Bank Holiday Madness (& something about a C de B concert)

I had a vague dream in which I fell asleep next to the dishwasher, and woke in the morning with a bit of mashed potato in my hair. The only explanation I can give for this semi-conscious thought process is the delights of having worked a busy bank holiday weekend. It's strange how little I can actually remember about it though, other than an outcry at the extortionate number of cheese and onion sandwiches in the world, and Rachel and I deciding that we are going to invest in a £20 remote control ball launcher from Aldi (because everyone likes to bat). Apart from those two things, the rest of the weekend passed in a blur (utter work related focus).

The next thing I knew, I was out in the back yard with Rachel cleaning her van (or rather keeping her company while she cleaned her van, and saying every now and then that I'll leave mine for another day - I'm trying to make it less white, you understand). I wandered over to where Mick was creating some artwork out of wood. I asked him if it was an eagle, to which Rachel half shouted out, "Is Mick doing something illegal again?!" 

To be honest with you, I was a bit fidgety all that afternoon and evening - full of nervous excitement. I had learned earlier on that Chris de Burgh tickets (for a UK tour) were to go on sale at 9am the following morning. I was concerned because I knew that I wouldn't be able to get on the internet until at least 9.30am, and there was (in my mind) the very great danger that the Liverpool concert would be sold out in minutes. But it was needless worry. By 10am I had managed to book two seats (for me & mum), only six (SIX) rows from the stage! Oooooofffff bloody love it. 

Mick wandered into the office...."Hiya, K! I've got a really itchy ear. Luckily I had this little matchstick in my pocket." That was really lucky, I thought. This might be a great time to ask about booking holiday to go to the concert next April. Mick told me that it would be fine, I think he understood that it's not an opportunity that comes around all the time - the chance to listen to the love of your life sing to you (and a concert hall full of pensioners). There was in all this the assumption that they will still have me back next season - but as no objections were raised, I guess it's all good! Bloody brilliant, in fact! I'll have to set about trying to find bits of work over the winter, but I'm pretty sure there's always going to be a toilet somewhere that needs cleaning. 

PS: Warning to the Woolpack! We might rock up one afternoon & challenge you to a game of American rounders. We have fewer staff so Wooly & Moss are on our team. 

7000 rowan berries, & a well-hung mouse

I'm told it's the best way to be - easily excited by the smallest of things. Like the time I nearly wet myself when Mick (unbeknown to him) brought a packet of my favourite Bic biros into work. So I'm sure you can appreciate that my mind was literally blown when I tell you about something that happened earlier this month. A gentleman from The Wildlife Trust came to the hostel, not to stay, but to collect a large quantity of Rowan berries from trees in the grounds. The seeds from these berries are for the millennium seed bank - they will be frozen deep underground below Kew Gardens. The purpose of this, or so I believe, is to preserve a large variety of plants and trees in the event of extinction. I suppose that this extinction would most likely be caused by disease, global warming, environmental neglect, etc. But also, potentially, it could be caused by something much more instantaneous and terrifying (although I happen to think that the damage we are already doing to the environment is pretty darn scary). Anyway, these frozen seeds (an estimated 10,000 seeds from 7,000 Eskdale Rowan berries) could at some point in the future be critical to preserving life as we know it, perhaps even preserving life full stop. How bloody amazing is that?! Oooooofffffffff.  

Seamless change of subject.

From time to time Rachel and I will have a conversation that starts off utterly factual. Then, without any agreement (but with both parties being aware of it), it turns into something quite ludicrous. An example of such a dialogue is as follows:

"I need to wash my knickers."

"Where are they?" 

"I'm wearing them."

"What, all of them?" 

"Yes. I put a clean pair on top every day. It's all about containment." 

It took a while to offer a satisfactory explanation about all this to Johanne, and a little while longer still to convince her that we were not actually being serious. ("But why would you do that?") 

It might not be entirely normal I realise, but in our defence at least we are generally aware of what we are saying. Whereas Fiona - well sometimes she comes out with all sorts. Mick told her that Moss had been a little under the weather recently, a bit of an upset tummy, probably something he had eaten while out in the grounds. Fiona then chipped in, "Oh yes, it was probably a well-hung mouse." I should probably reiterate at this point that Moss is a dog, and that we do not serve rodents as part of the hostel menu (regardless of the size of their....). 

In a quiet moment I asked Mick if, in all seriousness, he ever (occasionally) worried about the sanity of his employees? 

"Yes."

A white cow, & wellies in the mist

The thing I've never really appreciated about buildings before now is just how flat they are. That's the kind of thought that comes to you when sleeping on a slight angle in the back of a van. Not that I would change it for anything, not when it's just the rain on the roof, and something else I can't quite place (maybe a couple of sheep pulling an all-nighter). I drove in my pyjamas for 7 minutes, and took 6 minutes back again in the morning for coffee and breakfast. I wouldn't usually bother with that little bit of haste, but my friend Emma was coming to visit and I wanted to be vaguely awake. We first met, and last saw each other, in the Jordanian desert two years ago. Eskdale (after all the rain) is just about as different as you can get, and I suppose the two of us have changed in different ways almost as much. But you know what, after changes upon changes we become closer to ourselves, and friendship, kindness, and courage become stronger than before. Emma is one of the kindest, most gutsiest women I have ever met, and I'm proud to call her my friend. She was a little star struck though when she met Fiona - she said to me afterwards that she just kept thinking, "oh my word, you're the legendary Fiona from the blog!" 

After a lovely day of walking and chatting (mostly chatting) we said our goodbyes. I then made my way to Whitehaven to what I thought would be my first football training session there. However, such was the wonderful communication, it turned out that the team had already left to play an away match and therefore training wasn't on. It was a little bit frustrating, but I got chatting to a few people before hitting the bright lights of the Tesco superstore aisles (bought some pita bread for 8p - quelle barge), and then sat out on the harbour wall watching a most beautiful sunset. The only thing that bothered me slightly was that I couldn't decide if it was the Isle of Man, or southern Scotland that I could see in the distance. 

I didn't drive all the way home, but parked my van up at Miterdale forest for the night. I'd never been there before, and it's quite something to arrive in the pitch black and wake up in the morning to a complete surprise as to what you will see. And it really was a surprise - I was woken by a white cow sticking its whole head and neck through the open side-door of my van. Although, that was somewhat less perplexing than the previous morning's discovery - I opened the back doors to find a neatly lined-up pair of wellies in the mist. They weren't mine, and there definitely wasn't anyone else around (that I could see).  I checked the size, but they were too big. Quelle dommage. 

Trout Fishing in the Corridor

For the second time in a matter of days Eskdale experienced heavy, prolonged rain. The usually sedate and peaceful Blea Beck was turned into a raging torrent. The water rose up over the level of the little wooden foot bridge, and it was briefly possible to go fishing in one small section of a downstairs corridor in the hostel (but the trout weren't biting). Thankfully, that was as bad as it got for us. Being in work I had little idea of what was going on elsewhere in the valley, but Mick and Rachel didn't get far in their van before having to return home. Mick then went back to help Harry at the Woolpack who was doing a grand job of diverting water off the road. Mick told us that it was above welly deep, which was ok until Wooly (the pub dog) tried to launch herself at him! 

Later on that afternoon (when I'd finished work and the rain had stopped) I wandered past the Woolpack, Paddington said hello, and told me that I'd just missed paddle boarding on the beer garden. (That explained why Steve and Caroline from West Lakes Adventures (www.westlakesadventure.co.uk) were walking down the road holding giant surf boards over their heads). Harry showed me the video though, and the ones of the river that had temporarily been formed through their field and car park. Thankfully there was no damage to the building. Sure, the beer garden was still flooded, but the water levels had dropped so rapidly it was hard to believe the state of things earlier that morning. 

Speaking of all things Woolpack, thanks to Tom-Tom I am now the proud owner of a Hardknott Bar & Cafe polo shirt. It was a lovely, surprise birthday present, along with a card suggesting that I should swap teams and become an Arsenal fan. Pffft. It was one of those quietly perfect days with a chocolate Chris de Burgh, Pirates, and Harry Potter cartoons in French. Oh, and discovering that I'd left a window of my van wide open in all this pouring rain. Skills. 

Aside from the freak weather events, the recent days have been fairly normal. We had an impromptu sausage relay one morning, which was a great success as no one dropped the baton. Another day, when it was really busy, Rachel and I locked ourselves away in the self catering kitchen in a desperate attempt to get it cleaned. This was preferable to my idea of staging the world's first showing of 'Apple Juice Live' to deter people from entering the room (this involves eating a pink lady apple and waiting around with a bucket). While we were cleaning, Rachel regaled me with the historical tale of a man who wanted his booking refunded because the hostel was impossible to find. Of course, this impossibility he was referring to was somewhat thwarted by the fact that there were real life people staying in the hostel at that very moment. That small matter aside though, we both agreed that it wouldn't be such a bad idea to set up a fantasy hostel. Surely people would pay good money to stay at a place that doesn't actually exist - the chance to enter a different dimension doesn't come around every day. Rachel took this idea further, and I almost had to stop her running out the door to sell imaginary cups of tea for 10p on the top of Scafell Pike. She did then have a more practical idea, developed from my suggestion of sticking a photo on the end of a telescope to show what the view looks like on a clear day. It involved something she called augmented reality, whereby the hiker can see a 360° virtual map complete with all the routes down the mountain. This way, even in cloud, the walker would know which path to set off on, and this would avoid them getting lost and coming down into the wrong valley (which happens here numerous times). She finished off her sales pitch by saying, "yep, we're in the business of saving lives." We then turned our full attention back to scrubbing burnt on crap off the pans.  

En français

It is a well know fact that between the three of us, Rachel, Fiona, and I are practically fluent in French. We know all sorts of useful everyday phrases such as, "passer moi un sac poubelle' and my all time favourite - 'avez vous un baguette magique?' You can only imagine how excited we all were at the arrival of our newest member of staff, Johanne. (Johanne is from Paris, and studying at university in Glasgow). Fiona was almost beside herself when Jo turned up wearing a scarf - she had been going on about it all afternoon, how well the French wear scarves, and how perhaps she might get some tips on how to do it. I even heard Fiona say to Jo, "je suis chaud", which has little to do with ones temperature. I'm surprised Jo didn't run out of the building screaming. 

A few days later I asked Jo who spoke better French, Fiona or I. "Well, it's difficult to tell because, well, Fiona......" What she was trying to say, politely, was that Fiona talks a lot more than me (in any language). We assured Jo that she wasn't the first person to have noticed this phenomenon. In fact, Fiona can talk so much that she can go to Argentina not knowing a word of Spanish and still manage to speak Spanish. It's a gift. 

There was a lot at stake when I challenged Jo to an arm wrestle at breakfast. The winner would clean showers, and the loser would take the toilets. I was a little surprised at how readily she accepted, and this turned into full blown competition anxiety when I saw the look in her eyes, and she said to me, "I learned something this summer......in Hungary." It was too late to back out, and sure enough I was crushed in seconds. I actually thought I was getting the better deal, that was until I discovered the vomit. 

Later on that morning the four of us piled into the laundry room. I asked Jo what she thought of her first week here. "It's brilliant, it seems different from reality somehow. Like one of those places where crazy people work." I am absolutely certain that something has been lost in translation here.   

 

 

The Haverigg Vampires (& other tales)

It was a hot, Wednesday afternoon. Too hot for my liking, but there wasn't a lot I could do about it save for heading out to the coast. The breeze there cooled things a little as I lay in the back of my open van at the Harbour Lights camping field. You can't actually see the sea from the site, but there were lots of other things to look at, lots of horses (in a neighbouring field) and lots of kites. There was supposed to have been a kite festival the previous weekend (so I was told), but it was too windy, and I guess it doesn't make for much of a festival if all the kites go into orbit. I didn't have a kite with me, but I had brought along my football which I set about trying to keep in the air for as long as possible. I once did 1007 keepie-uppies before losing count, and I haven't really bothered doing any counting since. I got roped into someone else's kick about as I walked to the toilet block to brush my teeth - one of them wanted a break for a beer, and another was having to drive round and round the campsite in order to get their baby to sleep. So, for the best part of an hour I kicked a ball about with a Manchester United fan from Walsall, all the while keeping an eye on their dog (Dolly) who had shat perilously close to my wash bag and towel. 

It's easy to get the impression that everyone knows each other on a campsite, but that's mainly because everyone talks to everyone else. Which is great, really lovely, even when someone tries to hold a deep and meaningful conversation with you when you've got a mouth full of toothpaste. I think I did a pretty good job at nodding sincerely at the appropriate places, and even offered up the occasional, wise, 'mmmm'. The aforementioned kick-about was bizarrely interrupted when two five year old kids who thought they were vampires began chasing us all around the campsite. I caught a breather while chatting to their mum, who asked if they were still pretending to be crabs. "Oh no. It's much worse than that now!" Then, almost at the exact same moment, we both looked up and saw the low, enormous, almost full moon. I wished her luck as I headed off for a walk along the giant sea wall. 

I saw the couple who had parked their van near to mine - I paused while they took a photo, one of those clever shots that makes it look like you're holding the moon in your hand. They seemed somehow familiar to me, perhaps it was the impression I got - that they cared about everyone and so therefore no one was a stranger to them. They were warm, open people - the kind that made you feel better about yourself after even the briefest of conversations. He asked me if I played for England, and I asked how far along they had walked. They warned me about the great clouds of flys that appeared just around the corner - they weren't wrong, it was almost biblical. We said our good nights, as I continued on to the lighthouse. When I reached it I jumped around on some giant concrete blocks, and watched the moon's beam play out on the water. 

I was woken in the morning by seagulls and horses. The horses had actually woken me once in the night, too. That sound that they make, a little bit like when a human sneezes or clears their throat. It must be one of the hardest animal sound impressions to make. I don't even know how to begin trying. I lazed around for a couple of hours enjoying the cool early air and drinking coffee made on my little gas stove. My vague plans then took me for a wander along the beach where I saw a blue tractor parked on the sand. The day was beginning to heat up, and having no particular inclination to see either the prison or the naturist camp, I headed back to my van, and back to Eskdale for work later on.  

Pirate Olympics

I woke up one morning believing that I was on a pirate ship. I walked into the kitchen, and greeted Rachel with an 'Ahoy there'!! Won't Mick be surprised when he comes into work later to discover that he is now the captain of a ship, rather than a manager of a YHA hostel? (Amusingly, he didn't seem that surprised at all). We tried to cast Fiona in the roll of the parrot, but she was having none of it - "I'm a princess." I was offered the choice of being either the cabin boy or the ship's cat. I'm still having trouble deciding. 

I think the whole pirate thing was a subconscious decision of mine to steer clear of using normal vocabulary. The evening before Rachel had been taking the piss out of the way I say 'yesterday'. I'm not really sure what is so unusual or funny about it, but she has condemned me to a life of being reluctant to speak about events of the recent past. (Except for here). 

Unsurprisingly, we have all been gripped by Olympic fever. Even Fiona, who is not particularly fond of competitive things, was found deep in discussion with Rachel about the swimming trunks worn by male divers. Fiona commented that they were unnecessarily skimpy, and she just didn't know where to look. Rachel replied simply, "I do." She even gave Fiona an annotated picture the following day. Baseball might not be an Olympic sport, but Rachel and I did find time to play a quick innings after work one day. I had bought a £1.99 brightly coloured plastic bat and ball set from Home Bargains, which had by accident rather than design been stored behind the bar. We took to the field looking like pros, and what followed could have been mistaken for a Sports Illustrated photo shoot. The ball was so light that it kept getting taken by the wind, and when we did finally manage to hit the darn thing it got a massive dent in it (in no small part due to making contact with Fiona's head - I'm really sorry, again). 

A little while ago I sold my car and bought a small, third-hand van. It has plenty of room to sleep in the back, and when I got it home I discovered a Beatles album in the CD player. That's the kind of thing that needs to be in every car sales advert, whereas I discovered that AutoTrader will not allow you to use the word 'poop' (I reckoned that not having had a bird poop on your car in over three months was a definite selling point). I hit the charity shops of Whitehaven soon after in order to expand my CD collection with 50p bargains. I was troubled to discover that not a single store had a second hand Chris de Burgh album in stock. I told Rachel about this later - she looked at me surprised, and said, "well it's obvious why. No one in their right mind is going to want to give away their C de B albums to a charity shop. Those things are for keeps." She's right, of course. I have no idea why this never occurred to me. 

Shit head

I don't know how to explain the past week or so. Perhaps because it has been in many ways a non event - a nothingness that disappears as quickly as it came. It's hard to say exactly what has caused it, this temporary suffocation of life, of the soul. I suppose it's likely to have been a combination of things, some of which I can put my finger on, while the rest is blowing around in the wind. The weather forecast told us that visibility would be excellent below the clouds, but looking out the window (and by my reckoning) that would mean tunnelling at least a few meters underground in order to see. But here's the thing (on a cheerful note), just because you know why you're feeling a certain way - it doesn't stop you feeling like that. You can rationalise many things, but most of the time it doesn't matter a damn bit either way.

Of course, there has actually been a lot going on here, and certainly very little of it has been doom and gloom. As far as I'm concerned, once you've massacred the scrambled egg at breakfast, the day isn't going to get any worse. I don't know what caused me to lose focus - making it is something I view as an art form. Anyway. After that I stopped worrying about a whole heap of stuff, even the disorganised stacking of the dishwasher trays.  

I'd like to say that I put a brave face on it, and put aside the more calamitous thoughts until I could wallow in them, alone. Not that it's a requirement to act 'normal', not that there's anything wrong with feeling that way. What is important though is to talk about it, however briefly, however ridiculous the conversation turns out (to be expected with Rachel - thanks!). I've said before, and will say many times again, how great the people are that I work with, and how great it is to meet all the different people that come through the hostel. One evening after work I played shit head until 11pm with an Israeli family living in London. The games got more and more animated, and when the two mums and their two daughters all started talking in Hebrew I protested loudly that they were all conspiring against me (in reality I just had really bad cards). I think we would have finished much earlier, had I not been insistent on continuing playing until I won. It was a lot of fun. 

Around the same time, a lovely lady called Sarah was staying at the hostel with her family. On the morning she came to check out and hand in their room key, she suddenly asked me, "are you the one who writes the blog?" I figured it was too late by then to cover up my name badge and deny all knowledge, so I lamely responded, erm yeh. I also hastily introduced her to Rachel, figuring she would want to talk to someone more interesting (one of the blog stars). I was curious though to know how she found out about it, and was more than amused when she told me that she had searched for 'Eskdale info' on Twitter and my blog was the only thing that had come up. I'm not entirely sure how informative it actually is - it doesn't contain a lot of the usual touristy things. It can't be too bad, though. Someone has read it, and still decided to visit anyway. 

5p carrier bags & purple sweet potatoes

My priorities have changed somewhat over the years, but I reckon that they are pretty much spot on at the moment. The first thing I told Rachel one afternoon was that I thought I had a peanut in my left Wellington boot. She looked at me, and replied, "Well I've got an apron full of apples." Sometimes there's just no point in trying to compete. Later on that evening, she took a few moments to explain her retirement plans to me. "It's quite simple really, K. I'm going to sell all the 5p carrier bags that I collected when they were free." It was one of those moments in life when you realise that you're in the presence of true genius. I guess I'd feel exactly the same if I were sitting down to a cup of tea with Plato, Einstein, and Chris de Burgh.  

Speaking of fantasy.....I've set up an Eskdale Valley fantasy football league. There's only me and some chap who goes by the name of 'Divock the Casbah' in it at the moment. I guess that means I'm guaranteed a Champions League spot next season, but it would be more entertaining if there were a few more entries! You can join in at https://fantasy.premierleague.com and the league code is 691457-191212. I tried to educate Fiona about the whole fantasy football thing, but after 5 minutes of trying to explain why she couldn't have an actual giraffe in goal, I gave up. 

It's my way of making time slow down - taking a drive south on the M6. An impromptu decision to go and spend a few hours with my mum and brother. Seems a bit crazy I know, but there will come a point when we'd do anything for even just a few moments more with the people we love the most. I also saw my step-dad. I walked in the door, and he told me straight away (without any preamble) that it was going to be unusually windy tomorrow. That was actually all he said, until he got on to the topic of purple sweet potatoes. Apparently, the Chinese eat loads of them, and that's why they all live to be 100. He offered me some, but I told him that I really didn't fancy living quite that long (and wandered off with a dirty big mug of tea).   

The following day I braved the apocalyptic weather that Brian had predicted - and sure enough there was a breeze strong enough to blow a discarded Dr Pepper can a few centimetres along the pavement. A hasty last minute arrangement saw me walking around Tatton Park with a friend I'd made when he came to stay at the hostel in June. It turns out that two of my uncles went to the primary school in Stockport that he now works at. I don't think the world is really that small at all, but it is incredible the people we meet - and just goes to show how connected we all are. 

La Mer & Le Mistral

Every now and then, quite often in fact, we find the odd item left behind in the showers. Most common (as you would expect) is not-quite-finished bottles of shampoo, shower gel, and little worn down bars of soap. More exciting discoveries have included wine glasses, grey y-fronts, and a burnt sausage that Rachel planted there for when Fiona went to clean the washrooms. One day I was retrieving an innocuous travel sized bottle of L'Occitane from a shower when Rachel appeared out of nowhere, throat punched me, and ripped the shower gel out of my hand. She clung to the bottle tightly, inhaling deeply, and by way of explanation said, "La Mer et Le Mistral - the essential essence of sexy French men!" 

Rachel remained somewhat intoxicated for the next few days, and shared with us her recently acquired vision for world peace. She was going to produce an art film staring a Frenchman and a Welshman wearing zipped down cycling Lycra, having 'healthy boy fun' on the back of two white stallions. There was also something about a black horse called Diablo, and a flamingo squashed (but not dead) in a salt marsh. While all this was going on, the words 'La Mer et Le Mistral' would be heard softly in the background. I have absolutely no doubt that Rachel will be receiving the Nobel Prize for Peace before the year is out. (My shower gel inspired antics are comparatively lame. I gave four guys a second hand bottle of Lynx to share on a Saturday afternoon - carnage). 

While it might take a few months to produce and edit Rachel's art film, we were able to shoot an impromptu health and safety video in a matter of minutes. It basically involved Rachel jumping off a top bunk bed to the double bed below, and ended with the catchy phrase, "It's not as good as you might think!" (Video will be available shortly on A Lakeland Summer's Facebook page - 

https://www.facebook.com/alakelandsummer ). 

On a genuinely serious note (for once), Fiona has been nominated for a YHA Spirit Award. These awards recognise an individual's commitment within the organisation  - basically for being fantastic, for going above and beyond. Fiona is certainly all that, and I can think of few more deserving of the award. Oooooooofff! Bloody love it! 

PS. I had a dream the other night. I held a pigeon in my hand, and when I turned it upside down it changed into a Peregrine Falcon.  Pigeon. Peregrine Falcon. Pigeon. Peregrine Falcon. That's got to mean something, right?