This article was written for Annabel & Grace, which is now part of Rest Less.
I think summer holidays in the UK are like childbirth and we forget all the bad bits and only remember the good bits, the glorious, hot, sunny days. If we truly remembered it how it was then we might choose to live or at least holiday elsewhere.
We have just returned from a week staying with friends in Sandbanks, Dorset. Their house is 5 minutes from the beach and because the chain ferry to Studlands was not working this year, Sandbanks was unseasonably quiet. Holidays on the English coast, if the weather is good, cannot be beaten.
This is the time of year that I make new resolutions. As I began running along the beach, early every morning, waking up muscles that had lain dormant for years I thought I must continue to embrace nature and do this every day. So when a cold, wet morning in November dawns you know where I will be – in bed!
We walked, we swam in the sea, we ate, we drank, we chatted, we played Bird Bingo – who knew that there are Lilac-breasted Rollers in the bird world? We even debated Brexit and did not fall out. The weather was perfect and what was interesting is that we are all of a retirement age i.e. men over 65 years and women over 60 (in ‘old money’ ie before they made retirement 67 years) and yet most of the group are still working so this was truly a holiday. Three dogs, no children and time on our hands – bliss.
However too soon holidays end and we returned home on Saturday as we were hosting a lunch party for 12 the following day. A dear friend was facing a very big operation on the Tuesday and we had offered to do a send-off lunch for him (his words not mine!) His son had returned from Bali, where he lives, earlier that morning so there was lots to celebrate whist we kept reality at bay.
I had organised a supermarket delivery for the day before our return but had failed to take into account the hot weather and the unexpected arrival of various off-spring. They managed to eat a fair amount of the food before I got to it.
Saturday evening, overheated and exhausted from the journey, four loads of washing, sorting the house in preparation for the next day’s party and I decided to make the puddings. Whoever said you cannot make meringues in the heat? Well they were right. Two batches later I decided to adopt the attitude that everyone will have drunk a lot by the pudding stage and so won’t notice. I was saved by making some Garden ice-cream (herbs and rose petals) by Kitty Travers having recently been on her ice-cream making course.
A night of tossing and turning due to heat and up at 6.00 am to try to beat the sun. This is where it all starts to unravel as my Other Half (OH) disappeared off to the gym for post-holiday workout. When I phoned him after some time, to see if he was returning, he said he was waiting for Waitrose to open, one hour later, to buy some raspberries to replace those eaten by him late the previous night.
The calm I had developed, whilst on our holidays, was deteriorating fast as I battled with wilting lettuce and sweating Halloumi to create a summer lunch. Meanwhile OH was sipping his Frappucino and reading the Sunday newspapers somewhere in Henley.
OH returned and we then had to have a debate about where to eat. Believe it or not it was too hot to eat outside. Inside with the blinds drawn was the only answer unless we all wanted to expire from heat stroke. With the final day of the third test of the Ashes on TV my OH would normally not want to be parted from watching it. However he said that England were dismal and had no chance so we could be inside with the TV off.
As I continued to melt in the kitchen, the cricket was on in the background. The guests arrived and as we all sat down to lunch the cricket fans sat in view of the the muted TV so that they could mumble their disappointment with their team. However as I served my now warm salads we watched Stokes and Leach take the game by storm. Every time Leach went to bat he had to clean his glasses as they kept steaming up – a great coup for the sponsors, Specsavers.
I managed to slip the less than perfect meringues on to our guests’ plates with some heavenly ice-cream and everyone praised me for the deliciousness of the meal. The sound of willow on leather, a euphoric English crowd at Headingley and I could have served baked beans on toast as it was all about winning the game. How quickly a mood changed from despondency to elation as Stokes hit a 6 then a 4 and then another 6. Leach kept calm, my plates were emptied whilst our hope for winning the Ashes series remains full and we all planned more summer holidays like this one.
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