Heading South

The summer term was over. Whilst the rest of the staff enjoyed a BBQ on the playing field, I headed home, requiring some much needed solitude. It had been a busy school year, in the end a happy one; but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been crossing off the days until the holiday. Now, the shutters had been lifted, I was free to taste the sweet, sweet air of liberation. I embraced my girlfriend. I texted my mates. I called my family, “I’m free! I’m free!” It doesn’t matter that I’ve only been granted temporary reprieve, that in a few weeks I’ll be summoned to return again. As I write, I’m on teacher parole, and the feeling couldn’t be greater.

There was no time to relax though as we were required for a festival of celebration. Headlining the Saturday was The Girl’s friend, Clare, a musical actress I’ve written about before. She, along with her fiancé Rich, were acting as leads for their wedding; my tea and tomorrows was in the chorus line, demonstrating the perfect foot timing required to be a bridesmaid. It was a lovely service, scored with beautiful music from a string quartet. And for a couple that works in the theatre, they’ll be pleased to know I rated the day ‘five stars.’

Then, headlining the Sunday was my friend’s nine-month old son, Joe. The little lamb was being accepted into God’s flock as part of his baptism. So with a wedding on Saturday and a Christening on Sunday, this atheist spent much of his weekend in church. There are lots to church I like: the quiet, the reflection, the community, the old sing songs, dressing up, the over-use of metaphor, the Hip Hop call and response; it’s a tasty soup– if only they didn’t dollop religion’s sour cream on top, I could quite happily eat it up.

At church.

After going to Clare’s garden party on the Sunday, we packed our bags for our holiday. Having had big trips in Easter – me, Sri Lanka; her, Australia – we thought it Gordon Brown financially prudent to head a little less south for our getaway. We were going to Swanage, a place where I spent all my school family holidays, and the Isle of Wight, a place where the good lady spent hers. Here, we would drink in walks, food, books, sites – and well, drink.

Monday 24^th July

The Girl and I enjoy a good night’s rest for the first time in ages. So much so, we think about setting up camp here and holidaying between the sheets – that isn’t a euphemism. But with reservations made and accommodation booked, we eschew the John and Yoko bed-in and head out on our magical mystery tour. (Neither magical or mysterious, but I wanted to keep The Beatles lexis going.) We arrived too late in Swanage to go on the beach, so we headed to the arcades. Given we’ve been going to Swanage for the past few years, we’ve accumulated quite the number of tickets. These tokens, won from playing machines, can be traded in for a prize. It is our aim to one day have the 5000 tickets needed to gain a super-soaker. Neither of us has thought through the ramifications of this though: the tickets will entitle us to only one pump-action water pistol. We have worked in tandem to gain this prize, but there will come a day when one will quite literally turn the gun on the other. It’s the Blair-Brown premiership struggle all over again.

We propped up the seaside economy playing these.

Tuesday 25^th July

The sun is shining so we head down to the beach for the day. I sit on my chair, outside the beach hut, eating a pork pie whilst reading P.G. Woodhouse and consider my surname as something of a misnomer: I’m proud of my Sri Lankan heritage, but fundamentally I’m a tea and saucer Englishman.

Sensing this might be the only day of sun, I convince The Girl to wade into the waters. She is knee-deep before I’m toe-deep. The sun is telling a 25 degree story, but the sea isn’t listening. I’ve never been good in the cold. As a boy, I'd run into the sea one minute and be running out the next. With chattered teeth and bruised lips I’d find solace in my beach towel, vowing never to return again – until, of course, tomorrow. The Girl laughs at my cowardice, her titters a white feather in my ear. Eventually, I’m under and it’s majestic. We throw a ball back and forth at one another. I dive to the left, to the right, affecting Superman actions for the crowd. Then cold, I make my retreat, finding succour in the beach towel. Sometimes children just don’t grow up.

Wednesday 26^th July

What the Lord giveth with one hand, He taketh with the other. It’s raining. Not weeping, but whimpering. It’s a self-indulgent grey that says, “I’m going to be a dick and spoil your day in the sun. Not because I have to but because I want to.” Given the clouds have pissed in our chips, we get in the car and head to Wareham. Wareham is where my mum went to secondary school; it’s double the size of Swanage and boasts a pretty quay. The Girl and I have good pub fare, then make our way to Tyneham.

Now, Tyneham is historically significant. It once was, yet now isn’t. In the village of Tyneham children once went to school, families frequented church, and adults once journeyed to work. Then the war came. With the Purbeck Hills encircling the area, the Ministry of Defence requisitioned the land and used it for military exercises. Much to the chagrin of the people, it was never given back to them. Today, it’s only open as a summer tourist site, with drills and training continuing to this day. It’s an interesting place. The Special’s Ghost Town made manifest. There’s an eeriness to wandering the parish, in seeing what’s succumbed to dilapidation. When people talk of sacrifices, people rightly think of soldiers giving up their lives, yet it’s important we remember communities like these that gave up their homes for the war effort.

School's out for ever in Tyneham.

Thursday 27^th July

The adolescent cloud had got over its bad mood and decided to shine for us today. With that in mind, The Girl and I decided to walk the land – like Cavemen, only with a better sense of deportment. We walked from Swanage to Durlston Castle, which was acquired by some rich geezer in the 19^th century. It’s very nice and home to some rare wildlife that I neither have the knowledge nor the motivation to talk about. (I’ve never been a fan of nature. Blame my parents: we never had so much as a goldfish as children so I find it difficult to summon up the enthusiasm for a mayfly. When it comes to science and nature questions on the pub quiz machines, I go to the bar and get us a drink. Unsurprisingly, The Girl never chooses ‘change category’ when it comes up.)

Having looked around the castle, we made our way along the coastal park to Worth Matravers. I wanted to go to Matravers because I’d been reading about the pub, The Square and Compass. It looked pretty boss and I liked what they were selling. The walk was a tough one. Hard of foot, heavy on leg, I prayed for a lunch break. I’m in many regards like a F1 machine: sleek, cool, super-fast, aerodynamic, but I need regular pit-stops to maintain my top speeds. Unfortunately, The Girl views me as an old Robin Reliant: something that you’re so grateful started, that you daren’t stop for fear it won’t start again. Eventually, we could see the pub on the horizon. By this time I felt like Tom Hanks in Castaway, with the alehouse symbolising my rescue from nature.

Looks like piss; tastes like apples.

The pub is pretty damn special. Get this: there isn’t a bar, but a hatch that you order from. You don’t sit on a chair, but stone. There are crates of books that you can buy from. Round the back was a marque set up where you could try your hand at stone carving. It was like a scaled down Glastonbury. I was pretty effusive about it, telling The Girl that it was the best pub I’d ever been too. Admittedly, I had been on a walk that had tested mind, body and spirit – much like Jesus in the Judaean desert– so you could argue that when I came to the first watering hole I might rate it higher than it deserves. However, I stand by the fact that it was a great pub. Sure, a pub always looks better after a walk; but I don’t think I’m using hyperbole when I say that it could tempt Jesus out of a fast.

Friday 28^{th July}

The weather had stomped up the stairs and slammed its bedroom door on mother again; the result was a right mardy morning. With the skies neither her nor there, we were at a loss on what to do. I wanted to go to the beach one last time but The Girl wasn’t so sure. Using my powers of persuasion (I teach persuasive writing, so I know how to use repetition and alliteration to good effect) I managed to convince her to have lunch on the sand. By the time we got down to the seafront, God had put the sprinklers on and ruined Eden. We sat holed up in the beach hut whilst eating sandwiches. I thought it was dead romantic. Cellophane in hand, ensconced under cheap wood, looking onto a rainswept sea: what could be more romantic than that? Well, I’ll tell you. All of the above plus travel Connect 4. I beat The Girl 3-1, which really added to her misery.

The height of romance.

On the way home we stopped in at The Red Lion pub where we discovered a love for pool. The pair of us are big fans of pub games. Over the years the pub quiz machine has destroyed our potential child’s nest egg. They are worse than a wishing well, taking silver, not copper. In both, money sinks without a trace. Pool is great though. The Girl and I are incompetent enough to play for a good half an hour with neither showing the inclination to win. Unlike the pub quiz machine that punishes inability, the pool table rewards it, letting your 50p last until sundown.

Saturday 29^th July

We drive down to Lymington and board the ferry for the Isle of Wight. I have never been across to the island before, so I was putting this part of the holiday in hands of The Girl. As someone who likes to do the organising, this was an exercise in trust: a falling back into my girlfriend’s itinerary, hoping there’d be a happy landing. I needn’t have worried. The Girl did a great job. She knows the island like her Strictly Come Dancing contestants. (I was going to say ‘like the back of her hand,’ but if quizzed on the Strictly or her hand, I believe that the dancing show would come out on top. I’m not saying she doesn’t watch the back of her hand closely- she does. She’ll look at it for a good few minutes every day. However, she’s a Strictly super-fan and that loves precedes all – even, me. If I was to have a heart scare in the next few years, and she was given the choice between renewing me for another series or Strictly, then I’m well aware where her priorities lie.)

Arriving in the island I was surprised to find it looked just like England. The people even spoke like England too. I threw away my phrasebook and got conversing with the locals. The first place we went to was Alum Bay.  Alum Bay is famous for its different colour sand. Because of the interesting minerals there, the sand comes in all different colours: red, orange, brown – as well as yellow. Due to the sand being original and unique, it’s cordoned off from members of the public. Fear not though because you can purchase it in the gift shop. My mum gave me strict orders do such a thing, which meant I spent the best part of fifteen minutes, alongside young children, scooping the sand into concentric circles. Concluding my play in the sandpit, I looked around to see how my artwork measured up against the other children; my extra years playing in sand hadn’t gone to waste – mine was the far superior design.

Something to do with the minerals.

Next, we went wine tasting in Adgestone.  It transpired our wine tutor was a former primary school teacher; The Girl quipped, “So teaching drove you to wine.” One of my favourite movies is Sideways where two friends go on a tour of the California wine region. Miles, a depressed oenophile, has a meltdown whilst tasting, causing him to snatch the wine from the sommelier and pour his own; this eventually culminates in him tipping a barrel of red right through his gullet. Attributed to the fact I’m on holiday, my mental health is in good working order; consequently, I didn’t feel the need to re-enact the scene. The English wine tasted pretty good: the first white was my favourite. Usually, I’m not a fan of white wine; when it comes to wine I like a fuller body – you know, like Joan from Mad Men. White wine for me is a little Size Zero: its strut and sparkle ultimately has all the depth of constructed reality tv.

The man in pink chose a career in wine after three years of being a teacher.

We then made our way to Shanklin, our home for the next two days. Shanklin seemed to be designed by Tolkien with its thatched roofs, tearooms and inns. If it weren’t for the hills, I could imagine hobbits living there. After dinner, we went to a CAMRA nominated pub which looked like it had been a B&B in a previous life. There were no pub games here, but it didn’t matter: the barmaid was our entertainment. Over the course of the evening, we discovered that her ex-boyfriend was a ‘fucking bastard’ that was responsible for adding to Shanklin’s population. Given the whole island only has a populace of 170,000, men like this should be venerated, not subjected to the kangaroo court of bar room tittle-tattle. If his penis doesn’t keep wandering, then the Isle of Wight will go the way of the Cornish language and become extinct. Keep straying fellar – your island needs you.

Sunday 30^th July

The Girl and I set off early for our walk to Ventnor. I remember the name because it rhymes with former Arsenal striker, Nicklas Bendtner. Bendtner was a centre forward that thought the objective of the game was to put the ball wide of the posts. Until recently he was playing in the top flight of Europe, which means he was either brilliant in training or the equivalent of an undercover journalist, codename Mudraker, able to gather enough dirt on his managers to render them blackmailed.

Ventnor was nothing like the Arsenal striker, possessing class, style and sand. We stopped for lunch at Steephill Cove, a beautiful spot that possessed seafood restaurants built into shacks. On the way home, we had dinner in the Fisherman’s Inn – my favourite pub on the island. With boats moored outside and low ceilings inside, the pub felt like being in a ship’s cabin. The food was great too. I had a crab and lobster burger, which made me think I need to try more seafood: an epiphany that will bring delight to my stomach and cause consternation for the ocean's children.

The Fisherman's Inn.

Monday 31^st July

We left the B&B and headed north to Ryde. Stopping here, we visited the Donald McGill postcard museum. I had heard about this in John Osborne’s seaside tour, Don’t Need the Sunshine, and wanted to see it for myself.

McGill is the purveyor of any dirty seaside postcard you saw in the 90’s. As a child, it was the closest your fingertips could come to pornography. Much of the humour is dated with ‘casual’ sexism, fat shaming and – disturbingly – objectification of children. There are, however, satirical jokes about the church, government and attitudes to sex.

McGill was an atheist and champion of the suffrage movement at a time when many weren’t propagating these views. His work was censored in the 50’s with many of his artwork seized. In response to this, he fought the puritanical, which led to his postcards being re-instated. This was culturally significant because it meant books like Lady Chatterly’s Lover also had their bans lifted.

The museum is great, demonstrating how it’s possible to be a dinosaur and vanguard of comedy. His representation of women as sexual objects is thankfully a thing of the past; unfortunately, his broadsides against religious corruption remain relevant today. We took some silly, surreal, non-sexist postcards home, that will be exhibited in our downstairs loo.

The postcards that were banned.

So on we went to Cowes. Cowes week is the biggest week on the Isle of Wight calendar because it’s where rich people come to show off how much money they’ve got. The seas are bestrewn with ships from far and wide, all competing in races that no one understands. It’s wonderful to look at, but impossible to ascertain what's happening. The Girl and I made our way up to the gin tent, where fifty types were in town. Aware that we had to drive home, we didn't have them all, conscious the fiftieth might set a breathalyser ablaze.

Homeward bound, we stopped off in The Woodvale Hotel for a spot of dinner and a game of pool. The Girl, having never played before the trip, beat me. The apprentice had become the master. Like Victor Frankenstein, I'd created a monster. Be careful in your local pool halls because The Girl is unstoppable. She’ll eat up the table and spit the black ball in the centre pocket. You have been warned.

View from The Woodvale.

After a diversion on the M3, we were home. Our holiday over. Well, I say it's over. The holiday within the holiday is over. There's still four and a half weeks left of the at home holiday. Non-teachers, I’m sensing your rage, so I’ll stop now.