I realise, somewhat belatedly, it's been over a month since I wrote anything. I can put at least two weeks of that down to being on holiday in a place with no internet connection or mobile signal, and I think I'll ascribe the rest to the insanity of the end of term - a headlong acceleration through seemingly endless school activities from school plays to sports days and everything in between; plus the plate-spinning miracle that are school holidays - attempting to cling by my fingernails to a job whilst also making sure I'm not actually dumping LittleBear in the woods alone to fend for himself every day. Only four more days to go, and I've not had to resort to abandoning him yet.
And what of the holiday?
Not being the sort to post huge albums of idyllic photographs of my latest five star holiday, I shall simply mention that we went to the Lake District, and remind everyone that there are a great many lakes and rivers there for a reason. The water has to come from somewhere. I could tell you about the fun we had, the games we played and the mountains we climbed, but really, outside my immediate family, I doubt that many of you would be much enthused by an account of a traditional 1950s English holiday. Instead, I shall allow you to laugh at my expense as I recount the more painful episodes.
Let me start with an innocuous car-park in an unprepossessing service station on the M6...
LittleBear and I were walking across said car-park, on perfectly flat tarmac, not hopping, skipping, jumping or otherwise behaving with frivolity or foolishness. And I fell flat on my face, arms sprawling, knees crashing. I have no idea why. I am fairly sure that passers by did not think I was in a fit state to be in charge of a small child, let alone a car. I scrambled hastily to my feet and limped inside, knee bruised and grazed and arm wrenched. The next week involved extreme pain every time I tried to insert my left arm into a sleeve or through the strap of my rucksack.
Moving swiftly on to our first proper attempt on a fell - the Langdale Pikes. For various reasons, LittleBear and I diverged from the remainder of our party, assaulting the peaks while they meandered on lower slopes. This then led to us attempting to descend as fast as possible to regain the main party. LittleBear appears to have legs containing steel springs, and not the custard and leftover bits of polystyrene and putty that seem to constitute my legs. Dropping 1750 feet over 1.2 miles was a challenge. Doing so in barely more than 45 minutes of walking left me shaking, while LittleBear hopped, skipped and generally sprang about the place in a soul-destroying fashion. The shaking at the end of the descent, however, was as nothing compared to my state the following morning, or indeed over the next three days. There were times the only way I could get downstairs was backwards, the pain in my thigh muscles was so excruciating. I used a pair of trekking poles for even the shortest stroll for the next few days.
I had, more or less, recovered from this assault on my pride and legs by the time Friday rolled around. Aware that dear old GrannyBear would be arriving on Saturday, I determined that I would clean the front steps that lead into our cottage. They are smooth slabs of slate, and spend almost their entire time in shade, so develop a nasty slick of vague green across their surface. So, out I went to scrub them clean, and leave them safe for elderly bears to walk on. Never mind that it was lashing with rain at the time. Nor that it was rather cold. Nor, indeed, that I have distinctly sub-standard circulation in my hands. In fact, my hands became so cold while scrubbing I failed to notice that I was repeatedly crashing my knuckles into the rough surfaces of the risers of the steps. It was only when I dripped my way back inside that I discovered that not all the drips were rain. Nearly two weeks later, the final two knuckles still have scabs and holes in them.
And, finally, to my piece de resistance. An injury so impressively incompetent that I have come close to approaching total strangers to tell them about it. While having a family cottage in a beautiful part of the country is an enormous privilege and blessing, it does require that each of us undertakes various aspects of maintenance and DIY on most visits. And thus it was that I sat, tools neatly arrayed around me, carefully marking up where to drill new holes in the front door. I turned to put my pencil down, caught my elbow on the mains lead of the drill and tipped it off the arm of the chair. From whence it fell... landing point first just below my ankle bone. Wood-drill bits are quite sharp. Wood-drill bits pursued downwards by the full weight of a 1kW mains-powered drill are sharp and heavy. At least it wasn't on.
