In regards to the title: When Simple Car Games Go Bad [new this season on Channel Five].
I’ve been away, not just in terms of blogging, but geographically as well. Uh huh. A whole ‘nother country and everything. Well, Englandshire, but it’s technically a different nation from us up here en Ecosse.
Along with The Boyf and his parents, I spent a long weekend terrorising Cumbria in the politest and most civilised way possible; in fact the only act even remotely resembling terror was my blitzkrieg on the gift shop at Levens Hall.
I’ve not been to the Lake District for many, many years. As a family we went devoutly year after year to wander aimlessly around the streets of Kendal and mooch about in various Booths foodstores commenting on how it all smelled “real” and “proper”. Then my great-grandparents died and with no specific reason to go or people to see, we stopped going.
In those ten years or so, I can clearly see how some things have changed so much and some things have remained steadfastly the same. Kendal has gone from thriving market town into a generic run-down Northern town [complete with racist tweens]; Ambleside has become even more of a tourist trap [if such a thing is possible] whereas Grasmere, Windermere and Grange-Over-Sands have retained just the right amount of touristiness. Sure, they’re obviously touristy but they don’t cheap out and go for the tacky tourism quick buck, they’re still – for wont of a better description – a classier, or perhaps more mature, level of touristiness: coaches of middle-class pensioners and tandems of young outdoorsy types over stag parties and stiletto-shod Essex hairdressers.
Levens, however – the little village with the big hall and very pretty topiaried gardens – has only changed the one thing. My great-grandparents’ cottage that always smelled of Lemon Meringue Pie, no longer smells of Lemon Meringue Pie, as we slowly drove pass the open door we could see it was in the middle of a Channel 4 homes programme level of renovation. It feels weird – even though I didn’t go in, that it’s never been my home and I don’t know the people who’ve been living there for the last decade – it feels like someone is erasing my great grandparents’ existence. The velour chaise lounge in the upstairs hall is gone, the velcro dartboard under the wardrobe in the downstairs hall is gone, the dusty wall of books in the lounge is gone, and the red tiled fireplace in the dining room is gone. All gone: technically the cottage is not their home anymore, but it still is, it always will be.
Change and tacky touristiness aside [the silver lining of touristiness is, of course, a-freakin-mazing ice cream: Cinnamon and Plum, Damson Ripple. Om nom nom.] I had a brilliant time – <soppiness> of course it was going to be brilliant, it was a long weekend with The Boyf</soppiness> – it was so nice to just get away and forget all about the mcguffins that haunt the north-east, to truly relax.
Oh and Beetle and Mr Beetle had their baby, a little girl who they gave a pretty, sensible , correctly-spelled name and to whom I will now apply the pseudonym Ladybug and buy her impractical but pretty and awsum presents.
Oh, oh and I did take a number of photos, in faux art-farty stylings, but – shockingly – this old PC in the office doesn’t have a memory card slot and it’s not like I carry a USB cable around with me, so the flickr slideshow will follow in due course.
