Jacqueline P Vincent

Part One: To Hull

My mum told me over the phone that all you girls (the youngest of us girls, above, will celebrate her 60th birthday in November) were going on exotic holidays this year and she hadn’t been invited. Not only that, it looked like she wouldn’t be having a holiday at all this year.
Mum has a tendency to be a drama queen, but she is 86, so perhaps she’s entitled. I sympathised with her and made the right noises until she’d finished venting her angst. At the end of our phone call, I was exhausted and a twinge of guilt wiggled its way into my psyche.

Within minutes of ending our call, I received a text message from my eldest son saying, as nan wasn’t going on holiday, he’d bring her over to me in Spain for a week at the end of May. My guilt worm receded. At least mum would have at least one week’s holiday this year.
Mind you, over mum’s life, she’s been on many exotic holidays and has visited every continent several times over. But I still felt a twinge of guilt as I pictured her sitting alone in her little house whilst we girls gallivanted across the globe.

However, we received news from the UK that a family member was unwell. Within minutes, I’d booked flights for the following day.
Travelling light, just a hand-bag each, we flew into Gatwick, negotiated the rail maintenance rerouting and arrived at our night’s stay exhausted.

After five days of isolation in a tiny annex, I was bored. An idea surfaced in my boredom. I could take mum away for a few days. At last I had a mission, I searched the internet for the cheapest package. And where was it? Spain! That was a blow. I couldn’t take mum anywhere exotic with a small ‘e’ except where she would be going in two months’ time. Then I researched the UK, Scotland. The weather was cold, -11, and stormy. West coast, wet and blowy, and last, a city break, eye-wateringly expensive. I almost gave up. Then I had a brainwave. If we were very careful, covid wise, we could go to Hull and visit my son and his family, and along the way, explore the small towns in the midlands. These are the places we whiz past on the north-bound motorway. I mentioned the idea to mum, and she loved it. Like me, although she’d heard of the towns I suggested we visit, she’d never been.
I booked a pub stay half way along our route at Weedon, near Northampton, called the Heart of England, and overlooked the Grand Union Canal.

I hadn’t considered that mum couldn’t handle stairs when I booked. Therefore, when we arrived, we discovered our room was on the third floor in the attics. Without prompting, mum leant heavily on her stick and the landlord gave us a ground floor room for an extra £5. What a nice man.
We arrived in time for dinner. The menu, traditional pub fare with large portions, if the meals already brought out, were anything to go by. I ordered scampi and chips. I had this exotic food in the 70s, when the pubs served it in baskets.
Sharing a room, we fell into bed at nine and mum snored her way through the dark hours. However, several times during the night, the overhead light flicked on. Mum limped to the toilet and turned on the white searing bathroom bulbs, which, of course, woke me, then returned to snoring within seconds of laying down. I gave up trying to sleep, after this occurred three times during the dark hours.

As dawn sent shafts of grey light around the curtains, mum leapt out of bed with a flourish and said, “Morning Jackie, did you sleep well? I had a lovely sleep. This bed is so comfy.”
Bleary-eyed and with a headache, I grunted a reply, which was probably polite. To myself, I thought, I’m not sure this journey is going to be pleasant, starting our first day of travels feeling rubbish.

After a hearty full English, we packed our belongings into mum’s small Citroen C3, a jelly mould on wheels, and headed north in search of Market Harborough. She dozed whilst I drove.
The old centre is a crossroads of heavy traffic and traffic lights, but we parked right in the middle, taking advantage of mum’s blue badge. After we explored the church, St. Dionysus with its beautiful fabric hangings, I sat mum in front of the ancient market cross for a photo op. Doesn’t she do a good pose? Afterwards we wandered across to the recently built part with its many shopping opportunities. For me, I feel, in this part of town, you could be anywhere in the country with no independents or different shops.

Leaving Market Harborough, we headed north once more to Melton Mowbray. A town famous for its pies. It was market day, Tuesday. The cattle market was full of people, but the spaces for the disabled were full. We found a space in the town, but mum couldn’t walk from the town to the market buildings. As we parked, a traffic warden hovered. We smiled as we left the car with mum’s blue badge prominent in the window.
However, the food, flower and spice market wound its way through the old town and we had a lovely hour rummaging through the colourful stalls. Melton Mowbray is also famous for Stilton cheese, which I didn’t know.
We couldn’t leave without buying a sample or two. Mum chose two, one topped with apple and the other topped with pickle. I was more traditional with my choices and bought two family sized normal ones. After a cream tea, we returned to the car and the traffic warden hovering. We smiled once more, slid into our seats and left.

Once we loaded the car with our purchases, we travelled north again to Lincoln. Mum looked weary by now and within seconds was dozing as we travelled between the two towns.
I knew Lincolnshire is one of the flattest counties in England; I didn’t think Lincoln City would be a problem. How wrong I was! To negotiate the lower slopes, I used the sat nav on my phone to find the closest car park to the cathedral. We wound through cobbled roads, narrow alleys and confusing one-way streets. I swear the council threaded us through the same directions twice before we found a space. From our disabled badge-holders’ parking slot, the Cathedral towered over us. Not too bad, only a brief climb. Second time today I was wrong. We followed the walking sat nav instructions and climbed, twisted and finally trudged up Steep Hill. The name gives it away. At the top, mum had to sit on a hard bench in the afternoon sunshine, because we couldn’t find a cafe.

Whilst she rested, I went off to explore the castle. Unfortunately; the ticket price included the entrance for three places, castle, gardens and museum, and as we didn’t have time to linger and mum couldn’t walk that far, I declined. Instead, we paid £9 each to visit the Cathedral and a short guided tour.

The medieval craftsmen of the day were a cheeky lot, adding features that weren’t asked for, creating funny faces on the imps in the roof ribs. Our guide told us that during the middle ages there were four spires, made of timber and covered in lead. These spires made it the tallest building in the known world. Unfortunately, a storm blew them off, and the local burghers decided not to replace them. I’d love to have been there that day, and see four lead covered spires tumble across the flat landscape.

At three pm and thirsty we made our way, clutching onto window sills, down Steep Hill and halfway down we found a cafe. Whoo hoo! Nope, the lady behind the counter told us they were closed. At three! After living in Spain for so long, I’ll never get used to British opening hours again. Whoever closes their tea-rooms at three when the streets are full of tourists? Bizarre.

Still thirsty, we returned to the car and drove the last fifty odd miles over the magnificent Humber Bridge to Hessle and the chaos my son and his family call home. Also, in the hope, someone will have the kettle on for a cup of tea.