UNRAVELLING WITH MY AUNT; A TRAVEL TALE

OH TO BE IN ENGLAND!

It was the perfect  time  for my elderly Aunt Leah to visit England, as  my partner Rob and I were  based in London.  It was Leah’s first trip, and we were  happy to take her on a tour of the country.

Heading south,  we spent our first night  in the seaside town of Lyme Regis,  home of Leah’s  Larcombe ancestors. I had booked us into  a B&B  that  I knew she would enjoy. Leah  loves dogs, and the proprietors owned a dear old Spaniel called Samuel Johnson. The dog wasn’t around when we arrived, but he appeared next morning in the breakfast room.  As Aunty Leah  swapped pet care advice with our hostess,  poor  Samuel suffered a massive fit and died  before our eyes between the main course and the  toast.  Not a wonderful start, but we pulled ourselves together and  continued westward.

Near Truro in Cornwall  we were due to stay overnight in  an up-market, 17th century farmhouse.  I should have realized the ‘for sale’ sign on the garden wall spelled trouble. Sure enough, my knock on the  door was  met by a distressed young man who blurted; ‘Oh no! I hoped you wouldn’t come.  Would you call yourselves flexible people? ‘ Dear God, I thought, he’s put us in the hay loft.  I started to explain about Aunty Leah’s  hip replacement but he interrupted; ‘My wife’s left me  so I’ve booked you into a place up the road. Is that OK?’  Well, what could we say?

There was a neglected air about our alternative quarters and even Aunty paled at the sight of  a large Alsatian stretched out  on her bed.  When Rob  commented on the absence of  loo paper our hostess smiled brightly and said;  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pop out and buy some. Er…..could you pay me  now?’   Oh my hat!

We wandered on to  Daphne du Maurier country, driving across Bodmin Moor in torrential rain. Fortunately Leah was reading my copy of Jamaica Inn at the time, so she thought the weather was appropriately atmospheric… even when we skidded off the road.

It had cleared up by the time we reached the next stop on her ‘bucket list;  harbourside  Clovelly, in North Devon. Sadly,  there  were no donkeys to carry us up  the hill (as I had promised),  but she loved it nevertheless.

UNRAVELLING FURTHER  NORTH

I had decided to take pot luck with accommodation for the rest of the trip, and one night  in Lancashire we left our search too late.  We  ended up in a tiny  terrace house with grubby curtains and suspect sheets.   Aunty Leah’s   bed was wedged into a  cupboard behind the wall mirror in our room.

After the dying dog and the deserting  wife we  were  beginning to feel like harbingers of doom and were  not at all surprised when the local cotton mill  burned down overnight.

Mind you, ten fire engines had failed to rouse us. Rob  and I slept like the dead, exhausted with worry over  Aunty Leah.   Poor Leah was sleepless due to the worry of going to the loo via  our room,  but deaf to everything  behind her mirror.

Our  final  week was spent  back  in London, where we caught the  train to the city each day. One evening we were returning home when half a dozen young Irishmen  piled into  our carriage. They were very  good humoured, although every second word began with F.  I was mortified on Aunty’s behalf. However,  as she said when we got off;   ” You know Paulie, that word doesn’t sound nearly as bad with  an Irish accent does it?’  And  I had to agree…. it fooking well doesn’t!

Victoria Station always reminds me of the Oscar Wilde character whose parents left him at the cloakroom in a handbag.  Aunty Leah left a handbag at Victoria too, though not intentionally.  And while there may not have been a baby in her bag  it contained almost everything she owned – including her passport and her plane ticket home. Arranging replacements took so long that  we had to skip the Tower of London  and Westminster Abbey but she said  not to worry,  she had seen them on  TV  😎.

When we kissed her goodbye at Heathrow  she assured us she’d  had a wonderful time,  but I’d noticed  a strange look in her eyes as she laboured over her travel diary each evening.

NOTE – This article was originally published in The Australian newspaper.  My dear Aunty Leah has since died. My sister  Robbie found the travel diary among her possessions  and posted it  to me.  I certainly  squirmed a bit  when I read it, although  none of the trouble was my fault!

All the incidents  in this article are true, except the final one…Leah  actually lost her documents before she left Australia. I  ‘borrowed’  this  anecdote  from my sister, who sorted the situation out in the nick of time .  Robbie  then  took time off work to  escort  our nervous   Aunt from Tasmania  to the airport in Melbourne. 

If you have experienced similar travel ‘difficulties’, please share them below …It might make me  feel a bit   better! Don’t forget to complete the anti-spam sum though!

OH YES, HERE IS ANOTHER STORY ABOUT GUESTS COMING TO STAY WITH US IN ENGLAND.