Falkenstein

We are awake by seven thirty, outside it is a sunny morning, but our balcony is in shade, I introduce Michael to smoked salmon on rye toast with cream cheese for breakfast and it meets with his approval. Whilst David and I attend Mass, Michael has a walk to the end of the village and then arranges to meet up with us later. The church of Saint Wolfgang is famous both for it's relics and for its's altar piece decorations, David and I find a pew about halfway down the church and sit amongst the locals, who are all decked out in their best traditional dress. Surprisingly few join in the singing of hymns and although having some competence in German, I am unfamiliar with their hymnal, and unable to contribute much. The Pfarrer has a fine baritone, but despite his leadership, no one else feels able to join in. He delivers his sermon on the presence of the Holy Ghost, always and everywhere, unlimited by constraints of time and space and accessible to those who are open to receive it, in a clear, precise German, with a pleasant Austrian Inflection. The service ends with communion and I am surprised to find it has lasted just forty minutes. In some Catholic countries attendance at Mass seems to be more of a social convention, rather than a participation in religion. A little like the Church of England in the UK. Michael is waiting for us outside and we wander back to the apartments, past tables and chairs laid out in the street for Fruschoppen, the Germanic tradition of pre lunch drinks and conversation, accompanied here by local musicians. Back at the ranch, Irene is dressed and ready to go, so we decide to start with an easier walk, of about ten kilometres, around the lake to Saint Gilgen. Michael has brought four sets of walking poles and we set off at a brisk pace towards the Falkenstein, which we saw from the road on our way in, yesterday afternoon. It is noon now and the sun is shining out of a clear blue sky and feels quite hot, but not unpleasant, as there is a cooling breeze from the lake. We wander past lakeside villas and hotels, the balconies resplendent with their displays of geraniums, with David and Michael providing commentaries on the various places they have eaten in over the years. The climb to the Falkenstein starts with a steep 1:6 ascent up a metalled road for about 200m metres and soon has everyone perspiring and shedding clothing. Once the road ends and turns into track, the climb is more contoured and less steep, we pass lots of hikers coming from the direction of Saint Gilgen and return their customary greeting of "Gruss Gott" as we pass. Near the summit we have the option of climbing the last hundred feet or so on the limestone rock of the face and David and Michael choose to take this route, so Irene and I follow, I am wearing shorts, tee shirt and walking sandals, which are fine for the path, but less than ideal for a scramble over the rocks. Nevertheless the climb is worthwhile, with rustic benches on the summit, shaded by oaks and pines, giving a superb view over the lake. Along the way down are stations of the cross, as this route was used by religious pilgrims, in Medieval, times during Holy Week, who used to emulate the suffering of the Passion, by carrying a cross as they walked, or placing rough stones in their shoes, as a form of mortification. Beyond the summit, on our descent, we visit a little church in a grotto, on the side of the hill and light candles for Irene's Mother, who died this year and her father who passed away twenty years ago. The descent eventually brings us to an hotel at the Hochzeits Kreuz, ( Wedding Cross) and from here it is only three kilometres along the lakeside to Saint Gilgen. As we arrive the skies start to darken and we find shelter in an Italian ice cream parlour, opposite the Ferry Terminal and sit outside under a large umbrella just as a heavy shower drives other tourists from the streets. Michael and David order beers, but I have set my heart on a coffee and another apfel strudel, Irene just wants hot water. The drinks and cakes arrive and we wait out the shower, before catching the Ferry back to Reid, it actually stops at the Schafberg mountain railway, but that is less than half a mile from our flats. The ferry costs eight euros each and the trip lasts a little under half an hour, the rain holding off while we cross. Our meal last night turned out to be rather expensive, but worth every penny, so tonight I volunteer to make a salad Nicoise in our flat. Michael helps prepare the meal and we work well together, avoiding getting in each others way, and by eight o'clock everything is ready, just as Irene and David arrive bringing wine and a bottle of brandy, that has somehow made the trip from England. The meal is completed by ten, but the brandy and coffee continue past midnight and once again I am consuming glasses of water before bedtime. Our first day has been both eventful and enjoyable, hopefully the week will continue in a similar vein.

Austria

We eat breakfast at eight thirty and collect Michael from his flat in Fichte Strasse and are on our way to Austria by ten. Once on the autobahn heading towards Munich, Michael plugs in his sat nav, which promptly warns us of a traffic jam about fifteen miles ahead. Today is Whitsuntide Saturday and the equivalent of the Bank Holiday in England and large numbers are heading south, intent on going to Lake Garda, where the forecast for the week ahead is better south of the Alps. The traffic jam extends northwards rapidly and we are stuck within 100 metres of the autobahn exit, but fortunately the traffic crawls close enough for us to exit and make a 50 km detour around the problem. No sooner have we rejoined the motorway to the south when we are warned of another problem, just south of the Munich ring road, so we exit early and take A roads around the Cheimsee, a lovely large lake with the peaks of the mountains visible to the south. Around one o'clock we stop in a small village cafe and eat apple strudel and drink coffee on the terrace in the warm sunshine. After the break we continue on our way, arriving in the outskirts of Salzburg by half past two, where we promptly get lost. The sat nav seems incapable of directing us on any route, other than the motorway, and although we are only thirty miles from our destination, we eventually have to travel on the autobahn, without the necessary permit. We get away with it and soon we are climbing steadily through alpine meadows towards the Wofgangsee. Our first sight of the lake is from the road near Saint Gilgen, a picture postcard village on the northern shore, surrounded by  2,500m mountains, with snow covered peaks. To the south and east of Saint Gilgen is a yellow cliff face called the Falkenstein, (the falcon stone), which does indeed look like a falcon with its wings outstretched. We are staying in apartments in Reid, about a kilometre north of the village of Saint Wofgang and it takes another half hour to drive round the lake and arrive there, about four o'clock. The owner, Frau Leitner, shows us to our accomodation, Irene and David are in flat 3 and Michael and I in flat 4. Both have splendid views over the lake and large balconies, Michael opts to sleep in the lounge on the sofa bed and I in the rear bedroom. Once we have settled in, we walk into Saint Wolfgang to buy groceries, the village is very pretty and well catered for tourists and once again, most locals are dressed in traditional dress, lederhosen for men and dirndl dresses for women. We find a delicatessen and discover that it is due to close at six and not reopen until Tuesday, due to the Whitsuntide holiday, so we quickly buy groceries for the next few days. Michael tells us that the food is of excellent quality, but probably twice the price of the supermarket. Our shopping completed, just as the shop closes, our thoughts turn towards dinner. Across the square is an hotel, The White Bear, with a balcony bathed in evening sunshine, so we repair there to eat. Opposite the hotel is the church of Saint Wolfgang, in which relics of the eponymous Saint are interred and around the corner, the original White Horse Inn, of operetta fame and the location of a famous German film of the same name dating from the early 1960's. We manage to secure the last table on the balcony and are told by the other guests, most of whom are local inhabitants, that the town brass band will march into the square at eight o'clock and give a concert. There are a variety of dishes offering white asparagus on the menu, and we noticed on our way down that asparagus was being sold from numerous roadside farm shops, so I enquire of the waiter if it would be possible to have it as a starter. He returns within a minute to say yes and asks how we would like it served, Michael opts for asparagus with ham, Irene and David with sauce Hollandaise and I just with melted butter and black pepper. We also ask if we can defer ordering our main course until we see how filling the starters are. The asparagus arrives ten minutes later, thick white spears, cooked to perfection and accompanied by crusty white bread, my melted butter served in a small pewter jug. David orders a local Austrian white wine, a Gruner Veltiner, and we tuck into our starters. Waiting to see how full we were after the starter was a wise decision and we all order smaller main courses, I opt for the cheese spatzle, with roasted onions, (freshly made pasta noodles), which duly arrives, steaming hot, in a cast iron skillet. David has ordered a bottle of Austrian red wine with our main courses, which is also excellent and we have just finished eating when the band marches into the little square, accompanied by cheers and clapping from the large crowd, which has assembled in order to hear them. The sun has now set behind the church and it is distinctly chilly on the balcony, but the locals soon avail themselves of fleecy blankets, that are rolled up and stacked near the door to the hotel. We follow suit, and enjoy the music, mostly marches and waltzes by Strauss, sipping wine, wrapped in our blankets, until the concert finishes around ten. We then wander happily back to our apartments, carrying our shopping bags, pausing only to determine the time of Mass at the church in the morning. The service is at ten thirty. We return home, put the shopping away and turn in for eleven, after a long but enjoyable first day in Austria.

Freibad

I am awake at eight, feeling better than I deserve, but fumble about in the strange room and seem to take an age to shower and dress for breakfast. I arrive in the dining room at a quarter to nine and promptly text David to make sure he and Irene are aware that breakfast ends at nine. They arrive five minutes before the hour, David sporting a bruised chin and a cut lip, he stood up to remove his trousers after I left last night and promptly fell into a coffee table. Fortunately he wears a beard, otherwise he could look worse and confesses to feeling somewhat fragile, at an adjacent table a party of Americans are also recovering from post Beer Fest hangovers. Breakfast is comprehensive and superb, offering both continental and English or American alternatives. There are twenty thousand Siemans employees in Erlangen, as well as two universities, so everyone speaks excellent English. Whilst waiting for Irene and David, I have ascertained from the waiter that there is a freibad, (open air pool), about a kilometre walk from the hotel on the same road, Hartmann Strasse, so I have my day already planned out. David and Irene are meeting Michael later around midday and walking around the town. By ten o'clock, I am walking towards the swimming pool in bright, warm, sunshine, passing Siemens Medical Business on the way. The pool complex sports both a hallenbad, (25m indoor pool) and a 50m Olympic standard outdoor facility. After paying my money and making enquiries I am directed to the outdoor changing rooms and five minutes later I am in the water, which is much cooler than the Leisure Centre in Beverley. Here the water is heated to a refreshing 23 degrees Celsius, rather than the 29 degrees back home, which is far too close to blood heat for comfortable exercise. There are only five other people in the enormous facility, so I have a lane to myself and push off on 400m backstroke and keep drifting into the lane ropes, as there is no roof with girders with which to orientate my position in the lane. After a few lengths I get the hang of it and have no further problems. I follow the backstroke, with breaststroke and freestyle 400's, feeling the alcohol being purged from my body, before attempting 4 x 200m individual medleys. I haven't swum 50m butterfly in a continuous sequence for thirty years, as I haven't had access to a pool, but in the event I needn't have worried, as It turned out to be no more difficult than two 25m lengths. The pool starts to fill up by lunchtime, initially with people on their lunch break, but later with children who finish school at one and are starting their half term, Whitsuntide holiday. After showering and drying myself, I buy a coffee and apfel strudel from the cafe and end up chatting with the waitress, who wants to know where I learned my German. I tell her I learned it in the Army thirty years ago and confess I haven't been back here for ten years. " how do you maintain your fluency", she asks and I reply that I have a dachsund, called Norman and that I always speak to him in German. She seems a little unsure how to take this, but we seem to part company on reasonable terms. It is very civilised sitting in the warm spring sunshine drinking coffee and eating cake, whilst I read more of Geza Vermes, the sounds of splashing water and children's laughter echoing across the pool. A very tall man, around sixty years of age, has started to swim a vigorous old English backstroke in the lane I recently vacated, with a complete disregard for the other swimmers in the lane. Most of whom seem to be quite accomplished club swimmers and are quickly driven into other lanes, as this guy is covering the full width with his double arm action. He is moving quite quickly and maintains his pace for a good half hour, before climbing out, drying himself and striding boldly away. It is good to know that selfish arseholes are not restricted to the UK, though I doubt ours are quite so fit, and yes they are always male. David Texts to say that Michael is collecting us at six for a return to the beer Fest and dinner and I reply saying that will be fine. Around two o'clock, the sky clouds over and with the sun obscured, it becomes significantly colder, so I pack my gear and take a walk back down Hartmann Strasse to the hotel Kral, where I meditate for an hour. Around four o'clock, feeling refreshed, I venture down to the patio area and sit outside in the sunshine, the clouds having dispersed. I ask a waitress, who is on her break, if coffee and cakes are available and she tells me there is a self service facility in the restaurant, but unfortunately  no cakes. I find the espresso machine, make a coffee and return to my table and book, only to find a plate of Danish Pastries. The waitress explains that these are left over from breakfast and would otherwise be thrown away. The staff at this hotel certainly go the extra mile for their customers and seem happy to do so. David and Irene arrive around five thirty and Michael at six, we walk the long way to the Fest through the town centre gardens and past the concert hall, that has an Italianate design, quite similar to Chatsworth House in Derbyshire. In the narrow lanes of the old town, that are largely given over to cafes and restaurants, there are a steady stream of people making their way to the "Berg", or hillside, where the Fest is held. It is not quite so busy as last night as we are much earlier. The plan is to find a tent with some good music and settle down for a while with a meal and a few drinks. Most of the locals are in traditional costume and are already in a Friday night party mood, so there is a good atmosphere when we find a table at a reasonable distance from the DJ. In the event, the noise is too much for Irene, despite the use of her earplugs, and so we retire to an Italian restaurant in the old town for dinner. We have no reservation, but the waiter manages, somehow, to find us a table and take our order. The food is a little fussy for my taste, but the ingredients are excellent and we spend a couple of pleasant hours eating and chatting, before wandering home in a light drizzle, around eleven o'clock. Everyone wanting a more subdued night, as we have another long drive to Austria in the morning.

Embarkation

We are up early this morning, as I have the dogs to walk and would like to meet friends at the Poppy Seed for coffee, before packing my case for the Ferry to Rotterdam tonight. After breakfasting on soft boiled eggs, I shower, dress and pack Norman into the car, only to find that the battery is inexplicably flat again. I ring Pip and apologise that I won't be able to walk the terriers this morning and then call Felicity to say I can't make the Poppy Seed either. The man from the AA arrives within half an hour of me calling them, starts the car with some jump leads, and once again finds nothing wrong with the battery. I leave the engine running, lock the doors with a spare key and then walk Norman around the village for half an hour. When we get back, I leave him in the house and then drive to town and make my way to the bank to buy some euros, the exchange rate they are offering is scandalous, slightly over one euro to the pound, so I buy them from Thomas Cook instead, where I am given a much better rate. After shopping for travel sized shaving foam, shampoo and toothpaste, I have lunch at Perk U Later, in Swaby's Yard, and then drive home to pack. David and Irene are picking me up at half past four and I have just time to drive Norman to Sarah's house, where he is staying whilst I am in Austria, before they arrive. In five minutes my cases are packed in the car and we are on our way to the Ferry, travelling by the bendy road through Wawne and then skirting North Hull to arrive at The King George V dock. We can see our ship, The Pride of Rotterdam, towering above the customs buildings and the ferry terminal from half a mile away. David collects our boarding cards from the drive by kiosk, then we pass through customs and drive onto the boat and are in our cabin in less than forty minutes since leaving the house. We make our way to Langham's Brasserie and book a window table for eight o'clock, before retiring to the bar for a pint of Guiness and a chat until dinner time. The boat sets sail just as we are shown to our table, and we dine in style as the ship sails down the Humber towards the North Sea. It has been another cold, cloudy day in England and we hope for better weather in Holland in the morning. The staff in the restaurant are all Portuguese and very friendly and helpful, in the adjacent bar area a television is showing the Europa league semi final, between Chelsea and Benfica and our waiter is taking a keen interest and keeps reporting the scores as he brings various dishes. The food and service in Langham's is always excellent, and tonight is no exception. It costs a little more, but helps to make the Ferry trip an enjoyable part of the holiday. Chelsea win the football game by a late goal, and our waiter is a little deflated, but soon recovers his cheerful demeanour. We finish the night, with coffee and brandy in the bar area and then retire for the night at around half past ten. Before going to bed, I put my watch forward an hour to continental time and then quickly fall asleep, the Guiness, wine and brandy taking their toll. 

Birthday Boy.

I wake up at five o'clock and lie until half past, before getting up and showering, having forgotten that I had already advanced my watch to European time and thinking it was half past six and that the public address system would soon be getting people up for breakfast and disembarkation at eight in Rotterdam. My showering has woken David and as today is his sixty fifth birthday, I wish him many happy returns, and tell him his card and present are in the car. It is then that I discover my error. He is infallibly good natured and laughs at my mistake, so I take my book and make my way to the lounge next to Langhams, in order to allow him and Irene a little more room and privacy in which to shower and dress. They join me at half past six and we three are the first in the restaurant for breakfast, which we eat as the ship sails up the Rhine towards Rotterdam, one of the busiest ports in the world. A constant stream of shipping passes our window as we tuck into a full English breakfast, which we calculate will last us until we arrive in Erlangen, near Nuremberg, where Irene's younger brother, my cousin Michael, lives. We are spending two nights there and visiting the town's famous beer festival, before the four of us travel down to the Wolfgangsee, about fifty kilometres southeast of Salzburg, on Saturday. Our friendly Portuguese waiter brings David a complementary glass of Bucks Fizz for his birthday, and I warn him that the Dutch Police are making routine breathalizer tests on motorists coming off the ferry, in order to discourage motorists from over indulging the night before and filtering out those who have. We dock on time at eight, disembark by half past and then sit in a queue for half an hour. The reason soon becomes obvious, the police are running a breathalizer check this morning. David waits, with a little trepidation, until it is his turn, but fortunately he passes OK and we are passed onto customs. The customs officer is a strikingly beautiful redhead, who stands six foot tall and has to bend down quite a way to be able to see into the car. By ten past nine we are on our way to Erlangen, David has plugged in a sat nav, which promptly gets lost as soon as we emerge from the Ferry terminal. Fortunately I know the way to the motorway quite well and tell him to ignore it and follow my instructions. It doesn't get any better on the motorway and so I ask him how long he has had the device and he tells me ten years, and he hasn't updated it because it was more expensive than buying a new one. We have lots of fun with the sat nav, as it frequently shows us driving across open fields and almost has a nervous breakdown when we ignore it and just follow the signposts of our route, past Aachen, Cologne, Frankfurt and Nuremburg to our destination. We break for a coffee after Cologne and arrive in Erlangen at half past four, where the sat nav promptly sends us in the wrong direction. The problem is resolved when we stop the car and ring Michael, telling him the street we are on. He tells us to take a left and then drive straight on for half a mile until we see him standing on the road side. The town is packed with tourists, as this is the first day of the Erlangen Fest, which takes place every year at Whitsuntide and runs for ten days. Over half the people are dressed in traditional Bavarian costumes, the ladies in dirndl dresses and the men in lederhosen. We spot Michael standing by the roadside, as promised and he tells us that this is our hotel, Hotel Kral and then directs us to the hotel car park, which lies on the other side of the road. The receptionist is a dark haired girl called Ingrid and is also wearing a dirndl, she checks us in and suggests we pay in advance, as there are a lot of people checking out on Saturday morning. We comply and are then shown to our rooms, which are immaculately clean and well presented. We arrange to meet Michael at seven thirty and then rest, as we have driven almost four hundred and fifty miles from Rotterdam. After unpacking, I meditate for an hour and then shower and change into fresh clothes, before going out for dinner. It rained almost continuously on the way down, until we passed Frankfurt, but then the weather brightened and the temperature rose to a balmy twenty degrees by the time we reached Erlangen. Well balmy compared to the eight or nine degrees in England. As it is David's birthday, we let him choose where to eat and he asks to go to a Greek Restaurant near Michael's flat, where he ate the last time he was here. Michael has lived in the town for over thirty years. His choice is good, the food is excellent and we spend a couple of enjoyable hours, eating and reminiscing, before making our way to the Fest, about a mile away. Having lived in Germany I know what to expect, or think I do, but this is something else, it has the usual German combination of fairground attractions, food stalls and concert tents, but the Festground in Erlangen is built round a series of caves, carved into the hillside, which serve as both cellars and bars. We have already sunk a stein of beer and a couple of bottles of wine between us, so it doesn't take long for the music and traditional costumes to put us into a real birthday party spirit. After wandering around, soaking up the atmosphere, we find a beer stall with a balcony, opposite an enormous Ferris Wheel, where we sit and watch the world go by, while Michael brings an inevitable round of Bavarian litre mugs of beer. Knowing my limits, I donate half of mine to him, as he is ten years younger than I am and much more used to the strength of the beer. At eleven o'clock, the Fest closes down, the Ferris Wheel lights go off and people start to wander away, some of the young men obviously the worse for wear, but everyone is good natured and there is no trouble. We walk along with the crowds towards Michael's flat and David decides he would like to complete his birthday in the Irish Bar across the road. Michael and I order halves of Guiness, but David has the full pint and is now starting to show the effects of all the alcohol. My cousin Irene, who suffers from very poor memory, asks me if she can have a camomile tea and I point out that it is highly unlikely that they will have any, but agree to ask the young girl behind the bar. I apologise as I make the request, but she replies that not only do they have camomile, but also peppermint, strawberry, lemon and a host of others. This is unlike any Irish Bar I have ever been in anywhere in the world. There are not many people in the bar and fewer still after we have completed a rendition of " The Wild Rover". We call it a night around twelve thirty and buy David his favourite Jameson Irish whiskey, for the road. This is a serious mistake, and after saying goodnight to Michael, I have considerable difficulty keeping the birthday boy upright on our way back to the hotel. I manage to guide him to his room, insist he drinks two full glasses of water and then deposit him on his bed, which he promptly rolls off. David is quite a big bloke, fifteen stones or so and a considerable dead weight to manoeuvre back onto the bed, but somehow I manage it, remove his shoes and then leave him to sleep it off, still fully dressed. He won't forget this birthday in a hurry, but he might forget parts of it. Back in my room, I drink several glasses of water myself and then turn in.

A moving day

We wake up early, at six thirty, to another cold blustery day and breakfast on the last of the sausages and bacon, mine with an egg and Norman's without. Yesterday's football has left me feeling a little stiff, but it will soon walk off. I pick the terriers up shortly after nine for our walk on the Westwood and today we are uninterrupted by rain, although darker clouds are forming to the west and the rain can be expected later. After our walk I have time to mow the lawns at Two Riggs, leaving the clippings, with their coating of feed and weed, to continue their work on the grass and weeds and then Normy and I return to Tickton, where repeat the process on the lawns there. Afterwards there is just time for a cup of tea and a sandwich and then it is time to pick up the removal van from Andrew's Van Hire. It takes twenty minutes to fill all the forms out and then I am on my way, driving a large Mercedes Sprinter, to Leslie's house. I arrive at one thirty, as promised, to find Margaret and William with Leslie's old cleaner, still working their way through the disposal of his effects. I have arranged to buy some bookcases, shelves a desk and two chairs, that will better match the furniture donated by Sarah and my friend Allan. William, who is a small man and seventy three years young, is helping me to move the furniture, which turns out to be extraordinarily heavy, particularly for two pensioners. The desk, in particular, is very solidly built and difficult to manoeuvre through the narrow doors of Leslie's bungalow, but eventually, with much perspiration, everything is loaded and we are on our way to Tickton. Unloading at the other end is more straightforward, primarily because I have decided to dismantle the desk in my garage, as iT is too wide and heavy to fit through my doors. By a quarter past four we are finished and drive back to Andrew's Van Hire to return the Mercedes and redeem the £100 that I had paid as deposit. Outside the office there is a bright red Ferrari Testarossa sports car, and William, who is a Formula One fan, chats to the owner, who starts up the V12 engine for him and tells him the car used to belong to Pete Waterman, of Aitken. Stock and Waterman fame. I drop William back at Molescroft and thank him for his help, wondering how stiff the poor old guy might be in the morning. When I return to my house, Norman is eagerly waiting for his tea, so I feed him and then put the shelves back in the book cases and restore the front room to some sort of order. I have yet to decide whether to dismantle the desk and bring it from the garage into the house, before or after my holiday, as it might take a while to loosen screws that haven't been touched for over twenty years. Eventually I decide to attempt the job, as I can always leave it for later, if I run out of time and energy. In the event, there is only one troublesome screw, and I manage to bring it into the house and put it back together by half past seven. I have placed the desk against the back wall of the lounge, with a bookcase on either side, it looks quite nice. I make dinner, take Norman for a quick walk and go to bed for ten.

Banging heads with Louis

Up by half past six and breakfast on kippers and toast, outside the spring like weather of sunshine and showers continues, the cool winds the most noticeable feature. We collect Dolly and Teddy for their walk on the common by a quarter past nine, I wear a light cagoule and carry an umbrella and a cap against the chance of a heavier shower and sure enough, just as I have swapped Dolly for Teddy on the lead, an ominous black cloud starts to sprint towards us from Burton Bushes, to our Northwest. We pause for a moment, the wind strengthens and then squally rain begins to whip across the open ground towards Black Mill. We retrace our steps and retreat into the shelter of the woods of Newbegin Pits, other dog owners are also sheltering there and we meet Poppy, the red setter bitch, who always comes and says hello, her owner is a young woman whose name I can't recall, who is a primatologist at York University. When we return to Two Riggs, I spread some lawn treatment powder by hand, another squally shower helping to water it in and then drive back to Tickton. The rain has now blown over and the sun has emerged again from behind the clouds, so I take advantage of the sunshine and hang out my washing, before driving to the Leisure Centre for my swim. The pool is not too busy, a group of mentally incapacitated young people and their carers are splashing happily in an area near the changing rooms. The far double lane has only one swimmer, so I secure a space by the lane rope and then reprise the programme I swam twice last week, 3 x 400m and then 4 x 200m individual medley and a 400m easy warm down. After my swim, I buy a pot of tea and a scone in the cafe and chat to Tania, who has returned from a "decorating holiday", she and her husband have repapered and painted the house. Tania pays me the £10 sponsorship, that I had already sent to Marie Curie yesterday. She tells me her generosity was prompted by multiple losses in her family to cancer. At a quarter past two I drive to the Library and return my books, which will become due during my holiday. I had not intended to take any books out, but am tempted by a book by Geza Vermes, "Christian Beginnings", a history of the early Christian Church, from the life and crucifixion of Jesus, to the treaty of Nicea, 300 years later. The resolve broken, I also pick up a tourist guide for Austria, a Philip Roth novel and "Wool", a new science fiction novel set in a nightmare Malthusian future. It is now time to collect Louis from Saint Mary's Primary School. The weather has dried up quite a lot and it is pleasant sitting on the seats with the other parents and grandparents until Mrs Wildbore and the children emerge from their classroom. She calls me over and firmly but politely requests that we persuade Louis to leave his football and goalkeeping gloves at home in future. She tells me this is the third consecutive day that he has brought them, despite being warned not to do so. I promise her to resolve the problem. It transpires later that it is peer group pressure, from the boys in year two, that is driving his misbehaviour. Louis is much bigger than his five year old classmates and tends to play football at playtime with the boys in a class above him. Apparently he is only allowed to play with them if he brings his leather football. After driving home and refreshing himself on Grandad Pop, we make our way to Tickton playing fields to play football. There are a few boys around and we manage to get a game going, we play three a side, Louis in one goal and I, gratefully, in the other. Unfortunately, because of the lack of numbers, we are playing a danger goalie system. This means the goalie also plays as an outfield player, but can handle the ball in his own goal area. There is great disparity in the relative sizes of the boys, the smallest is called Elliot, who is six and the largest, Connor, who is ten. As a consequence, I end up receiving a pass from Elliot and then tripping and falling, as I run towards Louis goal, unfortunately our heads collide as he dives to grab the ball and I hit the ground. I manage to turn my head at the last minute and cushion the collision with my right ear. Louis cries and I am momentarily winded, but we both climb to our feet, he with a bump on his forehead and me with a numbed and stinging ear and then carry on with our game. Around a quarter to five, two mums approach and take most of our players off to tea, so Louis and I play for another ten minutes, before returning home for tea. He plays a game called Temple Run on my iPad while I cook. We are having lamb burgers, with Haloumi cheese, salad, pitta bread and chips for dinner, which Louis demolishes with an appetite befitting his status as a small giant. After dinner we walk Norman down to the little bridge down Carr Lane and then "praise and pat", with him all the way home. At seven o'clock, we drive to North Bar and take Louis home, I have given him a large bottle of Grandad Pop, cream soda, and a tick chart, with which to record Norman's walks, while I am on holiday and he is staying with Sarah. When I return home, I try to read the Vermes Book, but I am too tired, not helped by the fact that the first chapter covers the ground of his earlier books, which I have recently read. At nine o'clock, I give in and go to bed.

Kippers, premonitions and literature

I wake from a quite sad dream, in which Normy dies peacefully in his sleep and I find his body cold and stiff in his bed, and then wonder where the best place to bury him might be. Fortunately he is alive and well when I wake up, but it gives me pause for thought and I hope he can go peacefully when the time comes, which can't be too far off in the future, considering his age. After breakfast we take a walk to the Post Office in the village, where I buy stamps and then post of the letter to Maire Curie Cancer Care, enclosing the cheque for the Swimathon. The cool showery weather continues, but the village is looking its best, the trees all a blaze of white and pink blossoms and the gardens neat and decorated with spring flowers. I leave Normy with plenty of fresh water and then drive to Saint John's for Mass at half past ten. Today is the first Sunday after ascension, traditionally on Thursday and always a holiday in Germany, where it is called "Himmel Fahrt", literally, heaven journey. The service is taken by Father Roy, and I hope the rumours of him moving on are just that, despite his opposition to women preists, he is a good man. So many people cannot accept views and opinions that differ from their own, but surely that is what makes human society so rich and diverse, otherwise we would all end up as intellectual and emotional clones. I struggle today with a literal interpretation of the scriptures, but find deep solace in the beauty and mystery of the ritual and art that expresses itself in the worship of the essential, unfathomable, transcendent. Part of God is consciousness, and with consciousness the freedom to choose our path and also to interpret our experiences. Interpretation is essentially creative and artistic, the Zen Master DT Suzuki asserts that we can all be "artists of life", and by this he means we have a choice about how we deal with what life throws at us, and how we choose to interpret that experience. As Sartre says, we can choose to act in either good or bad faith, adopt victimhood or take responsibility for our freedom. Where I part with Sartre, is that I choose to believe that my freedom to choose is a divine and precious gift. My justification lies purely from the difference in feelings that arise from acting kindly or cruelly. There is less self to kindness, whilst cruelty always seeks justification and excuses. After communion, I call at the supermarket for bread, wine and kippers, perhaps the sermon on the mount is combining with the Eucharist, or more probably I plan kippers for breakfast and bread and wine to accompany the Caprese Salad, that I intend to make when I arrive home. The balance of the day is spent getting ready for holiday, washing, ironing, arranging mobile roaming and notifying my credit card company of my upcoming trip. Later in the evening I finish the Patrick Gale novel, "Notes from an exhibition", with Normy on his usual place on my knee asleep. I quite liked the book, its structure, a series of written portraits of members of a bipolar artist's family at differing junctures in the life of the narrative. On the positive side, I liked the space for interpretation that this opens up for the reader, but on the other hand it leaves you without a sense of depth, regarding any specific character. To be fair to Gale, he says it is about family dynamics. For me it is a little too clever, precise and over constructed, perhaps lacking in the raw passion, that mania inspired genius demands. I may feel differently tomorrow, and I shall certainly read more from this author. To bed at ten.

A quiet Saturday

When I wake up at seven, there is a text from Hanne, she is waiting to see the consultant, feels OK and expects to be discharged. I reply offering to pick her up, but she says she doesn't need a lift. I after breakfast, I put some jeans and a casual jacket on to wash and then make a full English for Myself and Normy, after first putting more drops in his eyes, which already seem a little better. Later I modify the wicker basket bought in Hull so that I can take Norman on my bike. The metal hooks won't fit over the handlebars, but with some minor engineering adjustment, I am able to affix it securely to the rear pannier. It means I will have to be careful not to kick the basket or Norman when mounting and dismounting but He adjusts rapidly to his new mode of transportation, particularly when I place a small cushion in the bottom for extra comfort. Any idea of cycling to the Poppy Seed is dispelled by a sudden shower, so we drive to Norwood, park in our usual place and then walk into town. The shower has passed but the weather remains cool and overcast but there are still lots of folk about the town for market day. Felicity is tucking into a toasted teacake when we arrive and we are soon joined by the rest of the gang, Barbara, Jill and Rosemary, none of whom are aware of Hanne's trip to Hull Royal and so I promise to keep them informed when there is further news. Felicity perks up amongst her friends, she has been down in the dumps of late because of having to give up her dogs and I fear she may be on the same trajectory of despondency that overtook Leslie towards the end of his life. By half past eleven she is tired and has had enough, so I walk back to the car and drive round the one way circuit to the cafe. The traffic made worse by the closure of the road into Saturday Market, while the surface is being refurbished. After collecting Felicity and Norman, I drive her home via Walkington, across the Westwood and back, a detour of four miles to get to Albert Terrace, which is less than a quarter mile from the Poppy Seed, but quicker than enduring the nose to tail traffic round the one way circuit. I see the old girl safely into her house and then have to drive off as it was necessary to double park in order to set her down by her front door. Her mobility is declining steadily and I feel it is only a matter if time before she will need residential care, although I hope I am mistaken. We drive home and take our luck with the weather by hanging out my jeans and jacket on the line and then sitting down at my desk to sort through the backlog of paperwork. The most urgent job is completing the list of Swimathon sponsors and enclosing a cheque for Marie Curie. The final total is £138 and this includes ten pounds I have put in, pending Tania's return from holiday on Monday. Everything is now filed into its proper plastic wallet and once I have placed the files in a box, the desk can be dismantled and taken to the tip. The front room is now covered in boxes, pending the arrival of the new furniture, but I tend to use the Garden Room mostly and can shut the door on the mess and forget it for the weekend. We lunch on lamb pittas with salad and Haloumi cheese and then spend a quiet afternoon and evening reading, breaking every couple of hours to make tea and administer Norman's eye drops. He likes to sleep on my chest while I read and snores gently and contentedly until bedtime.

A long good Friday!

We are up by six thirty, Friday is the day that I walk Louis to school and I need to collect him for half past eight. When I let Noman out into the garden, the sky is busy with rush hour clouds driving from southwest to northeast and a damp chill in the air. The weather seems to have settled into a cool, sunshine and showers, early spring pattern. I give Normy a little of the smoked salmon that I am having for breakfast, with my usual cream cheese and rye toast. He has had Baker's, but his eyes reproach me for not sharing the good stuff on a more equitable basis. We leave the house by a quarter past eight, only to find the traffic tailed back from the Swinemoor roundabout for a mile, fortunately it is moving and I arrive at the roundabout at eight twenty five. Rather than risk the level crossing and be held up further by a train, I turn right up the bypass and come into North Bar the long way, from Molescroft. It is two miles rather than one, but at this time of day much quicker. Louis is almost dressed when I arrive, and the addition of shoes and coat are only the work of a moment, before we are on our way to school, with a Norman on his lead. Louis tells me that his Mum has booked him on another football course at half term and that I am to take him in the morning and she will collect him in the afternoon. Half term starts the Monday I return from Austria, but I should be off the Ferry and home by nine thirty, so it may just be possible to handle it, but failing that, Alice will have to walk him to Beverley Grammar School, where the course is being held, on the first day. Louis gives me a hug and a kiss at the school gate and then runs off happily to assembly, Normy and I walk back up Bleach Yard and then down New Walk to the car and then drive to Cherry Burton to collect Dolly and Teddy for their walk on the Westwood. There are spits of rain in the air and I have brought a cagoule in a bag and an umbrella, in case it starts to rain in earnest, which it has overnight, but the ground is so dry that the moisture has just soaked in and been absorbed. The effect of the rain on the trees and grass is startling, they are noticeably more lush and green than even yesterday and the air has become softer and cooler, the smell of dust now completely dispelled. The cooler weather suits Norman and he keeps pace quite well, skirting away at a safe distance when the terriers meet and play with other dogs and then rejoining us once the boisterousness has abated. We drop off Dolly and Teddy by half past ten and then drive back to Tickton, where I set too to empty and then dismantle an old Schreiber wall unit, that I inherited from the old Ladies bungalow, that I rented when I first left Pip, almost three years ago now. It is solidly built, but matches nothing in the house and is of distinct 1970's styling. It may even be back in fashion soon. It actually takes longer to remove the pictures, books, coins and accumulated detritus, that includes passport, euro coinage, batteries and flash drives, than it does to unscrew and dismantle the monstrosity. Fortunately, reduced to its constituent units, it fits into the boot of the Chrysler, as long as I lower half of the back seat, in order to accommodate the longer pieces. It is now ten past twelve, and as the municipal tip is halfway to the leisure centre, I load my swimming gear onto the passenger seat and set off. The furniture I am buying from Leslie's daughter will be brought by her husband William and I on Tuesday afternoon, in a van I have booked for the purpose and I now only have to dismantle a cheap desk, that Clement used for homework in his bedroom, before he went to university and the front room will be ready for the new arrivals. The wood is quickly offloaded at the tip and I am changed and in the water for a quarter to one. The only other swimmers are Terry and his wife, so after a quick chat, I push off and repeat yesterday's session of 3 x 400m on each stroke except butterfly and then 4 x 200m individual medleys, but as the pool is quiet, I have the luxury of a long lazy warm down and swim a further 500m in mixed strokes. After changing, I decide to have lunch in the cafe, they are offering fish, chips and salad, with tea, bread and butter for only £4:50p, so it seems pointless cooking. Helen, one of the cooks, is back from holiday and gives me the £2 she owed from sponsoring my Swimathon, but tells me that Tania, who committed to a tenner, won't be back until Monday. I tell her not to worry, I am sending the money off to Marie Curie tomorrow, but will put in the money myself until I see her next. On my way home I call at Morrisons to do a little shopping and to buy Norman some eye drops, as he has developed conjunctivitis. As well as bread, salad and cheese, I also buy some freshly made pork sausages and smoked Wiltshire bacon, from the butchers counter. I figure Normy and I can have a couple of English breakfasts together before I go on holiday. After putting away the shopping, I read the instructions on the eye drops, they need administering every two waking hours for the first day, so I sit the old boy on my knee and pop the drops in each eye. He seems to know that I am trying to help and sits quietly through the procedure and is then rewarded by his tin of dog food. I make myself a pot of tea and check my email, as well as the usual spam, I have mail from Haus Sonnenschein, confirming that their location is in Bad Waldliesborn and not in central Lippstadt and offering to collect me from the railway station and loan me the use of a bicycle for my stay with them. The second email is from my brother, Graham, who is kindly offering me the use of his VW Golf, for my trip to Lippstadt, as he commutes to work on his bike in the summer and won't need it during the week. The Golf is automatic and easy to drive, and as I spent the first ten years of my driving career in Germany, it is an ideal solution. I reply, accepting gratefully. Herr Rupp, the owner of Haus Sonnenschein, has written to me in German, so I reply in the same, thanking him for his kindness and explaining that I will now be arriving by car, but will still take up the offer of the bike. My German is colloquial, rather than grammatical, but I am sure he will understand. By now it is a quarter to seven and I remember that I have an invitation from Hanne to the Beverley Film Club, they are screening a film called "Shadow Dancer", with Clive Owen and Andrea Risborough, that I meant to see at the multiplex last year, but somehow missed. I throw on a coat, drive to Beverley, park up and make my way to the Masonic Hall, just off Eastgate, by seven o'clock. A middle aged lady, whose face is familiar, writes down my name and email address, and asks for four pounds, which I pay before making my way to the bar. A man called Kevin and his wife are serving and there are sounds of furniture being arranged in an adjacent meeting room, whose doorway is concealed by a thick, black, velvet curtain. After ascertaining that the draught bitter is chilled, I opt for a pint of Guineas instead and am surprised when Kevin's wife takes a can of stout from a refrigerator behind the bar, pours this into a pint glass and then sets it on a stand, behind what looks like a Guiness pump. The black liquid quickly starts to effervesce and transform itself into an impressive facsimile of draught Guiness. " How did you do that?" I enquire. "There is an ultrasound transmitter in the base that warms and stirs the beer", she explains. Whatever will they think of next! Bemused I take a seat against the wall and wait for Hanne, the screening I am told, is scheduled for seven thirty. Two middle aged and obviously gay men enter the bar and comment on a portrait of a young Queen Elizabeth, posed against a stormy sky, at first they think it is Margaret Thatcher and I quip that it looks a bit "Götterdämmerung", but either my politics or sexuality are not to their liking and they make no response. At twenty past seven, I text Hanne to make sure she is still coming and receive an immediate response. She is in accident and emergency, in Hull Royal Infirmary, with a heart problem, waiting to see a doctor. I text back saying that I hope she is OK and ask her to let me know which ward she is on, if they admit her. She replies and says she has had a scare, but feels OK now and will let me know when she has seen a doctor. We are called into the screening room promptly just before half past and I take my seat, about three rows back, with half a pint of Guiness still nestling in my hand. A youngish, blonde woman, whose English is too precise for her to be a native, introduces the film and tells us there will be no intermission. The film is the story of a relationship between a young mother, a Republican activist, whose family are all IRA members and her M I 5 intelligence handler, who blackmails her into being an informer. It is set in Belfast in the early nineties, in the period prior to the peace agreement. I quite liked the film, the acting was solid and very British, the cinematography and direction, very artistic, portraying visually, the isolation and compartmentalisation necessary to conduct a double life, with several long shots through doorways and gateways. The only dissonant note to the film was the lack of gallows humour, that always accompanies people in a wartime situation of extreme stress and danger. Other than that, it was pretty good, although just over an hour into the film, I was starting to question the wisdom of my pint of Guiness. When the lights went up, I was the fourth man into the toilets, which fortunately, were generously supplied with urinals. I didn't stay for the subsequent discussion of the film, for the same reason I don't like book clubs, that combination of people stating the obvious and the inevitable presence of people whe desperately need to be heard. Outside I switch my phone back on, but there is no further news from Hanne, so I drive back home. After letting Norman out into the garden, I put drops in his eyes and then make supper. Ciabatta bread and Camembert, with a glass of wine, which I eat while I read another chapter of Patrick Gale, before going to bed around eleven.

Cooking and painting with Laura.

We get up early to a cooler day, rain is forecast by lunchtime, and I want to mow the lawns at Cherry Burton, so need to make an early start. I make an omelette for breakfast and refuse to share it with Norman, as eggs have a spectacular effect on his bowels, so he has to make do with Baker's. We leave the house by nine and collect Dolly and Teddy, before we walk round our usual loop, it is a cool, windy, day, not too bad in the woods but cold in the open. Occasionally the sun breaks through and the temperature soars by ten degrees, only to plummet again once the clouds close over. We return to Two Riggs for ten thirty, with spits of rain blowing in the wind, undeterred, I manage to mow the lawns, front and back, without getting rained off. The lawns in Cherry need treating with feed and weed, so I will buy some more and spread it before going on holiday. I drop Norman back in Tickton and then drive to the Leisure Centre to swim, arriving in the pool for noon. It is fairly quiet today and even when "the wave machine", aka ladies aqua aerobics arrive at half past, I am able to train uninterrupted. Today I swim 2,000m, 3 x 400m on backstroke, breaststroke and front crawl, and then 4 x 200m Individual medleys, with an easy warm down. Afterwards I drink tea and eat a toasted teacake in the cafe and chat to the staff, until it is time to drive to Molescroft Primary, in order to collect Laura and transport her back to Tickton for tea. I wait in the playground with other parents and grandparents, the rain has finally arrived and it is cold, wet and miserable, as I shelter, shivering under my umbrella, until Laura emerges from her classroom. She tells me she wants pork schnitzel, salad and chips for tea, as we drive back to Tickton and even though Norman and I ate them yesterday, I accede to her wishes. Normy is waiting for us, wagging his tail as we arrive, and runs to be patted by Laura. After removing and hanging up our wet coats, we head into the kitchen, clear the table and set out the ingredients. Laura is going to make the food, she is eight years old, confident and bright, so I am sure she can handle it. First we put the oven on at maximum heat, in preparation for cooking the oven chips. I show Laura how to use the timer and we set it for twenty minutes, before taking crinkle cut chips from the freezer and spreading them on a baking tray. Next I show her how to use the tenderising hammer to flatten and soften the pork fillets, at first she is too tentative, but gets the idea when I tell her to think of something she doesn't like. Next she whisks an egg and then seasons it with salt and pepper, before spreading breadcrumbs on a dinner plate, ready to receive the pork, once coated. Laura is a little squeamish at first in handling raw meat and having beaten egg on her fingers, but she quickly overcomes her reticence and in moments we have two perfectly coated cutlets ready for the frying pan. We put a little butter and some olive oil into a twelve inch skillet and set it on the stove to melt and heat up, whilst it is doing this, we chop the lettuce, cucumber, tomatoes and spring onions into small pieces and then toss it in a bowl with a little salt, pepper, lemon juice and olive oil. Pointing out that it is best to use just a little, before testing by taste, as it is always possible to add a little more, but not possible take it back out again, if you put too much in. The skillet starts to smoke a little and I show her another simple trick, just move the pan away from the heat onto a cold ring and it soon cools down. The oven timer pings, before the schnitzels are cooked, so we switch the oven off and leave the chips inside to keep hot, until we are ready for them. The two fillets completely fill the twelve inch pan and only take a couple of minutes per side to cook, as they have been beaten to a thickness of around a quarter of an inch. Finally we warm two dinner plates in the microwave and I explain that this will stop the meat and chips cooling too quickly and then produce two side bowls for the salad, when she points out that warm salad doesn't taste good. We plate up together, Laura choosing the larger of the two schnitzels, which we sprinkle with lemon juice, and then sit down to eat. I don't think she will eat all the meat, but I am proved wrong and she eats all her salad as well, but sacrifices most of the chips to make room for it all. Poor Norman doesn't get any meat, but has a few chips with his dog tin. Laura tells me that her food tasted even better because she had made it herself. Telling children how to cook tends not to work, but letting them do it themselves, albeit under supervision, becomes a lesson well learned. I tell her that she will be able to make the same dinner for her mum, who also loves schnitzel, and then we clear away and wash up. There isn't too much to do, as we have been clearing as we go, another good habit. After dinner, we dig out the water colours and I produce some white cardboard, that I saved from the packaging that accompanied some pillowcases I bought last year. It is Sam's birthday on Saturday, so we paint a card for her, it has a royal blue border, a pale green background, with daffodils and a weeping willow, with yellow catkins as a subject. Laura just has time to paint two red hearts on either side of the word "Mum" and then it is time to take her back to her other grandparents, who live just round the corner from Sam. We arrive at seven and I stop for a cup of tea with Mike and Pauline, before returning home around seven thirty. Norman sits on my knee and I read a couple more chapters of Patrick Gale, before calling it a day. To bed for ten.

A busy Wednesday

We are up by seven to a sunny morning, I breakfast on boiled eggs and toast, with my usual black coffee. I shower, dress and leave the house by nine o'clock to take the dogs on the common, it is cooler and cloudier today, with a steady breeze out of the southeast. The cooler weather suits Norman and he trots on behind me happily, as we make our way round our usual loop. After dropping the terriers back in Cherry Burton, we drive to Beverley and park down North Bar, before walking to the Poppy Seed Cafe. Felicity and Hanne are already in residence when we arrive and Thelma, Jill, Annie and Rosemary Major arrive in quick succession and soon the conversation is flowing. Seeing all her friends cheers Felicity up greatly, but by eleven thirty she is tired and I fetch the car and drive her home, the long way, across the Westwood. After dropping her off, I park down Albert Terrace and then walk to my barber's down Windmill Walk, but arrive too late, they close for a half day at noon on Wednesday. Norman and I walk through town, where I buy some granular feed and weed for the lawn and then make my way back to the car and drive home. We make schnitzel, salad and oven chips for lunch and then mow the lawns front and back, spread the feed and weed and water it in, using a sprinkler. While the lawn is having a good drink, I make a start on tidying up the garage, in preparation for dismantling my old wall unit and desk, before disposal at the tip. At half past four, I drive to the leisure centre to meet Sam, Laura and Rebecca, who has her swimming lesson at five. Laura and I will swim together while Becky has her lesson, so we change and push our way through the hordes of parents conducting children to their classes. I am dismayed to find that there is only one lane for public swimming, but decide to make the best of it and fit into the rotation system specified on a board at the end. We haven't been in the water very long, when a lifeguard comes and apologetically tells me that the lane is adults only until half past five. We climb out, shower, change and then buy hot chocolate in the cafe, where we are joined a quarter of an hour later by Sam and Rebecca and then sit and chat until six. I arrange to pick up Laura from school tomorrow and bring her back to Tickton for dinner, having heard I had schnitzels for lunch, she wants me to make them again tomorrow. They are her absolute favourite. On my way home, I call at the supermarket and buy some more salad to accompany tomorrow's dinner. Back home I supper on Camembert, olive and sundried tomato bread and a glass of wine. Later I book my hotel in Lippstadt for July, at Haus Sonnenschein, (Sunshine house), and then read a chapter of my book before bedtime.

A mañana sort of day.

Unusually we both sleep in until eight and wake to another fine, sunny morning. I let Norman into the garden and hang out a line of shirts, before loading some greyish white towels into the washer, along with a generous dose of whitening agent. I hope it works, they are the ones I rescued from triage yesterday. We eat kippers for breakfast, on Ryvita crisp bread, as I ran out of rye bread yesterday and was more or less housebound by the gridlock on the coast road due to Bank Holiday traffic. I make tea this morning, somehow it seems to go better with smoked fish than coffee and listen to "the life scientific", on radio four, before dressing and loading my gardening tools into the car and driving to Cherry Burton to collect the terriers for their morning walk. It is almost ten thirty when we park up and make our way across Newbald Road and into the woods, the sun is shining brightly and it feels quite hot on my exposed skin, but in the shade of the trees it is cool and pleasant. It takes a long while to progress through the woods and the meadow onto the common, because old Normy is taking an inordinate time, sniffing every tree trunk and blade of grass along the way, like a wine taster savouring a particularly fine vintage. Eventually I clip him back on his lead in order to make progress and also because the bright sunlight scatters from his cataracts and makes it difficult for him to see. Back in the open, the heat also gets to him, as he is so low down, and he is trotting along with his tongue lolling to one side. We stop and sit on a bench when it is time to swap over Dolly for Teddy off the lead and I decide it is time to strip off Norman's winter coat. Wire haired dachshunds have a two layered coat and the outer layer can and should be, stripped off by hand on a regular basis. I have desisted in doing this for Norman since the Autumn, as it has been so cold, but it is an easy enough task, I simply tug small tufts of dead hair against the grain of its growth and it comes out readily, revealing the glossy coat underneath. It takes half an hour to remove the bulk of it, by which time he has had enough, the titivation can wait for later and be done piecemeal. He seems to feel the benefit of losing his overcoat, as there is a definite spring in his step as we make our way to Black Mill, which seems to have become Herd HQ, for the cows grazing on the common, probably because there is a water tank next to it. We make our way through the herd and Teddy has a quick bark at a couple of bullocks, who are head to head trying to push each other out of the way in a trial of strength, but he seems to have accommodated himself to the presence of the cattle. Although I haven't yet risked him off the lead near them again, Dolly just trots through the cows unconcerned. We arrive back at Two Riggs for noon and suddenly I feel quite tired, and not at all in the mood for gardening, the lawns and weeds will just have to last for another day or so, but will need a second clip before I go on holiday next Wednesday. This morning, before I left, I made a Caprese, (Mozarella and Tomato Salad), and left it to cook in the fridge, so on my way home, I buy a baguette and a bottle of Shiraz, along with some rye bread from Morrison's. When we arrive in Tickton, the shirts on the line have dried, so I take them in and hang out the. towels, which, I am relieved to find, have been restored to some sort of respectability by the whitening agent and the washing. Norman is impatient for lunch, but I make him wait until I have set out my salad and a glass of wine on the garden table. It is one o'clock when we eat and the sun is so hot that I have to put up the umbrella in order to provide some shade. It is a simple pleasure, but eating outdoors in the summer, takes a lot of beating. The food and a glass of wine, add to my feelings of lethargy, so around two thirty I succumb and lie down for an hour on the sun lounger. When I awake, it is cold, the sky has clouded over and without the sun, it is an early spring day again, so Normy and I retreat indoors and continue our siesta there, eventually getting up around five. I had planned to garden and swim today, but my body is telling me to rest, so I am paying attention. After a pot of tea and the rest of the baguette, sliced, buttered and served with strawberry conserve, I recover the dry white towels from the line and store them in the airing cupboard, before checking my email. My brother Graham has replied, confirming that the rearranged dates for my visit to Lippstadt are OK, so I thank him and then book my return flight from Leeds Bradford airport to Schiphol in Amsterdam. The train tickets and accommodation in Germany, can be booked later. This done, I address myself to some paperwork, which I have never been fond of, there are still some outstanding sponsorships to collect, but all being well, I should be able to collect these tomorrow, failing that I will just make up the difference myself and collect the money when I see people. After an hour of admin, I set up the ironing board and finish off the last of my shirts, while listening to the radio, before reading my new book, Patrick Gale's "Notes from an exhibition", until bed time.

Lazing on a sunny afternoon.

Sleep until seven this morning and open the curtains on a glorious day. The weatherman says this will be the hottest day of the year so far with temperatures pushing 23 degrees Celsius , about 73 Fahrenheit, inland. For a Yorkshire in early May, that is almost tropical and a blessed relief after the long cold winter. I breakfast on soft boiled eggs and rye toast, Normy has his usual Baker's and runs back into the house at a sprint when he hears me pour it out, so he seems back to normal. We collect Teddy and Dolly just after nine, the coast road, which runs past Tickton, already picking up early holiday traffic. There is racing today on the Hurn, and with the fine weather and the holiday, the town will be packed this afternoon and already there are many more people abroad on the common than is usual during the week. Norman is glad to see the terriers and like all dogs, enjoys being in a little pack. The trees in the wood are all now in full leaf, except for the oak and ash, and swifts and swallows are swooping over the meadow, as we make our way towards the common. Towards Black Mill we meet Diane and Pat, the former with her elderly white Westie, Rocky and Pat with her six month old Labrador, Ivy who comes over to us and rolls on her back for her tummy to be tickled. In honour of the fine weather I am wearing my shorts and sandals again, my legs gradually losing their winter pallor with exposure to the air. After returning the terriers, I ring Leslie's daughter Margaret, on her Dad's old number, where she and William are busy clearing the house prior to putting it on the market. I have arranged to call in and buy some items of furniture from her this morning, to replace some old things I acquired from my last rented house, pending the eventual sale of the house in Cherry Burton, half the proceeds of which, will eventually come to me. Pip intends to buy something smaller and live in town. William and Margaret take a break from sorting through the huge amount of stuff that Leslie had accumulated over twenty years, he hardly ever threw anything away, including countless editions of the Economist and the International Herald tribune. I select two light coloured armchairs, a desk, shelves and a pair of bureaux in light oak, from his office and a picture of three Japanese Ladies, that have been inked and colour washed by a child, and then mounted in a frame. It has no value, but he and I liked it. I chat for half an hour and then leave at noon, arranging to hire a van and collect the furniture next Monday afternoon, and realising later that I will probably have Louis, so will try to reconvene for Tuesday instead. It takes almost three quarters of an hour to drive home, usually a five minute run, due to nose to tail traffic on the coast road. The word Lemmings springs to mind and I resolve to take advantage of the fine weather and the holiday by doing nothing at all this afternoon, except using the garden for its main purpose, eating outside and sitting in the sun reading a book. So lazy do I feel today, that I can't even be bothered to cook, so Norman and I eat ante pasta, with ciabatta rolls and some sliced fresh tomatoes, before settling down to finish the Le Carre book. His writing has started to fall into a distinctive pattern, where youth and idealism are valorised against world weary cynicism and anally retentive public school attitude. Still his descriptive prose is excellent and his pacing good and I suppose his audience have come to expect this sort of thing. After a long, lazy and thoroughly pleasant afternoon in the garden, I resume work at six, and clear out the airing cupboards in the Garden Room, separating bedding and towels into piles on chairs in the Garden and then going through the usual triage of keep, dump, or wash. This done, I set up the ironing board and make my way through half a dozen shirts, before calling it a day and making a lazy supper, cream cheese and sundried tomatoes on Ryvita, as I have run out of bread. Every cupboard in the house has been blitzed now and they are now clean and reasonably tidy, but the garage is full of boxes and needs sorting and cleaning in order that I have a working space in which to remove old furniture and make room for new, (or rather slightly less old). My brother Graham has emailed me about my trip in August, he will be on holiday himself for the second half, so I have checked flights and suggested a rescheduling for mid July. He may have already replied, but I won't find out until tomorrow as BT Broadband has gone into its weekend sulk again. To bed around ten thirty.

Mass in the Minster

After a much better night, we wake to a fine morning and breakfast on rye toast with cream cheese and smoked salmon, for me and some Baker's and a few scraps of fish for Normy, I shower and dress before walking him down Carr Lane. It is a glorious sunny morning and all around the village there are scarecrows in gardens, driveways and greens. This weekend is Tickton scarecrow festival, my favourite is one of the artist, David Hockney, brush in hand, before a fair attempt at a water colour of "Bigger Trees". Hockney is understandably very popular in East Yorkshire. I have forgotten my iPhone, otherwise I would have photographed it. Norman is reluctant to walk this morning, in his old age he needs encouragement to exercise and his reluctance often evaporates once we progress beyond the familiar confines of Green Lane. But not this morning, even on Carr Lane he seems reluctant to walk, so we turn round just short of the farm and set off home. There is no rhythm to his gait and he seems to be placing his feet individually, but makes better progress when I pop him back on the lead. In the garden, I massage his back, as I used to massage my little dachshund bitch, Noddy, by rolling him over my knee, the way Cuban ladies roll cigars on their thighs. He seems to like it and I stretch his paws to lengthen his spine, before letting him down on the grass, where he seems to walk a little easier. I take a quarter of one of my anti inflammatory tablets, wrap it in salami and feed it to him. His back will need close watching, as that is how my previous sausage dogs began their ends. David and Irene are arriving at twelve thirty, so I have just time to sort out a couple of boxes of winter running gear from my wardrobe in the bedroom. I would like to think that I might yet use them for their intended purpose. I feed Norman some Baker's and leave him with fresh water, before driving to North Bar to meet my cousin, arriving a few minutes early and calling in at Sarah's house to drop off Louis' jacket that he left in my car last night. Louis has slipped and banged his head and Sarah is cuddling him better, as I leave. I ring David, but my call goes unanswered, so I suspect he is en route and driving, so pop to Tesco's to buy some fresh bread and salad. When I return to the car, I have missed David ringing back, so ring again and he tells me he is on his way from Tickton, he had assumed we would meet there. Obviously we have our wires crossed, but he and Irene arrive moments later and then walk to the tea rooms by the Minster, for tea and scones before the service at two. The cafe is immaculate, the service prompt, but the food and drink, stale, weak and quite expensive. Irene has chocolate cake and coffee and we scones and tea, but she fares no better. I shan't use the place again, as there are plenty of other cafes and tea rooms in the town. We enter the Minster at a quarter to two and take our seats at the back of the congregation. Almost every seat is taken and those that remain free are soon taken up, the place hasn't been this full since it hosted the BBC's antiques roadshow. It is also much colder inside and I am forced to put on a sweater that I have been wearing over my shoulders. The Pilgrimage Mass of the year of Faith, starts at two with the hymn, "Hail Redeemer King Divine, and then leads into a sung Mass, which is partly in English and partly in Latin. The magnificent sixteenth century, Swiss made organ resonating around the high gothic ceilings, and the voices of the choristers echoing their way down the chamber, to those of us at the rear, and forcing us to pause before joining in the singing, in order to synchronise with them. It is the first time I have been in here since Leslie's funeral a couple of months ago and I have said a special prayer for him. After the service, I show Irene and David the stained glass window, that it was revealed that Leslie had paid for, only after he died. We emerge on to Highgate to find that the weather has clouded over and decide to pay a visit to Nellies, AKA, The White Horse pub opposite, Saint Mary's Parish church, another Gothic masterpiece, but on a smaller scale to the Minster. The pub is full of character and very busy, we take our drinks to one of the many small rooms and join a group of locals, who are enjoying a drink after a walk round the Westwood. One of the men looks like my cousin, Andrew Oldroyd, but on a larger scale, which I tell him, my comments cause gales of laughter from his wife and friends, who tell me "that is the nicest way anyone has told him he is a fat sod!" He takes this in great good humour, but when it is my turn to buy drinks, I buy him a pint to ensure there are no hard feelings. At five o'clock we make our way to Harper's for Haddock and Chips tea, which are as good as ever and then it is time to say goodbye to my cousin and her husband. We will see each other again a week on Wednesday, when they will collect me before we drive to the Ferry to Rotterdam, in Hull. Back home, Norman seems much better and runs out into the garden before his dinner and then fairly sprints back indoors for his tin of dog food. The sun has come out again, so I clip him on his lead after he has eaten and try to walk him down the lane again and suddenly he becomes old and infirm again. He is obviously playing the "old soldier", on me. Although I shouldn't, I give in to him and let him back into the house. Later I read Le Carre until nine thirty and then reply to emails from my brother Graham and his wife, Liliane, provisionally arranging to visit them at the end of August. To bed at ten.

Rhythm but no blues.

Another early start and a breakfast of smoked salmon and cream cheese on rye toast and Baker's for Normy. It is a little cloudier today and not quite so warm, but still pleasant enough. After showering and dressing we drive to North Bar to collect Louis for our usual Friday walk to school. Alice has bathed and dressed him and all I need to do is put in his shoes and then we are on our way to Saint Mary's Primary School. Our talk is about death and football, Louis tells me his mum will take him to school when I die, and so I tell him that the time that comes round I hope he will be in University and able to walk himself. Tomorrow is probably the biggest game the Tiger's have ever faced, if they win it will be the first time they have secured automatic promotion to the premier league and will be worth hundreds of millions of pounds to the club and as much again to the local economy, which has never recovered from the decline of its docks and fishing industry fifty years ago. The game is a sell out, Cardiff are bringing thirty five coach loads and many of their fans, sure of promotion as champions, intend to party in the city tomorrow evening. if Hull City beat them and are also promoted it looks to be quite a party. Alternatively if we lose then it is almost certain that we will have to endure the play offs, where the next four clubs play a knockout tournament for the third promotion slot. Which is how we were promoted last time. Unfortunately I will be in Austria if that happens and Richard or Andrew will have to take Louis. He places his order for ciabatta sandwiches with salami and smoked cheese and a bottle of grandad pop for our half time picnic. At the gates he gives me a hug and kisses me goodbye, before running happily into school. Normy and I turn round and walk back towards Sarah's, in Bleach Yard, just past the stables, the blonde neighbour of Sarah's that I walked back with last week, overtakes us pushing her bike. She asks again how old he is and I tell her that he was sixteen a month ago. Her bike has a wicker basket on the front and I ask her if I can test it for size with Norman. It is a perfect fit, so we see how he responds to being pushed along, but he just yawns and sits there contentedly. After removing him, I ask her where she got it and she tells me it was a present from her mum after giving birth and came packed with goodies from Selfridges, but is sure I can find something similar on eBay. When I get back to Sarah's I check and find a supplier nearby, in Hessle and ring to arrange to call in and buy one tomorrow afternoon after the match. The shop is less than a couple of miles from the football stadium. I realise that I have left home without the fluorescent tube for the garage at Two Riggs, so drive back to Tickton to collect it, before proceeding to Cherry Burton to collect Dolly and Teddy, leaving the tube in the hall to fit later. It is cooler on the common today, but there are many more cows, all clustered around Black Mill, there are cow pats everywhere, which is what one would expect but I have never seen a letter in the local papers complaining about this, although complaints about dog poo is a weekly occurrence. Last year when I pointed this out to a rather well to do lady she explained that cow pats are organic, while dog poo is just nasty. To me it is just prejudice against carnivores, notwithstanding this I do pick up treasure whenever it is deposited by my dogs where I can see, although when they are dashing about after rabbits, I can never be sure. Back at Two Riggs, I try to fit the light in the garage, but either I am too inept or the steps aren't high enough, but after half an hour I give in and ask if Andrew can help me. Unfortunately he is in his Friday conference call, and won't be finished for an hour, so I leave the tube in the garage and tell Pip that he and I will have to fit it on Monday. Normy and I then drive to Morrison's to shop for the Bank Holiday weekend. It is packed with pensioners wandering around slowly, so I grab a hand basket and quickly get what I need, bread, kippers, beef tomatoes, butter, ante pasta, smoked cheese, more salad, polish morello cherries in a jar and some yoghurt. On my way to the check out, I remember to buy Haloumi and retrace my steps to the cheese counter and find Greek grilling cheese on special offer, so buy two and then pick up some muffins that are also on offer. We return to Tickton by noon, where I unpack the shopping, before feeding Norman and then heading off for the Leisure Centre. The pool is quiet this lunchtime and I find a free lane and warm up on four easy individual medleys, which feel awkward and stiff at first but by the last one my muscles have loosened off. Today I intend to focus on picking up speed and the way I do this is by focussing on rhythm, which is the best way to maintain pace and stay relaxed. I swim two hundred metres of backstroke, breastroke and freestyle at pace, with a minutes rest between them and then swim four fifty metre butterfly repeats, again with a minutes rest, finishing the pace session with 2 x 200m individual medleys and then warm down with 200m each on slow backstroke and freestyle but still focussing on rhythm. The school children have arrived for their afternoon lessons as I shower and then make my way to the cafe for my pot of tea, which I drink chatting to Danny, the cook, who is on his lunch break. I get back home for three and make lunch, fish fingers and mixed salad served in Ciabatta bread. It is cloudy and cooler outside so I eat in the kitchen and give Normy his tin of dog food for an early dinner. Afterwards, I do some ironing and use some wonder web to shorten some lightweight walking pants that I intend to take to Austria, before settling down to a John Le Carre novel that I have somehow missed. It is called "Our Game", and starts off fairly slowly but quickly picks up pace and the master story teller soon has me hooked. I take a break at eight and then send emails to my brother Graham about my proposed visit in August and then drop a line to my sister Jackie, updating her about the good news regarding my cancer and inviting her to visit. I make some muffins for supper, give Normy a quick toilet break and then turn in around ten.

Promotion.

We are up by six, after a poor night's sleep, glad to see the breaking dawn and later the rising sun. We share some kippers and rye toast for breakfast and eat in the garden, listening to the sweet sound of birdsong. To the northwest dark clouds are gathering and by eight o'clock the sky is dark and overcast. Whilst I am showering, squally rain rattles the bathroom window, and I have to rethink my dress for the day. The forecast was for a fairly warm day, but forecasts can be and often are, inaccurate, at the local level. Louis and I are going to the big match today and need to leave before eleven thirty, as kick off is at a quarter to one and the roads will be busy. I dig out my Barbour wax jacket from it's box in the garage, where I had packed it with other winter coats a couple of days ago. I phone Felicity and Liz, the Sherpa, answers, I recognise her Australian burr immediately and ask whether the old girl will make the Poppy Seed? Liz confirms that she will drop her off there by ten, so I tell her that I will be there early as well, but will have to leave by a quarter to eleven, in order to be in time for the match. By the time we set off, the sun has come out and it is warm again, so I hang my wax jacket in the car and put on a brown whipcord blazer and carry a small umbrella in my pocket. We park at our usual place down Norwood and then walk into town, as we pass through the bus station, Hull City supporters, in their replica Tiger's football shirts, are already queuing for the bus to the city. Outside the Poppy Seed, we meet Jill Jones and her daughter Hannah, she tells me they are just popping into the market and will join us for coffee in ten minutes. Jill is about eighty five and fell off her bike a fortnight ago, but looks remarkably well. Felicity is sat at a table by the window, tucking into a toasted teacake and a glass of milk. She is feeling down, Molly, her aged brown dog, has been re homed, to her son, Richard's, house in Chorley, in Lancashire. She tells me that she would have preferred to let Molly see out her days with her. I agree that would have been ideal, but assure her that Molly will soon settle in and be happy with Richard and his family. The old girl is feeling sorry for herself and that sentiment mustn't be allowed to grow stronger. Hanne arrives, all brisk Danish enthusiasm and optimism, shortly followed by Felicitiy's sister, Joy and then Jill and daughter Hannah return from the market, which forces us to pull two tables together. Surrounded by all her friends, Felicity's spirits start to lift and she is laughing happily by the time Normy and I leave at a quarter to eleven. Back home, I feed Norman some Baker's and leave him fresh water, before picking up my shoulder bag with Louis picnic lunch enclosed and then driving back to North Bar to collect him. He is wearing his black and amber Tiger's shirt and raring to go when I arrive, we listen to the pre match report on radio Humberside as we drive to Mark's flats at Linnaeus street, taking a wide detour to the east of the city, so that we can approach the stadium area from the opposite direction to the majority of the traffic. Nevertheless, we end up in a traffic queue over the river Hull, to our left lies the river Humber and the ship's prow shape of the "Deep", the city's award winning aquarium and to our right, the river Hull and the swing footbridge that will connect the old town with the new hotel on the east bank. I can also see the "Hull Time Based Arts" building, whose relocation, I project managed ten years ago. The traffic moves on and we arrive at Linnaeus shortly after noon, Mark and his son, Jamie, are just alighting from their car and Louis runs to give them a hug, before we all set off to walk the half mile to the stadium. It seems like the whole population of the city are on their way to the match and there is a real buzz of anticipation in the air. At the pedestrian crossing the traffic stops to let us cross, all the cars are full of supporters and they honk their horns at us as we cross, Louis waving back at them happily. The fact that we haven't won, or even scored, in our last three matches and have to beat the best team in the league this afternoon to secure promotion, is lost on the crowd. If faith can move mountains, it may get us past Cardiff this afternoon. We arrive in our seats ten minutes before kick off, the stadium is a sea of black and amber Tiger's colours, apart from the North Stand, where several thousand Cardiff fans are congregated, mostly in their traditional blue shirts, but some in the new lucky red strips, that the recent Chinese owners have insisted on adopting. We have each been provided with black and amber cardboard fans, that double as clackers and as posters to wave as the teams come out. Sky TV are covering the match, usually the kiss of death for our team, and the cameramen scurry to cover the emergence of the players from the tunnel. Hull come out first and form a funnel and then applaud the champions, Cardiff, as they walk through them on to the pitch, as tradition demands. The clouds have disappeared, the sun is shining, and the stage is set for the biggest match in the club's history. When the whistle blows the Tiger's start briskly, quickly closing down their opponents and pressing in attack, the crowd responds with roars of approval, this is what we have come to see, a do or die attempt for promotion. The manager, Steve Bruce, has thrown caution to the wind and changed both formation, and players for this crucial game, although his choices were limited as out three best strikers, Aluko, Gedo and Fryatt are all injured, or in the case of Fryatt, not yet fully match fit. Hull dominate the first half, but without managing to score and good news comes in from Watford, our rivals for automatic promotion, they have gone a goal down, at home to Leeds, but their match is running fifteen minutes later than ours due to a serious injury to their goal keeper. Louis and I eat our ciabatta salami and smoked cheese sandwiches and then share a Tupperware pot of black cherries and plain yogurt, before descending the stairs to the toilets. He has managed to last the first half without needing a pee, and the latrines are quieter, because of our delay. A disappointed sigh goes up from the bar area as we emerge from the loo, Watford have equalised, just before half time at Vicarage Road. We are one point ahead of them and need to match their performance, as they have a better goal difference than us. We get back to our seats only moments before the second half begins, with Cardiff making a substitution, bringing on a new striker, Fraizer Campbell, who played for us five years ago, on loan from Manchester United, the last time we won promotion. He is greeted by a mixture of cheers and boos, Steve Bruce tried to sign him from his old club, Sunderland, in January, but Cardiff offered a better deal and so, sensibly, he joined them instead. The second half continues as the first half ended with Hull pressing and dominating the game, but Cardiff counter attack swiftly and a great pass and a well timed run sees Campbell one on one with David Stockdale, the Hull Keeper. Campbell strokes the ball past him into the net and then runs to welcome the hugs from his ecstatic team mates. It could have been written in the stars! The Cardiff fans erupt and our fans are silenced, but someone in front of us shouts, "come on West stand, let's give the lads a lift", so Louis and I join in the cheering and eventually others contribute and after a while, the whole stadium is willing the team to respond. Our record signing, German Striker, Nick Proschwitz, who has so far failed to make an impact this season, obliges and equalises five minutes later, and the stadium goes wild. A few minutes after that and Paul McShane, recently returned from injury, gives us the lead and a party atmosphere erupts, but is soon replaced by nervous expectancy, as there are still twenty minutes left to play. Cardiff press to get the equaliser and City start to drop back, but Steve Bruce, the manager, urges them forward again. With five minutes left to play Cardiff have a player sent off for a second yellow card offence, after a foul against our right winger, Elmohammady. At this crucial juncture, Louis declares he is bursting for the toilet, but before we can leave, David Meylor is brought down in the box and Hull have a penalty. I tell Louis to wait a moment, a group of about one hundred, over excited, Hull fans burst onto the pitch and have to be cleared before the penalty is taken. Nicky Proschwitz steps up to take it and hits the ball towards the left corner of the Cardiff goal, only to see it tipped round the post by a world class save from their keeper. With two minutes to go Steve Bruce substitutes Robbie Brady, who has been playing as a striker, with Ahmed Fahti, a midfielder. I lead Louis down the stairs to the toilet and then watch from the tunnel while he relieves himself, he returns just as Cardiff attack and the ball bounces up and strikes the hand of big Abdullah Faye, in the Hull penalty area and the referee points to the spot. Cardiff score from the subsequent penalty kick and it is now two goals each. The fourth official holds up the board to say there are four minutes of extra time and the atmosphere in the stadium is unbelievable, the game swinging end to end and both teams having chances to win the game in the final minutes, but it finally ends in a draw. The fans invade the pitch again in their thousands and this time there is no holding them back, a cordon of yellow vested policeman guard the Cardiff supporters, who are in a party mood anyway, as they have already secured promotion. The tannoy announces that the score at Watford is still one all, with five minutes left to play, and then again at two minutes, a ripple runs through the crowd and someone murmurs there has been a goal at Watford. If they have scored and win, Watford will be promoted. A jubilant voice from the tannoy announces that Leeds have taken the lead at Vicarage road and there are only two minutes of extra time to play, and the party starts, Watford will need to score twice now in order to deny us promotion. Two minutes later, the final result is announced and both sets of fans are now celebrating promotion to the premier league, the police cordon was prudent, but ultimately unnecessary, everyone is happy, there are now more fans on the pitch than in the stands. The big monitor in the corner of the stadium, is showing scenes of jubilation in the dressing room, as Steve Bruce and the players celebrate, Louis wants to go on the pitch and join the party, but it is Impossible from the upper West stand. We soak up the atmosphere for ten minutes and then quietly make our way back to the car in bright sunshine, a few fans from both teams are starting to make their way out of the stadiums as well. We return to the car and drive to Hessle, ahead of the mad rush when the majority of the fans go home, and call at the shop down Hull Road, where I have arranged to pick up the wicker cycle basket for Norman. The boys in the shop have been watching the match on Sky TV and ask how it was, I try to reply, but find my voice has been reduced to a croak by the cheering, so Louis tells them that it was great. Next door is a fish and chip shop, where we buy two cans of Sprite, to slake our thirst, Louis declining the offer of food. Sarah has texted to say she has taken Alice to see Ironman 3 and will be back for five o'clock, so Louis and I drive back to Beverley, park by Saint Mary's church and have a wander through town, he telling anyone who will listen that the Tiger's have won promotion and cars with supporters honking their horns as they drive past. Louis somehow manages to find a Manchester United Rucksack in a charity shop and insists on buying it with his pocket money. As we wander through Toll Gavel, I stop at Thornton's and buy overpriced ice creams for us both, vanilla for me and chocolate for Louis, which quickly becomes spread, like a clown's lipstick, all around his mouth. When we arrive at Sarah's house, she places his ice cream in a bowl, wipes his face, and gives him a spoon with which to eat it. She has just cleaned the house! Tiredness is catching up with me from the huge emotional expenditure, so I leave Louis in his mother's care and head home. Norman is waiting for his dinner, so after letting him out into the garden, I feed him and pour fresh water in his bowl. I am too tired to cook, so just make a pot of tea and toast some muffins, which I eat with strawberry conserve, before answering texts from Clement and my cousin Irene's husband, David, regarding arrangements for tomorrow. I read a couple of chapters of Le Carre and then turn in, too tired to read further, at a quarter to nine. It has been quite a day and one that Louiscwill probably remember for the rest of his life.