Taking a leaf out of Dylan's book we set off about six weeks ago on our Never-Ending Summer Holiday. "Doo doo-dee doo de doo doo doooo!" we trilled, taking a leaf out of Kevin the Gerbil's book, or rather his smash hit 1984 cover of "Summer Holiday".
The weather was kind, or at least not actively malicious. Old fallen down things were visited, real live football was watched, Scotland was invaded, rowing boats were rowed, relatives were visited. Culture, sunshine and sleep columns were all up. Freelance income column was, inevitably, down.
The second last leg of the whole enterprise was my favourite, an eight day stretch in North Cumberland, the land that nurtured me. Not much has changed, except that the players of Carlisle United are now all younger than me, not older. We saw them slaughter the mighty Doncaster Rovers 1-0 on the first day of the season. The club are on a roll. and last Sunday they slaughtered Oldham Athletic 0-0.
We visited the Gilsland Show. I liked the sheep and cattle, Jake liked the quad bikes. Five minutes for three quid, driving round in a circle in a small arena surrounded by the biggest safety sausage I have ever seen. I was also fascinated to see that the winning rhubarb was not only smaller but also less straight than the second placed entry. The comparative virtues of rhubarb had always eluded me until that moment. I had always thought that the only good rhubarb was a dead rhubarb, laid to rest in a sizeable bowl of crumble. Any rhubarb previously known to me had always been at the bottom of the garden sticking its head out of a broken bucket. The idea that there was merit to be earned in such a life comforted me, reassuring me that the countryside was not being left behind in our modern, target-driven society.
The surprise hit of the summer was rowing, which had previously seemed fraught with coldness, wetness and drowningness for the rest of my family. This summer it became a pleasure, with all ages keen to take a spell between the rowlocks. Some very pleasant time ensued out in the middle of Talkin Tarn, serene and almost motionless, overlooked by the majestic Pennines, surrounded by rustling trees and the gentle swish-zzit-swish of the waterproof clothing of dozens of dog walkers completing their circuit of the water.
We also took the walk around the pretty Tarn, a place I have known well since I spent the end of one summer picking up litter there at less than a pound an hour. In a strange bookend moment we ran up against a family with a dog and two small boys. The younger of these, Ryan, was keen to follow his elder brother and climb onto a half-submerged, half-dead tree that stuck out into the weedy water.
"Where are you going?" asked his mother. "Owah theer," replied the excited boy. ('Owah' sounds like RP English 'hour'.) "Where?" asked his mother in standard English. "Theer!" repeated little Ryan. "You mean 'there', don't you?" persisted his mother, who had started off worrying about the boy's safety only to be distracted by thoughts for his social improvement. Ryan refused to discuss the matter further and proceeded lakewards and upwards towards his sibling and my two cherubs, who were both perched amid all the sticky-out catchy bits that trees seem to specialise in. I thought the little boy stood more chance of emasculating himself on these branches than he did of drowning or failing to impress at a university interview. I considered making a joke about Saving Ryan's Privates but held back.
Indeed I had enough to think about. This little interchange threw me back over the years to my first day at a school in Brampton, the nearby market town whose mean streets had formed me long before. The tough kid asked me where I lived. I told him and he hadn't heard of it. I thought there were probably quite a few things he hadn't heard of but this was neither the time nor the place to bring up his deficiencies. I decided to point.
"It's over there."
I waved in a semi-expansive gesture designed to indicate about a mile and three quarters. He wasn't interested in distances, or in enlarging his knowledge. What he was interested in was the way my description had been delivered in RP English.
"Over there?" he mimicked, incredulously. "Over THERE?" he repeated, a master of his art, setting up the punch-line. "You mean owah theer! Eh." This last sound is longer in real life than two letters might suggest, and linguistically it can stand variously as confirmation, interrogation or invitation to a punch up.
"Yes," I replied, grasping the deeper issues at stake. "Owah theer." Satisfaction all round resulted. And that was the key, the opening for me of a new phase of life. How strange to hear the exact reverse thirty seven years later.
The last lump of our fruit salad of a summer is about to be served. We will be moving north sometime today, in search of cooler weather and a steadier pace of life for a week or so. We will also be dropping in on Carlisle United's first game of the season, a home clash with the mighty Doncaster Rovers, a team that CUFC would not have deigned to play in their pomp in the 70's when I watched them regularly. What's that about golden ages being invisible from the inside?
The trip south, to the Sussex coast, was delightful in the main. Quite literally, as the sea was actually warm in patches, seducing me into more than my usual paddle. The lowlight was a visit to a pub, one that boasts a Good Pub Guide listing, which produced the two worst pints of beer I have ever had the misfortune to raise to my lips. I am not a natural complainer but the flat, warm (and possibly watered) beer forced me into action. I strode purposely into the bar area, eyes glinting like Clint, stubble lowering like Clint, holding not a six shooter but an overcooked hamburger which ma boy would not eat. Bloodshed was avoided by diplomacy all round and a refund was proffered and trousered in one smooth movement.
Two games of mutant golf were played on the sea front at Hastings but in a curious undeclared ceasefire the scores were never added up. I think this is a sensible and civilised development, although right wingers might feel the lack of rewards and penalties distasteful.
Cumberland offers no mini-golf to my knowledge but we will make up for this lack of leisure opportunity by stocking up on some solid history. Trips to Hermitage Castle and Newcastle are planned. Castles may feature in both trips, and perhaps some beer in the second one. The main disadvantage with the whole enterprise is the lack of television set on which to keep track of the cricket. Henry Blofeld on the radio can only be described as a poor, braying second.
Our Prime Minister seems to have discerned a pattern in global events. He has noticed that conflicts in many areas are linked by the presence of Muslim extremists, and he thinks that it is therefore appropriate to characterise these disparate struggles as one struggle, namely that between the values of The West and those of Radical Islam.
I only mention this because it marks a new departure in British foreign policy analysis, bringing our Prime Minister fully into line with one Osama Bin Laden who has been seeking to persuade the Muslims of the world that this is indeed the case. Well done there Tony. Osama needs all the friends in high places he can get and I'm sure he'll be pleased.