back home whilst Nick decides to flex his professional (photographic) muscles by pushing on northwards as the weather suddenly takes a turn....
2½ pages : 530 words
Friday, 27 April 2007
A Yorkshire fog
The strangest of experiences this afternoon, but first a prologue....
In my life I have a wife, the gorgeous Mrs R, and 3 girls who shine brightly in our firmament. In our homestead we also have the 4th sister, a rescue hound called Poppy, along with 5 female guinea-pigs and 4 schnickled male guinea-pigs - for all intents now eunuchs - a snake of indeterminate sex....and previously 2 rats, 2 gerbils and a hamster ALL female. Then, there is my mother and 2 sisters. There's something missing in my life.
Now to strangeness. I was due to collect IS from school this afternoon and it so happened that I was asked to collect a further 5 pilgrims for the journey home. I arrived at school and IS got in. 10 minutes later - detention had stalled them - these 5 strapping 13 year-olds threw themselves into the car...and almost turned the car on its side.
Off we went blithely homewards over the North York Moors. I chatted to IS about her day. SILENCE from the seats behind. Not being one to ignore the flower of Yorkshire youth I made the odd enquiry of a lad or two. Suddenly, I began to detect an odour. It was a recognisable odour but I couldn't quite place it. Another 5 more minutes and I began to feel myself suffocating along with the stolid silence behind.
AT LAST I cracked it - the overpowering fug of burgeoning, teenage testosterone, missing from my life for many years. A suffocating cloud enveloping my head and senses. I stopped the car and let 2 lads out. Fresh Yorkshire air - clear and cool.
Next time I do a similar journey I might need an oxygen tank!
In my life I have a wife, the gorgeous Mrs R, and 3 girls who shine brightly in our firmament. In our homestead we also have the 4th sister, a rescue hound called Poppy, along with 5 female guinea-pigs and 4 schnickled male guinea-pigs - for all intents now eunuchs - a snake of indeterminate sex....and previously 2 rats, 2 gerbils and a hamster ALL female. Then, there is my mother and 2 sisters. There's something missing in my life.
Now to strangeness. I was due to collect IS from school this afternoon and it so happened that I was asked to collect a further 5 pilgrims for the journey home. I arrived at school and IS got in. 10 minutes later - detention had stalled them - these 5 strapping 13 year-olds threw themselves into the car...and almost turned the car on its side.
Off we went blithely homewards over the North York Moors. I chatted to IS about her day. SILENCE from the seats behind. Not being one to ignore the flower of Yorkshire youth I made the odd enquiry of a lad or two. Suddenly, I began to detect an odour. It was a recognisable odour but I couldn't quite place it. Another 5 more minutes and I began to feel myself suffocating along with the stolid silence behind.
AT LAST I cracked it - the overpowering fug of burgeoning, teenage testosterone, missing from my life for many years. A suffocating cloud enveloping my head and senses. I stopped the car and let 2 lads out. Fresh Yorkshire air - clear and cool.
Next time I do a similar journey I might need an oxygen tank!
Thursday, 22 February 2007
Taxi Driver – not quite like de Niro
When we lived in South London I always thought life was pretty easy – our girls were walked to school and nursery in a concise 15-minute tour, shopping was local and most of our ‘new’ friends were those we’d met through ante-natal classes. In our final year we were even considering dumping our 8 year-old Sierra estate so rarely was it used.Now, we have 2 cars – one parent/one car takes HS (12) a 90-minute trip to York, whilst the other parent/other car takes IS (9) and ES (7) on a one-hour round trip in the opposite direction.
And then there’s the collection of the girls at later times of the day. And in the meantime, SC and I worry about our carbon footprint whilst wheedling out a few financial crumbs.
Today, ES and her friend K, also 7, had to be collected from their village school on the North York Moors by another dad at lunchtime. We were called mid-morning to be told that the dad had a consultation in the village running over the collection time so the girls would be walking on their own from school to the dad’s car 600 yards away and sit inside it until the dad arrived. SC blew steam and a heated discussion ensued between us ending in, “How about you phoning for once and dealing with this?” Now I know the North York Moors sure aren’t the mean streets of South London but this is exemplary of the lax attitude that some parents seem to have a about their childrens’ whereabouts. A flurry of phone calls followed and I found a solution but us taxi drivers are severely overworked and underpaid………You talkin’ to me?
.....Shuttling back to the year 2000
Apart from the arrival of the new Millennium, the Queen Mum reaching the age of 150 and George Dubya stealing his way to the Presidency, the year 2000 was notable for 2 things – doing a ‘script doctor’ job on a film script and this was our final full year living in London.
As many folk will testify, selling/buying a property is a form of unremitting masochism with the occasional flash of sadism. SC had been in this house for 11 years before I moved in, during which time it had been a post-university house with lodgers. Then there was another 8 years with me and the arrival of each girl and DIY-ing it into a family house. So, SC had never had to sell a house before.
Naïve we certainly were when we walked through the door of our friendly local estate agent to meet Tracy, the pillar-box estate agent with the rictus smile. After that we endured a hellish 4 or 5 months during which we…………suffered surveys, called in council architects, spent hours on the phone to solicitors and estate agents, lost work, shed tears, made visits to Yorkshire, bored friends and relatives with our woes, sought advice, shed more tears, had sleepless nights, spent needless amounts of money whilst all along OUR estate agent seemed to have a double deal with the buyers, Mr and Mrs P and their solicitor who also happened to solicit for the agents. Mr P was about 27 or 28 but looked and behaved like a 16 year-old public schoolboy – whilst in the background lurked the dread legal brain of his father, a reputed QC.
At a very late stage, it looked as if Mr P had us over a barrel about construction work needed on the kitchen to get the sale done. But help came in the unexpected and welcome form of SC’s great-aunt and the largest cheque I’ve ever seen in my hand. The following day we confidently made a delicious visit to smiley Tracy and announced that Mr and Mrs P should really agree to OUR terms within 24 hours or……… Unsmiley Tracy spluttered and spluttered and spluttered.
Hey, lady……You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? YOU TALKIN’ TO ME? Hah!
And then there’s the collection of the girls at later times of the day. And in the meantime, SC and I worry about our carbon footprint whilst wheedling out a few financial crumbs.
Today, ES and her friend K, also 7, had to be collected from their village school on the North York Moors by another dad at lunchtime. We were called mid-morning to be told that the dad had a consultation in the village running over the collection time so the girls would be walking on their own from school to the dad’s car 600 yards away and sit inside it until the dad arrived. SC blew steam and a heated discussion ensued between us ending in, “How about you phoning for once and dealing with this?” Now I know the North York Moors sure aren’t the mean streets of South London but this is exemplary of the lax attitude that some parents seem to have a about their childrens’ whereabouts. A flurry of phone calls followed and I found a solution but us taxi drivers are severely overworked and underpaid………You talkin’ to me?
.....Shuttling back to the year 2000
Apart from the arrival of the new Millennium, the Queen Mum reaching the age of 150 and George Dubya stealing his way to the Presidency, the year 2000 was notable for 2 things – doing a ‘script doctor’ job on a film script and this was our final full year living in London.
As many folk will testify, selling/buying a property is a form of unremitting masochism with the occasional flash of sadism. SC had been in this house for 11 years before I moved in, during which time it had been a post-university house with lodgers. Then there was another 8 years with me and the arrival of each girl and DIY-ing it into a family house. So, SC had never had to sell a house before.
Naïve we certainly were when we walked through the door of our friendly local estate agent to meet Tracy, the pillar-box estate agent with the rictus smile. After that we endured a hellish 4 or 5 months during which we…………suffered surveys, called in council architects, spent hours on the phone to solicitors and estate agents, lost work, shed tears, made visits to Yorkshire, bored friends and relatives with our woes, sought advice, shed more tears, had sleepless nights, spent needless amounts of money whilst all along OUR estate agent seemed to have a double deal with the buyers, Mr and Mrs P and their solicitor who also happened to solicit for the agents. Mr P was about 27 or 28 but looked and behaved like a 16 year-old public schoolboy – whilst in the background lurked the dread legal brain of his father, a reputed QC.
At a very late stage, it looked as if Mr P had us over a barrel about construction work needed on the kitchen to get the sale done. But help came in the unexpected and welcome form of SC’s great-aunt and the largest cheque I’ve ever seen in my hand. The following day we confidently made a delicious visit to smiley Tracy and announced that Mr and Mrs P should really agree to OUR terms within 24 hours or……… Unsmiley Tracy spluttered and spluttered and spluttered.
Hey, lady……You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? YOU TALKIN’ TO ME? Hah!
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