Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 44

Thursday night and we were off. Driving past London on a Bank Holiday Friday is not my idea of fun, so Geoff and I were meeting up with the rest of the clan at Oxford before spending the Thursday night in a motel near Telford.

There was no camping allowed that night, so we would be in pole position for a good spot on Friday. Travelling by van also allowed us to take two road bikes rather than heavy tourers, and rather a lot of musical instruments.

Most importantly, duvets. I had got too used to touching and being touched at night to squeeze into a sleeping bag, so we packed my base camp tent, the duvets and some real pillows and set off for the motorway. We had planned a rendezvous at Cherwell services on the M40, and I had assigned the first part of the driving to Geoff so that as we hit Vicar of Dibley land I could safely scan for red kites.

We were early at the services, and grabbed an overpriced coffee inside. Fortunately for my blouse I wasn’t holding the cup when the Kelly missile hit me. Hugs, squeals, “Aunty Steffie!”, various stunned dogs whimpering in cars for a four mile radius, and Jan frowned at me.

“What’s this I hear about you fancying my husband?”

I couldn’t hold the blush back, nor could she her giggles. We fell into a hug, and as happens every time I see these people I blessed my luck in being found by them. Raj’s open seas metaphor was so apt here.

Kelly was off getting a greaseburger and counting the zits on the face of the boy who served her, while Jan scattered ham sandwiches around. A sharp whiff caught my nose, and I looked across to see what Bill was eating.

“What? I happen to like boiled egg and spring onion sandwiches!”

Jan nodded. “Yes, but there is no way I ever let him eat them last thing at night. Worse than garlic”

I thought back to that morning at work…

Kelly was back with some pile of cotton wool, chemical sludge and processed udders that she seemed quite happy to eat. “We’ve brought the barbie!”

Hmmmm. Men and their fire rituals; I resolved to get some pictures of Geoff and Bill while they still had eyebrows. Refuelled, and glad Bill’s onion breath was elsewhere, we set off up the M40 to loop round Birmingham for the road west. After the obligatory stop-go-stop on the M6 we were on slightly quieter roads and approaching the bulk of the Wrekin. Our motel was one of a chain, attached to a similarly-run “restaurant”

This particular chain is famous for doing huge breakfasts, which involve fried eggs. When a journalist visited and asked for an omelette, to be told that there were none left, he not unreasonably pointed out that if they had eggs to fry, then surely they could make one.
They apparently come frozen. The “chef” didn’t know how to make an omelette. Oh dear.

The morning was fine and sunny, and the promise was of generally good weather but with some squalls passing through. We worked our way into the town to find the site and join the queue that was already rather long even at this early hour, and when we pulled up to the gate we got the welcome instruction, after out tickets were checked, to go and pitch up and only then come back to register and get our wristbands fitted. All very civilised! We had already done a supermarket run, so had all the necessary stuff for a day or two, and there was plenty of space for our tents and vehicles. Kelly was whispering urgently, “Did you bring it?” so I admitted that, yes, I had indeed brought my two-man tent from last year.

I couldn’t quite follow her logic. She wanted to be in another tent so that she wouldn’t have to listen to “the olds” getting frisky, but in the end it was only four thicknesses of nylon between them and hardly soundproof. I suppose, at fifteen, she really just wanted a bit of independence, and her own tent gave her that illusion, while still being close enough to be safe in both her eyes and those of her family.

We were soon pitched, bedding laid out to air and loft, and of course a cuppa inside us. We wandered down to the box office tent, received our wristbands and obtained a programme. The steward looked at me.

“You’re back again, then, and I hope you’ve brought your fiddle! Didn’t you come by bike last---oh, I see!”

He had clocked the gathering of the clan, and slipped me a cheeky wink. Soon we were sat in the food tent with a “cup of Yorkshire tea” each, planning our weekend around the acts. I wondered where this “Yorkshire tea” was grown. Perhaps on the slopes of Ingleborough?

Jimmy was here again, with his band this time, so I hoped to get a chance to say hello if not play with him. Another fiddler I enjoy, Lisa Knapp, was here, as well as another chance to hear a certain brass-heavy band, preferably from a few miles away, and many others I hoped to see. There were practice sessions for beginners and improvers to help people build confidence to play in the sessions, which was a nice touch, and they had even produced a tune book for them.

And there was dancing, lots of it. We collected our instruments from the tent while Jan kept our seats, and after a lunch of rather nice pie and mash from a nearby catering stand we started making some noise. I had deliberately brought down the tune book, and we worked our way through a few of the simpler ones to get ourselves in the right mood. Partway through one tune, a young lad with a ponytail from the musical instrument stall joined us on fiddle, and we played around a bit on tunes like “Winster Gallop” and “Rakes of Kildare”, simple and fun tunes to bring a smile. Then there was the twang of a banjo, and a couple of melodeons, and…..

This was living.

There was an early evening ceilidh before the first act we actively wanted to see, a young Welsh group called Calan, so we returned to the edifice for a meal to fill the tanks. Jan did a very nice “risotto” consisting of rice and vegetables simmered in fish stock while some salmon cuts poached on top, and the local supermarket had provided some chocolate mousse for afters. There was such a difference between camping with a small tent and a lightweight stove, and camping with the Edifice. Being able to eat sat at a table, for one. I collared Kelly and asked about the lad she had brought round earlier.

“He ran away” she said.

“Ran away? What for?”

“He sad that we were all scary musical people and he couldn’t compete”

“But he can cook! Seriously, Kell, did you want him to stay?”

“He was fun, Steph, but I think he was right. I don’t know if it’s just because of the olds, and I know it will sound nasty, but I just can’t see myself ever without music, or committed to someone who can’t feel it. Am I odd, Steph?”

“No, love, you just have a soul that needs feeding. I am the same.”

“Rubbish! You were drooling over Uncle Geoff as soon as you saw him!”

Blushes. Hate’em. I decided I had to tell her.

“Kelly, do you know how much I love Geoff?”

She came over to me, wrapped me in a hug, and whispered in my ear.

“I think I know how much he loves you, and if you have half the feeling he has you would die rather than lose him. And do you know how much we all love our poor shy girl in her first dress?”

I couldn’t help it, I started to cry. She carried on, wise beyond her years.

“I love my uncle, and I know how much my other uncle’s….”

She leant away from me, and I felt her breathing catch.

“Do you really, really understand what you did for us in May? Grandad said it, being excellent and that, but you went and did it. You broke the circle, you let people breathe. For god’s sake, I’m only fifteen, but I have lived with this all my life. I don’t care if you vanish tomorrow, you healed my family”

She paused. “Steph, that was wrong. I really do care if you vanish tomorrow, I love you, and never want to lose you. Will you please, please marry my uncle so I can keep you?”

Mixed tears. Can you think of a more evocative expression of love?

We cleaned ourselves up and rejoined the clan in time for the first ceilidh, and in a burst of nostalgia I wore the Laura Ashley dress from last year. We trooped off to the dance with our instruments and a bag full of water bottles, which puzzled me as I intended to drink BEER, and found ourselves some seats. The band was tuning up, but for some reason the clan were smirking. Geoff came over to me and asked if he could have a word.

“Of course, love”

He took a deep breath, and dropped to one knee, pulling out a little box. Almost hyperventilating, he looked at the ground, then raised his eyes and visibly gathered his strength.

“Stephanie Bronwen Jones, will you marry me?”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y6n2f8EnwfY Not Jimmy, but…..
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ndeY9R1fiMY&feature=related Lisa Knapp. I was actually in the audience at that performance.