A Helluva Summer

 

Fifty years on from the legendary summer of 1976, this year it seems surpassed all records. Of course, half a century older, I'm not as adept at handling day after day of wall to wall sunshine and high temperatures; neither for that matter is my garden. Somehow or other we contrived to survive and whilst I'm not complaining about the sudden but otherwise very welcome change in weather conditions since the beginning of this month, it is a little like returning to Earth with a bump.

In my post back on 9th June, I mentioned that we were planning another ferry trip and we duly set off only 10 days later. Spotted walking up the road with our backpacks, neighbours offered us lifts to the station, but there was to be no cheating and so, senior passes at the ready, we left by public service bus. On arrival we encountered the first of many laden treks, on this occasion from the stop at one end of town to the station at the other. Sometimes and despite the  afternoon heat, you have to work hard to achieve and it did mean we boarded our East Coast Mainline train feeling surprisingly exhilarated, if, to my chagrin, a little sweaty. 

The wall of heat that greeted us when we disembarked at a sweltering Kings Cross Station was less welcome as were the sleepless nights at Dilly and the Eldest's home. At least we appreciated the air-conditioning on board the ferry when we departed once again from Portsmouth. This time, however, we had two blissfully cool nights on board as we made our way across a glass-like Bay of Biscay to Santander.

Conditions in Northern Spain exceeded our expectations and on our first day we picked up a temperature reading of 44 degrees Celsius albeit in direct sunlight. Let's say the heat curtailed activities a little but at least we saw inside various art galleries and museums that we might not otherwise have visited in an effort to swap the heat outside for indoor climate control.

Returning to Portsmouth we had no intention of curtailing our trip and instead it was time to board another ferry this time solely for foot passengers: destination Ryde Pier Head on the Isle of Wight. Another hot week beckoned and although many passengers transferred to the train or taxi to ride the length of the pier. we joined the stalwarts to walk it. Once more our bus passes came into their own as we used the local bus service to travel around the island basing ourselves first at a small hotel on what had once been part of the Osborne Estate in East Cowes  and then in another with a lush tropical garden at Ventnor. 

Travelling by bus, we probably saw parts of the island denied to many tourists. The buses were frequent even if not so scenic detours were part of the journey. They were also double deckers, so positioning ourselves on the upper level, we missed nothing. 

There remains a nostalgic hint of Victorian grandeur and the past at the various resorts on the Isle of Wight although my opinion may be heavily influenced by the wonderful day we spent at Osborne House, Queen Victoria' and Prince Albert's summer home built in the style of an Italian Palazzo. After viewing the artwork on the walls, I certainly came away confounded by my previous understanding of the prudish and repressed code of conduct I thought the Queen had espoused.

It wasn't just the Victorian past we met, however. Across in West Cowes and at Mister E's insistence, we visited the Classic Boat Museum to view a special exhibit: his very first dinghy. He'd last seen it when they parted company sixty years ago by which time it was already some thirty years old, but there it was: a wooden, clinker construction,  National 12 restored to original glory!

The sun shone everyday of our trip and continued to do so following our return. I'd expected the garden to be as frazzled as the grass verges but solar powered auto-watering systems that I attached to various water butts had saved the day and although much of my vegetable harvest has been smaller or thicker skinned than usual, I'm relieved to say that despite the extreme conditions there have still been many successes.

Our return was tainted by dementia daze (one day I shall write a book) but also interspersed by some lovely days out including an indulgent afternoon tea in a sheep pen and a long stroll around Fountains Abbey. We could hardly blink, however, before we were back in the Lake District, joined by all the family. Once more the weather enhanced the trip. Warm, sunny weeks there in August have, believe me, been a rarity over the twenty plus years that we have been visiting that particular spot in Langdale. This year was an exception, meaning that both Grandotty and Little Sister got to paddle daily in the river along with their parents; Grandma watched from the bank!

Back at home and a day later the latest heatwave ended with a thunderstorm on the eve of the Bank Holiday. Meanwhile a desperate email had been received from the brave lady who had assumed responsibility for organising the Village Gardening Club's Horticultural Show scheduled for the next day. It seemed that there were only six entrants and she was urging members to display whatever we could. The next morning looking at my less than worthy exhibition produce ravaged too by the torrential rain overnight, I reluctantly gathered what I could as did others. all of us embarrassed by what we considered to be pitiful specimens. Entries increased to 122 and summer ended on a high when Yours Truly took gold medal position for both her posy of flowers and mixed flower and foliage display; there were also commendations for her beetroot, shallots and beetroot and apple relish.

As summers in retirement go, it was a good one.