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Local or Loco

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In the UK autumn began with cold, unpleasant weather. September here is usually a mild, calming down kind of month, cooling from the summer’s stifling heatwaves but still with plenty of sunshine and warm temperatures. This year’s September was disappointing. October, however has offered many sunny days and the sun still has some warmth.

Having missed out on our September van odyssey, we’ve been day tripping from home as well as tucking the garden in for the winter. Lucky as we are to live between the sea and one of the UK’s most iconic national parks, we’re spoilt for choice, although there isn’t really anywhere that’s new, these days!

There are places where the New Forest National Park meets the sea and we’re headed to one- at Lepe, where a beachside cafe and car park overlook the section of the English channel called the Solent and the Isle of Wight and its iconic ‘Needles’ rocks. On the way we pass through Beaulieu village with its chocolate-box charm and pass groups of New Forest ponies grazing by the roadsides as well as shaggy cattle and wriggling pigs, foraging for acorns in a ditch. We forget, sometimes, that all of this nature and wildlife is on our doorstep!

It’s quite busy even on this autumn afternoon, and some hardy souls are in the sea- which is, of course, at its warmest from summer heat. In the car park there’s one of these pop-up sauna cabins that seems to be the fashion this year, which explains the proliferation of sea swimmers, too.

The cafe and outbuildings are pleasing, timber structures. After a short walk we go up the ramp to the cafe, which has large windows facing the Isle of Wight, then it’s time to move on, to yet another forest meets sea spot- Calshot. The beach here is pebbly but there are great views of the shipping going past on Southampton water. In the distance you can see Portsmouth, too, the Spinnaker tower standing out. There’s a line of beach huts here, although no one in residence today in spite of warm sunshine.

Sometimes cruise ships come past on their way in or out of the port at Southampton, but today there’s only a distant tanker plus the Isle of Wight ferry going backwards and forwards. Further on towards the end of the spit, where the shipping channel bisects the land, there is a castle, built by Henry VIII. Tall pylons and towers of the Fawley oil refinery protrude from the landward side forest.

We drive back along the forest roads again, past open, heather clad common and through dense forest. The leaves haven’t changed colour yet but there are signs of the yellow, umber , gold and red that are to come. Redwoods tower above the ornamental drive and the late afternoon sun glints and glitters through the branches. Lovely.

Then it’s home and back to phoning the AA road rescue…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Exit

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It’s mid morning in the Help the Aged charity shop and the store is quiet, except for one or two shoppers making diligent searches of the rails. Faye has been out the back, sorting through the latest batch of donations. Donated clothing and bric-a-brac have been dwindling lately and she’s had to discard much more than she did when she first became the manager of the shop.

She pulls the curtain and goes into the sales area. Melissa is on the till today. She’s a smiley, willing volunteer who enjoys interacting with the shoppers but needs a lot of support with practicalities.

‘Melissa, it’s time you had a break. Go and make a coffee and I’ll take over for a bit.’ The young woman smiles and goes out to the back. Faye settles on the bar stool and casts an eye over the shop, wondering whether the window displays should change now, to reflect the change of season. Perhaps an autumn theme with brown, orange and yellow hues is in order? She’s found herself enjoying this lowly, managerial role with a small wage during the six months since she was appointed.

The door opens and a woman enters. Faye stares. Can it really be her? Looking older, yes, hair longer and un-styled; wearing jeans. Jeans? Faye never once saw Selena in jeans, not on training days, never on social occasions, not even on a company fund-raising day. Her ex boss hasn’t looked up yet, hasn’t spotted her. Faye watches her progress along the rails, thinking, remembering.

In her lunch hour, Faye carried the cardboard box of her belongings down to the car park and put it into the boot of her battered Ford Fiesta. In truth, there weren’t many things to take home; her favourite pen, a couple of best wishes cards from colleagues, her bone china mug from the kitchen and the photo of her kids. As she’d packed the items, Faye couldn’t help thinking it was precious little to show for the twelve years she’d worked here.

To get downstairs she’d had to use the corridor outside Selena’s office, the door of which was almost always open. She’d had to scoot past without looking, hoping that Selena would be too engrossed in something on the computer to notice her. They’d said everything they had to say, now, hadn’t they?

She went back upstairs and glanced quickly in at Selena as she padded along the corridor but the room was empty. Back at her desk, opposite Frank, she sank down and took her sandwich out of her bag. There were few in this lunchtime, most preferring to get off the premises for a break in the middle of the day.

‘Why are you hanging about, Faye?’ her friend Orla called from across the office. ‘you should get going and make the most of the afternoon. Hit the shops! Go for a walk! Curl up with a magazine! Get your nails done!’

Faye smiled. ‘I’m not going to be short of time now, am I?’

Orla came across and handed her a coffee, pulling up a seat beside her. She was her closest friend at work, nowadays. They laughed at the same things, shared good and bad news.

‘Still nothing on the job front?’

‘Not unless I want to work in the Amazon warehouse or make deliveries. It may come to that.’

The afternoon passed slowly, Faye idly searching agency jobs. The events of the last weeks still hurt. The announcement of the ‘reorganisation and restructuring’, the revelation about staffing levels needing to be cut, the anxiety inducing wait to see who was to go, the afternoon she’d been summoned to be told it was to be her, one of the oldest, Experience counted for mothing.

Selena had arrived only a couple of years ago, replacing Jan, who’d been a great friend to Faye but had moved onwards and upwards into a promotion many miles away. Selena wasn’t fond of those who’d been friendly with her predecessor, finding fault with small tasks and making snide remarks over trivial issues. She wasn’t a glamourous woman but most office staff were aware she was sleeping with the director, Lance, who was married with teenaged children. The general feeling seemed to be that the affair was mystifying, as while Selena was expensively dressed and coiffed, she was plain to the point of frumpy.

Faye looked at her watch. In five minutes she was due in for her exit interview. Should she remain mute? Should she speak her mind? She still had no idea what her manager would say, what she, Faye would say. She’d thought about it, awake at night, all the things she’d like to say to Selena. How she’d been picky, never complimentary, stared at them, she and Orla, when they’d laughed at something. Maybe she thought they were laughing at her? Sometimes they were.

Time was up. She walked along to Selena’s small office and through the open door.

‘Take a seat’ the woman ordered, unsmiling.

Faye sat. What did anything matter now? The ideal thing was to get out as soon as possible. Selena asked her if she’d had any interviews, got anywhere with her job search.

‘No.’ Faye shrugged. Selena droned on about CVs and references and was there anything else they could do?

‘No. There was a pause.

‘OK. So I wonder, is there anything about the running of this place you think might be improved. We’d really value your input.’

Faye sat up, stared at the woman across the desk. A small bubble of laughter threatened to escape, then Faye let it out in a guffaw.

‘No you don’t!.’ she gasped, wiping her eyes, and she stood, turned and walked out of the room. Ay the bottom of the stairs she stopped for a moment to look at her photo on the personnel board, then reached up and took it down, leaving a pale rectangle where it had been. She pushed the photo into her bag and marched with a jaunty step across to her car.

She’s smiling when Selena finally looks up from the bargain rail and spots her. She looks shocked, drawn. The dress she’d been holding up against her was shoved back on to the rail before she turned and rushed through the shop, head down, out of the door and away as fast as her legs could go.

Faye is still smiling when she gets home, a warm bubble encasing her. She can’t wait to tell Orla, who had been next on the redundancy list.

How the mighty are fallen…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Harriet in the Hedge

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I’m Googling ‘ways to kill your husband.’

Nobody can see me in here, my tiny hideaway. Terence never comes up the garden this far and considers it a wilderness, which is fine by me; the wilder the better.

I might not be serious- or I might be.

Here in my little den I have everything I need. Stool, rescued from the pavement where it was abandoned, cigarettes and lighter, plus the phone of course but I don’t leave that in here. Terence doesn’t know about the cigarettes or the hiding place for that matter.

He’s coming out now. Wait for it…

‘Harriet? Harry? Are you out here?’ I’m shrinking back into the leafy cave but I know he won’t look this far.

‘Harry? Can you come and hold this hardboard a minute? Harriet?’ He’s standing outside the back door and muttering to himself now. ‘Where has she got to?’

He’s gone back inside. I’m scrolling through the search results. There are a lot, Some are listed with advantages and drawbacks.

Poisoning: Advantages: neat, easy, Disadvantages: detectable, traceable to killer.

Shooting: Advantages: quick, conclusive Disadvantages: messy, difficult to acquire gun,

Stabbing: Advantages: no preparation Disadvantages: messy

He’s come back out. ‘Harriet! I can’t find my blue-handled screwdriver. Can you come and look?’ Mutter, mutter and he goes back indoors. I’ve been out here for half an hour so I’ll have one more ciggie and have to go indoors. He’ll ask where I’ve been. I have plenty of answers up my sleeve for that one; next door at Patsy’s [good for explaining lingering cigarette smoke smells], to the shop, to post a letter, to the road to get a phone signal. There’s an endless list.

I look again. Allergies: Advantages: hard to detect Disadvantages: victim needs to be allergic to substance. Does Terence have any dangerous allergies? I can’t recall any.

‘Where were you?’ he asks, when I enter the kitchen.

‘Just popped next door to Patsy’s,’ I tell him and open the fridge, looking for dinner inspiration. Maybe I can use poison mushrooms, like that Australian woman, except that she didn’t get away with it and everyone knows about that method now. I could push him down the stairs except that we live in a bungalow.

Next time I get into my den, it’s raining. But it’s dense and thick in here; even my fags are dry. I’m contemplating sleeping out here. There’s a sleeping bag somewhere in the house. I’m rummaging in the hall cupboard when Terence appears, huffing and puffing.

‘Harriet!’ he squeaks. ‘Where is my new packet of blood pressure tablets? I should have taken one this morning!’

I pause. Even in this dark cupboard, it’s a lightbulb moment. No blood pressure tablets? I turn round. ‘I’ll have a look for them after supper,’ I say…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Almost Not Return

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This post contains images of van life in happier times…

So the cheeky quirks of fate were not yet done with us.

We’d booked a ferry crossing from Cherbourg back to Poole as foot passengers, since the van was still immobile and stuck in the car park of a garage [who did not wish to repair it] in the unlovely commercial zone of Lecousse, near Fougeres.

Now it was Wednesday and we were due to sail on an overnight boat. Initially it seemed there were no cabins, although we could get couchettes; then later a cabin became available, which was a rare piece of good luck in a whole chapter of misfortune. The ferry would leave at 9.30pm, meaning that we’d need to be there at the terminal by around 8.45pm. I had rung the assistance number and informed them we’d need a hire car to get to the port and been told that the French AA were working on it.

It was 9.00am. We packed and left our hotel room, taking our luggage down to the lobby to wait for a taxi to collect us and take us to the hire car depot,

We waited. And waited,

I got a text from the French AA to say they were ‘doing their best for us’. Really?

We waited.

We read. We got coffees.

By late morning we were anxious. The weather had become squally, deluges of rain lashing the hotel windows. I rang the AA, to be told they were looking for a car ‘equivalent to the car the client drives’. ‘We drive a campervan’ I told her. ‘We can’t get one of those’ was the reply! I said we’d take ANY car. We needed to get going.

We waited.

At about 2pm I received a text to say a taxi was coming at 3.00pm. We could still get to the ferry if we didn’t hang about too much.

At three, when we were almost climbing the walls of hotel lobby, a taxi came. We climbed in and set off on a ride that seemed ridiculously long, taking precious time off our Cherbourg drive and far from Fougeres, where we’d discovered the nearest ‘Europcar’ hire depot was.

The driver took us to the environs of Rennes, which was a mystery, and dropped us at a car hire office. We took our luggage and entered, giving our details to the woman at the counter. The taxi left. The woman searched her computer.

‘No,’ she said. ‘There is no booking under that name.’ My stomach, [which had churned far too much for an organ affected by IBD] lurched with nausea yet again. The woman searched neighbouring offices and yes, we were at the wrong car hire office. Did I have the number for the French AA? No. I rang the British number and she spoke to them. I looked at my watch. It seemed likely that we would, now, miss the ferry. Then…

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will get you a car.’

I feel that beatification is not good enough for this woman-

We did the paperwork, went out to the back, got into a car. Husband would drive. We set off. The car was without a SATNAV and we were in some unidentifiable area of Rennes. I got navigation on my phone and we got out of Rennes, on to the ring road and away.

We made good time, even managing a stop for a coffee and a snack- I’d been unable to eat anything all day. When we reached Cherbourg, we followed instructions from the car hire woman, dropping the car in the station car park. We were still a distance from the ferry terminal but a bus took us there.

Inside the foot passenger building there were 5 of us waiting, in hard, plastic chairs with nothing resembling a cafe, only a dysfunctional coffee machine. At last, we got into a shuttle bus which took us on to the ferry. I have never been so glad to get on to the Barfleur. We found our cabin, dumped bags and went to the bar, sinking into seats, exhausted.

We are home, of course, sans van. As of now, there is no sign of repair, no news that it can be collected. Not only does it have our bikes, locked on to the back, it also contains many of our clothes, shoes and belongings. So we wait…again…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

And the End of the Road…

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We were installed in the ‘Brit’ hotel, a basic, no-frills establishment which had the virtue, at least, of being three minutes walk from our beleaguered van in the garage car park.

Carrying supermarket bags with some clothing, snacks and essentials, we made our way there and checked in, relieved to see a bar, if no restaurant. A cursory look around the zone revealed limited dining options- a Chinese and MacDonalds.

We dumped the bags and repaired to the bar, where, in a gung-ho but unwise move, I had a Leffe beer, which is very strong. The helpful receptionist and bar tender told us of another restaurant- French. So that was three options, plus the van, in which we could cook a meal, although we’d run out of water before long.

In the French restaurant, ‘La Taverne’, we shared an excellent starter then i had a nasty, gristly steak, accompanied, still less wisely, by 2 glasses of Cremont. I would, at least, sleep.

I woke in the small hours- much, much too hot [as always in hotels], sweating and with a headache- the result of Leffe plus Cremont. I drank a lot of water and took painkillers. In the morning- now Sunday, we breakfasted, twiddled thumbs, read, surfed the internet. We moved to the lounge area for a change of scene from our room, We tried a walk in the afternoon, next to a busy road then a turning off up a country lane looked promising, with elegant houses, autumn cyclamen and a friendly donkey, until the rain swept in. We turned back, had a coffee in MacDonalds.

We rustled up a simple meal in the van with what we had and tried to feel optimistic that next day [Monday] things would be sorted.

As Monday morning wore on it became clear that nothing was happening to resolve the repair of our vehicle. I rang the insurer. I rand and rang. Each time I was obliged to listen to all the safety instructions and choose options. When a call was answered there was no news. We frittered away the day, [going stir crazy by now] and went to eat at the Chinese restaurant- a gargantuan buffet, and made a decision to go home minus van.

On Tuesday I rang yet again to tell the assistance of our decision. We’d need a hire car to get to the ferry port. I was assured that the French arm of the company would work on it. The garage where the van was parked said it could stay, but beyond 2 weeks, storage would need to be paid. Now we had some things to do. We must book our crossing as foot passengers, empty the van fridge and dispose of foodstuff. We needed to buy bags to carry as much as we could. A large store, ‘GIF’ sold almost everything, including luggage and we bought two bags with wheels to pack whatever we could manage for our ferry crossing.

We also emptied the fridge of all food that would expire, bagging it and ditching it in a bin. We pulled all the curtains. I felt anxious about our bikes, which although locked, were in full view at the rear of the van on the carrier. But there was nothing we could do. We handed the keys in to ‘Roady’, the garage where it was parked. They could keep it for twelve days and thereafter, storage would be charged. The insurance would have to cover it.

After all of this, it was a waiting game…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Beginning of the Road…

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During our latest bit of travel, I’d begun reading American author, Miranda July’s raunchy, outrageous novel, ‘All Fours’. The story begins with the protagonist, a middle-aged woman, setting off on a solo road trip to New York from LA for a work assignment. Its her first long distance drive and entails several stopovers but having set out, she stops thirty minutes out from her home, husband and child, checks into a motel room and stays there for the two and a half weeks she’d planned to be away. While there she sets out to transform the room with a refurbishment and leads a life of abject debauchery involving a lot of outrageous sex.

So in a curious parallel to the start of the book I’d been reading, our current trip lands us in a beige, no-frills hotel room, though without the refurbishment and without the debauchery…

We’d begun in our usual style: scramble up- drive to the port- on to the ferry- up to the cafe for pastries and coffee- down to the couchettes for a snooze- off the ferry at Cherbourg- stop at Orange telecoms for a SIM card- onwards and southwards to our regular stop, an aire at St Brice en Cogles, just into Brittany, where we can stay safely, free of charge. We went to our usual bar and had our usual beer, returned to the van and cooked dinner, had showers, had a peaceful night, woke and prepared to leave.

Husband got into the drivers seat intending to take the van across to the emptying space to rid ourselves of the grey water. He turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. Not one smidgeon of life.

I sat at the back and wailed: No, no, nooooo! Not again!

I rang the insurance roadside assistance, who ascertained our location and set about finding a local rescue truck. I went out to the town. I figured it was better to do something while we waited. A gaggle of interested fellow-motorhomers was gathering- no doubt a measure of schadenfreude was kicking in.

When I returned from my wander, a flat-bed truck had arrived. The interested onlookers were still there, making suggestions and comments- none of which were helpful. Before I reached it, I could see that the van had started, which flooded me with a sense of relief, initially, until Husband said it had been started by the rescue man from his vehicle and was still unable to start by itself.

Rescue man showed us a garage where the battery could be checked, all he was willing to do. I began to feel nauseous, but we had no other option except to go there and see if the garage would fix it. On arrival, we parked in the garage car park, turning off the engine and acknowledging that we’d be going nowhere else for now. Since the garage, ‘Roady’ was closed for lunch, we had lunch too, although I didn’t feel in the slightest bit hungry.

At 2.00pm we went in and explained our predicament, upon which an employee- kindly but reluctant- came out to look and determined that there was nothing at all wrong with the van’s battery. Could they fix whatever the problem was? Indeed not. All French garages had had summer holidays and were now engaged in working through a backlog of jobs. We were truly stuck.

What next?

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Sins on Site and Off

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St David’s cathedral in Pembrokeshire, Wales is a magnificent building and well worth a look, outside and in.

After our visit we climb the steps back up to the village and get an early evening beer before exploring evening dining possibilities, opting for The Bishops, which looks to have a good menu and a quirky interior.

On our return to the camp site we’re greeted with a message attached to our mirror. Apparently we’ve transgressed by parking the wrong way round and we’ve encroached on the next door pitch, as well as committing the grave misdemeanour of having our awning out! Who knew? It’s a wonder we’re not banished or the van impounded for such heinous sins!

We’re rarely subjected to strict rules and regulations when touring- I can only recall once having to park facing the same way as everyone else somewhere in Italy, a town site where it was all hard standing and terraced; but never before in a vast, rural site with oodles of space. The admonishment does nothing to endear the owners/managers of this place to us!

The meal at The Bishops is good, the venue characterful and just busy enough to be interesting. We return to site- up through the village and down the lane.

We’re off again next day to begin our return. Husband has found a site en route. We could have made our return in a day, although it would have been a long day’s travel. The site is outside Bath next to a busy road and half a mile along from a few houses and one large pub. There’s an unexpected shower of rain as we attempt to drive through Bath, clearly a mistake as we get into a muddle and [weeks later] end up with a fine for emissions, something we’d not considered! More sinning!

When we pull up, the iron gates across the site are closed. I ring the site’s number. Apparently we were supposed to look at an email which contained the access code- on a pad next to the gate. Failed again! The manager drives along in a 4×4 tom let us in. It’s an unusual site, highly un-manicured, with huge fields either side of a rough track. I assume it’s a work in progress, as the showers and toilets are in portacabins. There’s no electricity. All of this is fine for us for one overnight stop.

The site isn’t busy but there are a number of tents, some tiny- a group of singles with small cars and a pair of Dutch walkers. This is clearly a site much used for visiting Bath.

We wander up along the busy road to the pub- which is a big, cavernous place hosting a few diners. The fields flanking the road are dusty, beige prairies, bearing the mark of repeated heatwaves and drought that the UK has suffered this year, but there remains a wonderful crop of blackberries in the hedgerow, so brambles must be exceptionally resilient plants.

Then it’s home again and a start to planning the next getaway…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Lane of no Memory

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Having looked at Porth Cawl and had a very acceptable meal in the Rose and Crown pub in Nottage, it’s time to leave and move on to the next site.

We’re booked into a site at St Davids, in Pembrokeshire. I’ve been here before, many years ago and subsequently learn that I’ve been here twice, apparently having been on a camping trip with my youth club. I remembered we’d had a camping trip but forgotten the location. What I do recall is that I was on my own with a load of lads. Heaven knows how I was allowed to go by my parents!

The site is down an extremely narrow lane some little way out of town and down a steepish hill. At least the return from St Davids town will be downhill! It’s a huge site with several fields, of which ours is some distance from the gate and also the shower block.

We park up and chock up, as it’s a slope and we make sure we have a good view of the coastline from the van- and it is a spectacular view- rocky cliffs, coves and caves, dashed by foamy waves. We set up and decide on a walk [up the hill] into St Davids. It’s narrow enough that we must press ourselves into the hedgerow whenever a vehicle comes, and there are plenty of them as ours is not the only site down this lane.

I don’t remember much about St Davids, so the fact that I’ve been twice before isn’t an issue. But I do remember the amazing cathedral.

Is it a village or a town? It’s hard to say but it has just one main street, although it’s packed with a lot of well known retailers like Fatface and Go Outdoors, plus ice cream parlours, gift shops and a kind of antiques emporium in a grand building. Of course, none of these retailers was here for either of my previous trips, or even existed, I imagine. Perhaps it is one benefit of older age that poor memory blurs past events and travel? I may as well not have been here at all!

The ice cream parlour is very busy but has only one, unappealing vegan ice cream flavour, so I pass.

Further down the street there’s a small craft market on the island in the centre and further still, through an archway, there is the cathedral. It’s a glorious sight- vast and beautiful, nestling in the dip between the hills. But it’s still a long way down to the entrance, a choice of slope or steps.

There’s a stream at the bottom and we cross the bridge between the ruins of what used to be the bishop’s palace and the great cathedral. Here is a great setting for such iconic buildings, although when we take a look at the exterior of the bishop’s palace we decide not to pay to go inside, since there’s little left to see!

To the cathedral, then; we return to the main entrance and through the porch. And we’re not disappointed…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Welsh Seaside Walk

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The uplifting feeling of having been to a stadium concert and shared crowd song lasts. Fragments of song revisit and become earworms. Getting down off the top tier of the stand is less onerous than the ascent, although it takes a long time- waiting for row upon row to filter out to the steps so that we’re almost the last. Then walking back around and down the last flights.

I begin to realise I’m starving and it’s late. Outside the stadium there are, of course, food stands; ready and waiting for the stream of hungry gig-goers. There’s no option, at this time of night, other than to indulge in a fast-food binge- which we do, but there’s nowhere to sit and eat it so we’re obliged to eat walking along, which I hate. I’ve never been able to understand the desire to walk along with a coffee or food and I can only really enjoy anything comestible whilst sitting down- preferably at a table.

We reach a main street where a wobbly bench provides a perch and finish off the food. Then it’s back to the hotel for a last beer before bed.

Next day we retrace our steps- station- station and return to the van [hopefully]. En route I do experience some trepidation. What if it’s been robbed? Or vandalised? But no- there it is, squeezed into the little ‘Just Park’ space in the housing estate with no ill effects. And it’s cool, too, from having had the curtains drawn. Phew!

Since we’re here in Wales it seems rude not to spend a bit more time and we’re off towards Porth Cawl, where we’ve booked a site nearby on the outskirts of a village called Nottage. We need to negotiate some tiny, narrow lanes to get there but we find the site, yet another farm venue. It’s clearly a regulars’ holiday spot, with many of the units housing folks who know each other. They’re friendly to us, too- helping out when we have trouble with the hook-up. It’s a little cheeky of the site to charge electricity on top of their tariff, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.

Down the lane outside, under a railway bridge, turn right and up another hill and we are in Nottage, which has two pubs, both of which look lovely.

We get a beer in one of them and assess its possibility for a meal next day.

We can walk to Porth Cawl from our site, along a footpath, first to Nottage then across the road and past a quaint forge, though I’m disappointed not to see a horse in the process of getting shoes…

After a while, traipsing up and down and past houses then along some coast path, we get to the outskirts of Porth Cawl. First impressions are of a run down seaside town, down on its luck, but it’s not true of all of the town. Once there was a swanky pavilion, but it’s fenced off, hopefully to be renovated. Further along there’s a a marina. Most of the front is smart and landscaped, however there’s no sign of a public lavatory anywhere!

We choose a seafront cafe for tea and cake, timing it well as while we’re inside the heavens open and we emerge to wet pavements.

We walk along the High Street which boasts some sea-themed sculptures and a small market cross, but little else of interest. But we can get a bus back to Nottage- which is a result!

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Headliners

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Having freshened up and cooled off at our Cardiff hotel, we set off in the direction of the Principality stadium and it’s not too difficult to locate, as the nearer we get, the more crowded the streets become.

We need to walk through a shopping centre and I become mesmerised by the array of outfits and assortment of ages and types as we go. I’m particularly fascinated by the giant, clompy boots and tiny skirt of a young woman in front of us who can barely walk and must tug at her miniscule, tight skirt constantly with poor results. There are, I think, some benefits to being old enough to be excused extreme elements of fashion.

It is still hot- still in the 30s as we near the Stadium, but with a specific gate we need to enter we’ve no clue whereabouts on the perimeter we should be. We’re approaching the main entrance, behind a wide concourse and at last we’re directed to an entrance- and steps up…

I have a bottle of water in my bag. I’m surprised when the security man allows me to keep it, after I tell him I must take some tablets, but he waves me through. I look up at the staircase. We begin to climb. After a good number of staircases, we reach the corridor with all the food and drink stalls. As usual, the choice is limited to what the sponsors provide. We must walk on round to our section of the terrace, which is some distance.

When we get there. we climb up and emerge into the stadium- but we’re not at our seats yet- oh no. Now we have to mountaineer our way up, up and up until we reach our row. Husband, in front of me, strides on up. It is unbearably hot- more so in the stadium which must be acting like a heat trap. I walk up and walk up, lagging further behind. When I look up he is still climbing. How much further? Now I do need to sit and it feels punishing.

Our row is near to the top. I’m very glad to reach it.

When I reach into my bag, my fingers close around the fan I bought in Portugal. This is a lucky find! I draw it out and use it. Around the stadium, many others are doing the same!

Before long, a band has set up and begins to play- I’ve no idea who. Next, ‘Blossoms’ is on. I know they played Glastonbury but I’m not especially excited by them. Husband disappears down the steps and returns with beer. Heinekin, of course, strictly speaking not beer at all, but lager. Boring it may be, but cold and welcome.

After Blossoms there’s a break while the stage is rearranged. I employ my fan and hope I don’t need to use the toilets, which may as well be a million miles away for all the mountaineering involved. Next to me, a father ministers to his young son, who is suffering in the heat. A shaft of sunshine has hit the corner of the stadium and I’m grateful not to be stuck in there. At least we’re in shade.

There is, however, nothing to top the thrill of a packed stadium waiting with bated breath to see and hear a famous, successful band and then when they appear on stage. The sun is dipping, the stadium erupts. I feel emotional. Here they are then. The Stereophonics…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com