The Three Crowns

It was back in July 2013 that Blameworthy and I last drank together. That’s nearly four years ago. It’s a long time by any standards.

It wasn’t as though we intended the gap in our meeting to be so long, it just seemed to work out that way. During that time, we kept in erratic contact via email but we seemed unable to tie down another meeting.

However, 2017, was to be the year a plan would come together. Finally, we would get together again for a few – or probably more accurately, a lot of beer.

Over a bout of email tennis, it was decided we would have a lunchtime session; and in the spirit of past adventures it would be Chippenham on a Sunday lunchtime.

Close and local is not us.

On reflection, our last drinking session together was in Wroughton, some four miles or so from where I live and a little further from where Blameworthy lives.

Wroughton was an old stomping ground from the 1980s. In those days we would quite often on a day off from work or of an evening we would walk out to a pub called the Carter’s Rest or The Wheatsheaf; although occasionally we would grace another pub in the village with our presence.

In those days Blameworthy and I lived closer to each other, a street away. But now, some thirty years later, we lived about thirty minutes away from each other.

For that trip to Wroughton, we agreed we would meet up in The Town Gardens in Old Town. To me it seemed like an odd place to meet up. However, Blameworthy does have a rather large garden these days. Perhaps he was looking for a few tips. The only gardening tips I ever entertain are the ones that will get my garden paved over as soon as the funds become available.

The Town Gardens

However, part of Blameworthy’s plan was to get to Wroughton by a different route to the one we were used to. It was certainly different to the one we would have taken in the 1980s.

As I walked up Victoria Hill, just before mid-day that Saturday afternoon, it was warm, and I was looking forward to the day ahead. Beer and exercise and all in good company.

However, by the time I got to The Town Gardens, I suddenly looked for my wallet. I don’t know why. Maybe it was a subconscious thing, or just one of those coincidences. I can’t explain but on checking I found that my wallet wasn’t in any of my pockets. Almost as if to torture me, a memory stirred, one of me placing the wallet on my table before devouring an early lunch. (When old Fitrambler sits down to eat, all other considerations disappear from the brain box.)

I looked at my watch and saw that I had enough time to finish the walk to meet up with Blameworthy but not enough time to go back, get the wallet and meet Blameworthy on time.

Oh hump! I thought and one or two words that might be deemed a tad stronger.

I decided I’d go the punctuality route and meet Blameworthy. It didn’t sit well heading towards a drinking session with little more than enough change in coins and silver for a couple of rounds.

After the preliminary greetings were over and just before we started the walk to Wroughton, I told Blameworthy about forgetting my wallet. Although I felt bad about it, it wasn’t a regular occurrence. Blameworthy said rather than go back he would cover the expense of the session. He’s that sort of a chap.

This time the walk to Wroughton would be more like a walk in the country, rather than one that followed major roads. We came out of The Town Gardens and followed Goddard’s Avenue to a little side-pathway that I didn’t know existed. We followed that road that led over a bridge into a new estate – or at least it was new to me at the time – called Wichelstowe.

Wichelstowe

It was while we were walking through this new estate that the Fitrambler imagination started up. The place seemed totally deserted. I looked around at the windows and it was as though they were all occupied, but no sign of people.

It made me think of a post-apocalyptic future where Blameworthy and I were the only ones left. That soon died as another fantasy played across the brain box; that we were gunfighter coming to town…

“We’re a’comin’ for ya, Kincade!”

Well, they always seem to be called Kincade, don’t they?

O.K, back in the real world, we were in a deserted estate (sans the yapping dog that suddenly runs the length of the street. Possibly a dog who once starred in many a Lassie film, and now was reduced to this bit part).

It took roughly ten minutes to walk through that estate and not once did I see any signs of life. Did everyone emigrate lunchtime?

Finally, after about fifteen minutes, we ended up in Wroughton, and our first stop was The Carter’s Rest. As in the 1980s, it had a good selection of ales.

The Carter’s Rest

Again, I thought back to the 1980s, when we drank there, we mainly stuck to a back room which had a pool table. It was fairly private with good access to a hatch that gave us an easy way to get our beer. Most of these pool sessions were dinner time ones whereby we could play games mostly un interrupted.

The room also contained a Duke box and we spent quite a lot of hard-earned silver in that machine. If not filled with our coins, the locals took their choices. (Well, you had to be fair now and again and let them have a go.)

Frequently, the Glen Miller track ‘In The Mood’ played. That would cause an impromptu dance routine. This would usually involve movements with the pool cue; waving and swinging. How those overhead lights survived is anyone’s guess, especially after half a dozen pints…

I always felt the routine was professionally done but being half-cut, you can believe anything. More sober witnesses to the display probably just despaired at the idiocy of the young!

After a couple in The Carter’s Rest, but without any games of pool, we moved onto The White Hart. Probably one of the first five pubs I ever drank Real Ale in; a Wadworths pub.

The White Hart

I have to say after The White Hart the memory becomes a little hazy. I think our next port of call was The Check Inn, where I missed out on the round. This was partly because I was getting light-headed and also as I was feeling guilty that Blameworthy was footing all the beer bill.

The Check Inn

Once we came out of there our final beer was one in the new estate of Wichelstowe, The Bayberry. People serving behind the bar, people drinking behind the bar convinced me that after all there was life in the new estate.

Then, as we were something like half-way home, it decided to rain. Well, it would, wouldn’t it, especially as I didn’t have a coat. Once home, the pangs of hunger began and picking up my wallet from my table, I phoned through for a large Chinese takeaway…

The Bayberry

Those thoughts about our last meeting played across my mind as I waited outside Swindon station that dull but dry Sunday in mid-April.

I reflected on the fact that I’d only had a couple of pieces of toast with soya margarine; not a good breakfast if you’re intending to have one or two dinner time, or as is more likely the case, a half-dozen.

As it’d never happened before, so was quite positive it wouldn’t this time, we wouldn’t eat during a session; not even a pub lunch. Blameworthy doesn’t do eating on a drinking trip. (And yes, there are those wags who would say I do more than enough eating for both of us!)

Sometimes, with people I’ve been friends with, after a long gap, there can be a certain discomfort. That never happens with Blameworthy. It’s always as though our last meeting was yesterday; nothing has changed save for the odd wrinkle and grey hair.

We didn’t wait long for the train, nor did we have any trouble getting a seat. Usually, when I travel alone, all sorts of things go wrong, but it started off well…

…if you didn’t count the woman.

On the seats opposite, there was a woman who seemed in the process of wanting to re-arrange area where she was sat from the aisle. She was constantly bending over to mess with something I couldn’t see, waving her arse close to my face. Trying to pay attention to what Blameworthy was saying while having buttocks waved in one eye line wasn’t easy. I suppose I was lucky she wasn’t suffering from a bout of wind!

After ten minutes the woman seemed to settle, and I could give my full attention to Blameworthy.

We arrived on time and as soon as we were out of the station I remembered the last time I was in Chippenham. It was 24th April 2010, a beer festival and with Blameworthy, Gloom-Laden and Mrs Gowithit.

The walk to the pub took about twenty minutes, but by Blameworthy’s own admission we weren’t going the direct route. A good walk would add to the thirst.

The pub was The Three Crowns. It wasn’t open when we got there but we didn’t have to wait too long before it did. I’d no sooner sat down outside when the landlord was opening the doors.

Once inside it was just a matter of deciding which of the beers to have. There was a good selection of dark beers.

Chippenham 2018 1

However, there was the danger signal we both spotted early on but neither of us mention although both of us probably had the same thoughts. The beer was called Killer Stout, and at 7.9% it wasn’t hard to figure out how it got its name. We both felt it would be wise to stay away from that one. It would be the sensible thing to do. After all, it would be foolish to drink something of that strength at dinner time; and not too wise in the evening either.

Unfortunately, despite our obvious maturity (and the fact that we should know better) we both knew that, a few pints down the line, one or the other of us would give into temptation. It would be one of those things that ‘seems amusing at the time’.

As soon as we got the barman’s attention, I bought the first round. We found a window seat. I quite liked the first pint, it went down well but Blameworthy suggested we try one of the others for the second round. He went to get up, but I stopped him and got the second-round in. I reminded him that he bought all the beers the last time we drank together. I owed him and intended to pay.

Chippenham 2018 2

After trying a different beer, we went back to the first. We stuck to that until the penultimate round. I was on a comfort break and when I returned I saw Blameworthy at the bar. I was a little disappointed because I felt I should be getting the round! I detected a few grins and wondered what the joke was. Then, Blameworthy brought the beer to me, suggesting we go into the backroom. He made the confession at this point that he’d just bought the Killer Stout.

There wasn’t anyone else in the backroom which suited me. I’d felt a little dizzy when I returned from the toilet and so if I was going to fall over after the Killer Stout I wanted as few witnesses as possible.

As it turned out I remained upright, thankfully. The Killer Stout went down as easily as the previous three pints. We had another pint, but not a second Killer Stout. Sometimes it’s best not to push your luck.

I was also happy that I was able to get back to the station walking in a relative straight line. Inevitably, though, when I got close to the station, the need for another comfort break was upon me.

There was a pub close to the station and Blameworthy headed straight for it. Where there’s a pub there’s a toilet, or so I thought it was reasonable to believe.

Old Road Tavern

Unfortunately, things didn’t quite go that easily. It turned out rather like doing the conga, as we walked into the pub through one door, through the bar area, out into the garden, then back in to the bar and then out again without being able to see a single sign for the toilet!

By this time, I was almost dancing with the need to empty my bladder. Fortunately, not too far away and right near the steps leading into the station was a parking area, walled off sufficiently to advertise itself to me as an unofficial toilet.

I was sure my eyes glazed over behind the cover of the wall and was able to reduce the contents of my bladder.

We didn’t have much time before our train was due. Unfortunately, as is often the case when you need to relieve yourself in a hurry, the whole process takes on the image of a stuck tap; it won’t bloody turn off.

Fortunately, it did eventually and in time for when the train was supposed to arrive. However, I’d hurried (panicked) for nothing as that train was cancelled and so we had to wait for the next one. Had I known the train wasn’t going to arrive on time I would have found somewhere with more dignity to relieve myself – like a public toilet…

Anyway, as we travelled on the next train to Swindon, Blameworthy was already making plans for our trip to Oxford…

One of my earliest memories of Roger Moore was from a series called “Ivanhoe”. It was made in 1958. It ran for a total of 39 episodes, and although the pilot episode was made in colour, the actual series was filmed in black and white.

Moore starred as the lead character of Sir Wilfred Ivanhoe and his squire/armourer was played by Robert Brown. Brown would go on to star in the Bond Film “The Spy Who Loved Me” as Admiral Hargreaves, but later took on the role of M (after the death of Bernard Lee) for Moore last three Bond films, “For Your Eyes Only”, “Octopussy” and “A View To A Kill”.

Moore followed this with a series I’ve never seen called “The Alaskans”. It ran for 37 episodes.

Following on from that series, Moore also filled in for James Garner, who was in dispute with the makers of his hit show, “Maverick” – it’s fifth series. Moore played Beauregard Maverick, a cousin of Brett Maverick; the English accent was explained away by having the character return from many years in Britain.

Then, it was the big one, the series that made his name internationally, “The Saint”. It was also the one that got my interest. It was one of the few non-science fiction shows I took interest in. It was through Mr. Moore and this series that I moved from reading comics to books. I discovered that Leslie Charteris created The Saint in a book series than began in 1927. I avidly read the books, usually second hand, as many were out of print at the time.

It was Roger Moore who introduced me to the Bond films and the books. I hadn’t taken much interest in them before but once he left his latest series – an all-time favourite of mine – The Persuaders to become Bond, I decided to give them a go.

Oddly enough, the first Bond films I saw starred Connery. I’d been following the making of “Live And Let Die” in various film publications, when I got my chance to see my first Bond double bill. It was “Dr. No” and “You Only Live Twice”.

The next two films I saw were From Russia With Love and Goldfinger. I took my sister with me to see those and our choice of favourite Bond left us in different camps; fortunately, we never fell out over it.

It seemed then that all the films went through one of our local 2 cinemas (now gone) within 12 months. I got to see them all. However, for pure entertainment value, Roger Moore provided that as Bond. Connery may have been a closer portrayal of the character with regards to Ian Fleming’s books, but Moore never failed to entertain.

At the time repeats with regards to TV series and re-showings at cinemas was the only way to enjoy these pieces of entertainment; video-recorders were at least 15 years away.

As previously mentioned, my all-time favourite TV series with Roger Moore had to be “The Persuaders!” I found the clashing dynamic of Roger Moore and Tony Curtis irresistible. It originally ran on a Friday night through 1971 to 1972 and got a Sunday repeat a few years later and each time I managed to con my father into watching the episode again.

Roger Moore hung up the Walther PPK after “A View To A Kill”. It was around this time that video-recorders were about and I rented one. This opened a new world where you could rediscover old programmes and enjoy them again; or in some cases wonder why you enjoyed them the first time around.

While in London, a large record/CD store stocked video cassettes – a vast store house compared with Swindon – and two they had there were edited “The Persuaders!” episodes. At £30 each I felt it was expensive, but I thought, this was Roger Moore and Tony Curtis, it was “The Persuaders!”. So, it was a case of ‘sod the expense, give the cat another goldfish’ and I slapped down the old credit card. I had my hands on four episodes of the series, albeit edited into making 98 minute tv movies with new opening titles. It was close enough at that time.

But it was back in 2011, September, that I got to meet Sir Roger Moore – as he now was – in London. It was a promotion event by Network, who had remaster all the episodes and were releasing them in the Blu Ray format, along with extras.

It cost me £80.00 to get The Gold Napoleon (named after an episode of the series) ticket for the event, which entitled me to a buffet (sandwiches, sausage rolls, nuts, crisps and the like), drink (wine or fizzy cider some would refer to as Champagne) and to meet Sir Roger himself, get my box set of “The Persuaders!”. There would then follow, after a showing on a big screen of two episodes of the show (‘Overture’ and ‘A Death In The Family’), an interview with Roger Moore, conducted by Barry Norman – and a very nice interview too – along with a question and answer session.

That ticket might have seemed expensive if it hadn’t been that it included a copy of “The Persuaders!” Blu Ray box set, retailing at the time £55.00. So, I guess, technically the ticket was only £25.00 more than I would have forked out anyway. (It’s how I persuaded myself, ok?)

As I’ve always been of a nervous disposition (aka: a snivelling coward) I decided I didn’t fancy travelling the tube late at night (the event was scheduled to end between 10-11pm). So, it came to pass that with the help of Topman, I booked a hotel room for about £100.00. On top of that there was the train fare of £33.00. I also, the next day, treated myself to a full breakfast (the hotel room didn’t include this) at a placed called “The Angus Steakhouse” for about £12.00.

It was about twenty minutes into the event that The Gold Napoleon ticket holders were asked to leave the buffet and queue up ready to collect their box set and then join the queue to see Sir Roger. It seemed like two thirds of the people who came joined that queue.

Despite how tedious it must have been for him, Sir Roger was smiling and always polite, the English gentleman through and through. It was one of those occasions, I’m glad to say, where meeting your hero(s) did not disappoint…far from it…

Which Is Bad For You?

To say Blameworthy and I drank rather a lot during the eighties is something like saying the Pope prays a bit. The amount we drank throughout the eighties would have had today’s health lobby in epileptic fits. Fingers would be violently wagged and predictions of doomed kidneys not far behind; with the added threat of a badly battered liver thrown in.

Nowadays it’s all referred to as Units of Alcohol and if you go over a certain amount of units then you are in the danger zone. Trouble, ailments galore…and lashings of tut-tuts!

Well, despite us being well over the unit safety limit – many times over in a night let alone a week – Blameworthy and I have survived reasonably well physically. That’s not to condone the copious amounts we drank but more to say we are doing ok considering…

In later years we have found a way to curb what the health critics would call excessive alcohol intake – we rarely drink together this has a tendency to curb our drinking by fifty percent…or at least I try to convince myself it does.

Some wags have suggested that as Blameworthy and I rarely frequent the pubs together like we did in the ‘old days’ it’s a possible explanation as to why so many Public Houses have closed over the last twenty years or so. Their profit levels dropping rapidly after our semi-retirements – if that is what our abstinence can be described as.

It has to be admitted that The Duke of Wellington – so frequently blessed with out custom – is no longer a pub. Whether this is evidence of their reliance on booze hounds like Blameworthy and I is anyone’s guess…

However much the doomsayers of old condemned our capacious ability to consume beer, there was little warning of another beverage which was in recent times to do me more damage than alcohol ever did.

And that is Apple and Blackcurrant squash.

How so, you may ask. Well, get comfortable and I shall tell you the woes that accompanied the pint of the aforementioned concoction.

Ever since my brush with Doctor Calm and the need to take medication for my rather OTT blood pressure, I have been taking a pint of Apple and Blackcurrant squash up with me to bed in the evenings. The main reason for this is down to one of the pills I take for my blood pressure in the morning. There is a particular tablet that whilst keeping the old BP down does drain the liquid in my body necessitating me drinking more liquids than I have ever done before to replace those the pill gets rid of.

Even beer didn’t disturb my sleep as much as this tablet does. Three times a night! Three times! And each time it’s during a good bit in a dream I’m having!
Anyway, a particular night in 2012, I was in bed early as I needed to be up early in the morning. I got out of bed at around 1am to take care of a need precipitated by the tablet and returned a minute or two later to replenish the liquid lost.

Being half asleep pouring the liquid in worked ok but when I went to put the glass back down on the bedside table I misplaced it on top of a pen which unbalanced the glass and sent the contents pouring across the bedside table and the floor.

With an exclamation of ‘Oh dear’ (or perhaps something a little harsher with about the same amount of characters) I switched on the light to commence a mop-up operation.

Needless to say once finished I was wide awake.

Back into bed I found I couldn’t get comfortable. The quilt wasn’t quite in place; it wasn’t covering one corner of the bed. Not vitally important but after the debacle with the Apple and Blackcurrant squash I wasn’t happy. I wanted it to be in the correctly place…

However, anger and stubbornness had me shaking the quilt from the top to try to get it into place. The more it didn’t the more I became angry with it and increasingly aggressive.

I know it would have been easier to get out of bed to get the thing in place. I know that trying angrily to shake it from a semi-laying down position was totally the wrong way to do it!

But anger removed all rational thought and I became determined it was going to be shaken into place without me having to get out of bed.

The fight went on for about twenty minutes – such was my stubbornness – before it finally fell into place and I had secured the victory I wanted.

Another hour and the adrenaline had died down and I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, I managed to get up early and into work. I ached a bit but all seemed to be fine.

However, by 8am that evening I began to feel some chest pains; aches I couldn’t figure out where they came from.

That night I was in quite a lot of pain and found it difficult to sleep laying down so had to sit up. This stopped the chest from hurting so badly but had the effect of every hour on the hour of me having get out of bed to shake my arse – hula dancer style sans grass skirt – in order to restore the circulation in my buttocks quickly enough for me to get back into bed for another hour’s asleep.

I dread to think what the neighbours – if for some reason insomniac – would have thought if I hadn’t had my curtains closed and me being observed going through the hourly arse shaking ritual.

I am not sure I have much of a reputation for sanity in the street where I live. In the early part of this century I did some gardening – not something I do often – and filled about a dozen large sacks with garden waste. These I stacked in the small area outside my front room window. My friend Anecdote offered to load them in his estate car and take them to the tip.

All went well. We loaded the car – after a couple of beers – then made off to the tip. But, we were too late and it was closed. We had to bring the rubbish back.

Unfortunately, the neighbour who saw us load the car also witnessed us unloading and putting it back at the front of the house.

I could imagine him saying to his wife: ‘That bloke next door. He just loaded his garden rubbish into his friend’s car and took it for a ride round for half an hour…’

Anyway, I digress…

Finally, as is so often the case, a new day dawns and the pains are worse. Walking and breathing were difficult but I managed to get into work; albeit later than planned.

More or less as soon as I walked through the door Mrs Immediately noticed I was not well.

‘You look pale,’ she said. ‘Are you alright?’

‘A little achey,’ I responded.

Within five minutes of sitting down Mrs Immediately commented again. ‘You don’t look well.’

‘I’m alright,’ I replied, despite the pain.

‘You should get a doctor’s appointment.’

‘No, no I’m fine. It’ll probably go by the end of the day.’

Five minutes later.

‘You’re no better. You should ring the doctor,’ said Mrs Immediately; yet again.

I inwardly sighed. I knew I wouldn’t get any peace until I rang the doctor. When Mrs Immediately got the bit between her teeth she wouldn’t let go; never give in. It was unwise not to do what Mrs Immediately told you do…er..um well immediately.

And to be quite honest I wasn’t getting any better. I felt pretty bad the breath was becoming even more difficult and painful.

‘If you don’t want to do it then I will,’ she said.

I hadn’t reacted within a split second so she was onto me again.

I dialled the doctor’s number and got an appointment for 16:30 that day. If nothing else my ears wouldn’t get a bashing from Mrs Immediately.

Shortly afterwards I informed Topman and he was insistent that I go home now and not hang about. Topman wasn’t prepared to listen to a word of argument and went even further to tell me that he did not expect me in the next day.

So some half an hour later I was on my way home. I was walking quite slow but allowed enough time to get to the bus stop on time.

Once home I dozed and wake up half an hour before I was due for my doctor’s appointment. I decided I would get there early and began making my way.

It was this walk, normally no more than six or seven minutes, which brought home to me how bad the old chest was. I took twenty minutes to get there. It also helped me understand why Grandfather Fitrambler couldn’t walk very far in his later years.

Grandfather Fitrambler had breathing problems and, as I was finding myself, if you couldn’t take in enough oxygen then movement of any kind was difficult. It depleted your energy levels.

I got to the doctors, managed to get my breath back enough to tell them I had an appointment with the emergency doctor.

Ten minutes after my appointment was set for I got to see Dr Calm. I explained what was wrong.

‘Hmm,’ he said with a frown.

Then he got me to stand up and stood up himself. He stretched his arms straight out in front of him.

‘Put your arms on the outside of mine…’

I frowned but did as I was told. If this was the first stage of the beginning of some sort of Morris Dance…however the lack of the sound of bells from the direction of his knees took that thought out of my head. Besides, if he wanted to Morris Dance I would have pointed him in the direction of the Pink Lady; she was far more experience in that than I ever would be.

‘Now try and push my arms inwards,’ said Doctor Calm.

I did as he said and although it hurt managed to move his arms a little.

‘Hmm.’ he said.

He got me to sit down and then got me to do some deep breathing, which also resulted in pain. After that he clipped a device to my finger, checked the reading on it.

‘Hmm.’

I babbled within this time telling him that I thought it was probably strained muscles. Or probably hoping he’d say it was…

‘Hmm.’

He then got me to strip to the waist, listened to my back and chest.

‘Hmm.’ Then: ‘Ok, you can get dressed, please.’

I got dressed and then, once settled back in our respective seats he began to fill out the ‘Hmms.’

‘It could well be you strained the muscles in your chest. This would have the effect of making breathing painful. Shallow breathing means you’re not getting enough oxygen. The oxygen levels in your system seem to back that up. However, just to be safe, I’m going to book you in for an immediate ECG with the nurse. I’ll arrange an appointment for an x-ray tomorrow…’

Being the devoted drivelling coward that I am I asked: ‘Any chance of some painkillers.’

‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea…’ Doctor Calm replied as he tapped the keys on his computer.

I thought it was a great idea. Painkillers equals no pain and a happy Fitrambler…what’s not to like?

‘You can take some Paracetamol. But you need the pain so that we can see if you are getting better or not.’

For a few seconds I did consider grizzling but felt that probably wouldn’t change his mind.

Ten minutes later I was in the waiting room awaiting the call from the nurse.

Once I was called I shuffled my way into her office she smiled at me. I tried to smile back but because of the pain I probably grimaced; an expression more at home in a Hammer horror film.

She got me to strip to the waist and take off my footwear. My walking trainers were coming to the end of their life so some nose twitching accompanied this; but in a very English way nothing was mentioned.

I moved over to the trolley which was where I would lay down. I suddenly felt a cold sweat form. Laying down caused pain…I didn’t like this one bit.

What I didn’t predict was the pain I was going to go through trying to get on the trolley to lay down in the first place. I couldn’t use my arms to lever me on because that caused pain and I couldn’t lift my leg high enough to use that to get me on top.

However, while the nurse went to get the ECG machine I saw a chair by the trolley.

Ah ha!

I would use that as an intermediate stage to getting on the trolley. I raised my leg to the chair with minimal pain but then when I put the weight on the chair I must have been at the wrong angle. I slipped and sent the chair ten feet away from the trolley.

Unfortunately, I let out what can only be described as a girly-scream. If I’d had more chance to evaluate the pain I might have been better prepared and been able to let out a manlier scream but no, a girly one issue forth…

I got my breath back after a minute then went to get the chair back just as the nurse was coming in. She frowned at me.

‘I thought you would’ve been on the examination trolley by now?’

‘Working on it,’ I said.

She sat back on her seat while I struggled to get onto the trolley. She was untangling the wires for the ECG and then filling out some more paperwork while I struggled a second time only sending the chair a couple of feet and this time managing to suppress a potential girly scream!

Finally, I got on top of the trolley but when I tried to lay down and relax pain went through my chest and there was another stifled girly scream.

It seemed like hours I was there laying in pain but was only minutes and then the nurse got up and started to place the wires on the strategic parts of my anatomy.

‘You should have asked for help if you were having trouble getting on the trolley…’ she said.

Personally, I felt the yelps of pain and sending the chair flying a couple of times might have given her a clue but hey ho!

Once the tabs were placed on she started the ECG and then walked away just as tab felt off my side.

‘Tab’s fallen off.’

She carried on walking to the desk.

I repeated myself. ‘Tab’s fallen off!’

She seemed not to pay attention and went back to tapping her computer keyboard.

A few minutes later she came back and looked at the ECG then at my body and saw the loose tab.

She sighed. ‘You really should have said one of the tabs had come loose. We don’t want to be here all night…’

I went to say something but was in too much pain. She re-applied the offending tab and then walked away while the machine did its stuff.

This time there was a reading and she smiled. ‘Right, you can get down and get dressed now. All over.’

‘A bit of help, please,’ I said as I tried to get in a more upright position.

It was a wasted remark on her receding back. I struggled stifling an excessive amount of girly screams as pain shot through me.

I got to the chair a few minutes later just as the nurse looked up from her computer.

‘Not dressed yet, are we?’

Well, I wasn’t but she seemed ok.

I managed to get my clothes on and left the bow tie to sit in my pocket. I felt I didn’t want to inconvenience her any more than I had.

I slowly left the surgery and began what now seemed a long walk home. The physical pain I’d just been through was fading but the memory was pretty clear…

I hadn’t eaten since breakfast so bought a tin of soup from the corner shop before going home. It would be a simple thing to cook. And for what could be termed a red-letter day in diaries of those who knew me, I didn’t feel hungry.

Fortunately, there was not any permanent damage and I was surprised that the pain eased off within days. However, all those dire warnings about the dangers of alcohol and it turns out that the spilling of a pint of Apple and Blackcurrant squash was far more dangerous than any beer I’d drunk in the past or was likely to drink in the future…

Llandudno Junction

They say lightening never strikes the same place twice…in fact “they” say a lot but I’ve yet to be told who “they” are? I feel that these “they” persons should discontinue their covert behavior and show themselves (or should that be “theyselves?”).

Well, on the old lightening thing I beg to differ…

It was a frustrating and annoying train journey that took the Pink Lady and I to Llandudno (Telling Tales 27: Arrival) and fate decided it would be an equally appalling journey that would take us home.

We finished breakfast at around 9.15am, finished any last-minute packing and then brought our bags down to the lounge. The Pink Lady wanted to have a last look at the sea front before we set of to catch our late morning train. I felt the old knee was up to that; and even if it hadn’t been I would have gone anyway.

Once back we said our usual goodbyes and not for the first time that week I noticed Mr Guest-House was a little subdued. This year he hadn’t seemed quite as friendly as the previous years; something was lacking. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. But then, not everyone is up to salts all the time.

Once we said our final goodbyes we were off to the station.

To me it’s quite amazing that a train – in this case one that takes a 12-minute journey every half hour – that only has to go from Llandudno to Llandudno Junction and back again cannot be on time. Only two stops! Just two! Is it really too much to ask? Well, experience says it obviously is!

So, pulling along our luggage, the Pink Lady ahead as I struggled along doing my bad Long John Silver impression (sans parrot) as the knee was throbbing away…
After nearly two months I was getting quite fed up with the knee. It often lulled me into a false sense of security, made me think perhaps kit was going to be ok then pain…

It was the one hundredth time in the last few months that I made a mental note to get a doctor’s appointment once I got back home; I’d put it off long enough.

When the problem first occurred I thought – wanted to believe – it was a strained or pulled muscle. But having gone on so long without getting the slightest bit better, I suspected it was something far more serious.

It was with that in mind the old imagination started to kick in rather morbidly…

Most of us are aware that as you get older things don’t always work as well as they once did. Although throughout my younger years – right up until about my late forties – I gave it minimal thought; it was too far into the future. But what with the blood pressure and the very, very mild heart attack Dr Calm told me about back in the middle 00’s, I’d become a lot more aware of the fact that with each passing year things were unlikely to improve; I was passed my peak – presuppose I’d had a peak to pass.

The knee taking so long to heel was a point in fact. I’d pulled muscles before – one particularly bad case was due to Blackcurrant and Apple squash, although that’s another story. (No, really that is another story!) But most other muscle strains healed after relatively short periods of time; weeks rather than months.

I have never been someone who’s been into vast amounts of exercise like sport; even at school games was something I was expected to do rather than wanted to do. I hadn’t taken much interest in extra sporting activities out of school hours. However, one thing I’d always enjoyed was a walk and this was being hampered by the knee being so dodgy.

In previous holidays in North Wales The Pink Lady and I did rather a lot of walking. This holiday had been marred by me not being able to walk. I was getting to the stage where I seriously wondered whether it was ever going to heal!

Would this year mark the end of the Fitrambler walkies? Not being able to go much further than ten minutes walking distance from my house, no long walkies on holidays in North Wales, no long walkies while visiting the parents in Plymouth!

No long walkies anywhere!

It put me in the sort of depressed mood whereby I decided, that in my middle-fifties I would no longer be able to walk far; and whenever I did walk even the short distances I would have to take my walking stick. I felt it was far too early in life to be in possession of a walking stick; even thought it’s a rather nice walking stick! Although I suppose carrying a walking stick did have some advantages; one that springs readily to mind is accidentally prodding the flood of kids who crowd the early morning bus I needed to get me to work!

I was jerked out of my thoughts by the Llandudno Junction train finally pulling in five minutes late. The Pink Lady and I got on board. Fortunately, there were seats.

I let the Pink Lady choose where we sat. I would like to say that was purely out of chivalry, which in part it is, but there’s also something of a time-saving motive behind it. Nine times out of ten wherever decide to sit, The Pink Lady wants to sit elsewhere.

Once settle we waited and waited. Despite its lack of punctuality, it seemed in no hurry to depart. I was becoming increasing agitated and inclined towards a verbal expression of my unhappiness at what the rail company obviously loosely term as a ‘service’.

So, having pulled in five minutes late, it added a further five minutes’ delay and it was getting tight in regards to getting our connection at Llandudno Junction…

Finally, it pulled away and then informed us that the Deganwy stop was a request stop and so it wouldn’t stop unless requested. We were told this three times before we actually arrived at the stop. I suppose they were applying the rules so the lowest common denominator would understand; themselves…

I wasn’t the least bit surprised we didn’t get the connection we wanted. The one on which we had reserve seats; the very train that would have taken us through just over fifty percent of the journey without the need to charge hurried towards the next connection…No, that little pleasure was completely denied us…

So the result of all this was a free-for-all to get the bags secure and find somewhere to sit. Things weren’t totally against us as we managed to find seats despite the crowds. This was to be in my estimation the best part of the journey.

However, with regard to punctuality, this train performed no better than the previous one. We arrived at Birmingham New Street that, despite all attempts otherwise, always seemed cramped, dark and oppressive. My over active imagination convinced me you could make a good horror film at that station. I suspected, though, the station was such a depressing one that most people would deliberately fall into the arms of the mystery killer voluntarily!

I would probably rate Birmingham New Street as one of the worst stations I have ever had to deal with. It is a maze; even white mice have difficulty finding their way through it.

The Pink Lady and I separated and through mutual mis-direction by staff ended up with different ideas about which train to catch. The one The Pink Lady wanted to go on looked a little too crowded and I tried to say something but was given the look that would brook no argument from me.

So, wishing to avoid being slapped around the chops until my teeth rattled, I got on the train of her choice. To be honest, there was no guarantee the one I’d been directed to by the station staff would have been any better.
Unfortunately, the train we boarded wasn’t without faults – no surprises there.

There seemed to be only one coach which had several seats available; something that at face value seemed a plus. Quickly, though we found the carriage’s air conditioning wasn’t working. This meant sub-tropical temperatures for the journey.

I was prepared to risk that but The Pink Lady wasn’t, so we ended up in the corridor near the toilets; a convenience, conveniently nearby so to speak.
Within thirty minutes of the journey my knee was throbbing like mad and being near the toilet became less of a convenience. The Pink Lady was across the side which had a door and an open window.

Ten minutes into the journey…

‘You in the queue?’ I was asked.

‘What queue,’ I asked in return.

‘For the toilet.’

‘No, no, you go ahead,’ I replied.

It was one of those large toilets which you press buttons to get in, lock it and get out. Spacious though they are I have always been a bit wary of them. What it the electronics fail and the door suddenly slides open; there you are with your trousers down for all to see. Or worse, the door won’t unlock and you are trapped inside – in that sense they are almost as bad as lifts.

A few minutes later the guard came by with bottles of water which we secured a bottle each. It was the first drink I’d had since breakfast so even though warm, it hit the spot.

‘You in the queue?’ a voice said.

‘Sorry?’ I frowned, screwing the top back on my bottle of water.

‘The toilet? You in the queue.’

‘No, no I’m not,’ I replied.

The man moved forward into the toilet.

‘So you’re not in the queue for the toilet then?’ another voice said from directly behind me.

‘No, no I’m not. If I had been, then I would’ve gone in before the bloke who just did go in…’

The man sighed, shaking his head. ‘I’ve been bloody standing behind you for five minutes thinking you were in the queue for the toilet.’

A few minutes later the first man came out of the toilet and a few seconds later the second man walked past giving me a shake of his head.
Unfortunately, although in keeping with the type of day I was having, after the tenth time of being asked I rather lost it:

‘No, I’m not in a queue for the toilet! Perhaps I ought to get a tannoy announcement saying ‘the poor bastard with the walking stick, white hair and beard who has had to stand in the corridor where the toilet happens to be is not in a queue for the aforementioned toilet so don’t so sodding ask him ’.’

‘Alright, mate, alright. Just asked.’

He shuffled into the toilet looking as though my outburst had probably made it easier for him to carry out his business.

Over forty minutes later we reached Bristol Parkway, where after a wait we took the 18.01 to Swindon. Finally, seats and an uneventful journey back home, travel as it should be!

Just outside of the station The Pink Lady was picked up by her daughter. Feeling my knee can’t get any worse I walked the seven minute journey back to my house. Once home I felt I could relax a little and put behind me what must have been the worst holiday in North Wales since I began going there again in 2005.

There were some good highlights but most of what I knew would stick in my mind is my knee and the way it interfered with getting about.

However, the continuing saga of the knee wasn’t the only piece of bad luck linked to the holiday. When I received my usual Christmas Card from Mr & Mrs Guest-house it contained some rather bad news. They felt as we were regular guests we should have advanced notice that they were selling up; they were getting out of the guest house business.

This was rather a shock and very disorientating for old Fitrambler. I’d been going there ten years and it was hard to imagine staying anywhere else. Unfortunately, if we were to go back we would have to.

When I talked things over with the Pink Lady we decided we would miss a year. I still wanted to go back to Llandudno albeit staying at an untried Guest House or Hotel but there were rumblings that the Pink Lady would prefer using the closure of Audley House as prompt to try some other place.

When I think back to early 2005 when I was planning to have a holiday I planned on visiting all the places I hadn’t been to for many years, like Weymouth and Margate; the childhood holidays. Then I looked at Llandudno where Blameworthy and I went between 1981 and 1984. However, Llandudno was the place I settle for in 2005 and enjoyed it so much I returned for the next nine years.

I could see it was a good idea to try somewhere else but I also pined for a return to Llandudno at the same time. As it turned out it’s 2016 and we’ve not been back to Llandudno nor have we tried pastures new…

The Little Orme

One of the things about two week holidays at the Guest House was you often got a change of guests on your second week. It might be because they have already finished their second week prior to me starting my first or were only having one week anyway. Whatever, change happens and you are faced with some new arrivals you will either get on with or not as the case may be.

Although, to be honest, the vast majority of the guests I rarely said much to other than ‘good morning’ or ‘good evening’ to. There were a few guests who took their holidays around their same time as I did; like Walkfar and his wife Walkless who tended to come Monday’s to Friday’s. They had been coming for twenty years or more but only lived less than an hour away by train in Flint.

It was at the beginning of my second week when I was in the lounge ten minutes before lunch was due to start when Mrs Guest-House entered the room. I am pretty much a creature of habit when it comes to my holiday routine and usually like to have a little read in the lounge about half an hour before dinner is served; so to speak.

It was too early for the evening meal so I was a little puzzled; old Fitrambler hates having the old taste buds tempted before time. So, when I am in the lounge and Mrs Guest-House comes in, rather like Pavlov’s dogs the old salvia glands go into overdrive.

‘We’ve got some new guests in tonight,’ she told me.

It wasn’t a regular occurrence to be told about guests in advance so I was a little surprised. The usual routine was to meet them during breakfast or the evening meal. They just suddenly appear and the ones you are use to seeing at that table have just as suddenly disappeared…

‘One of them is nearly 93 years old…’ added Mrs Guest-House.

I hoped I wasn’t going to be asked to sing happy birthday, the old Fitrambler warble wasn’t really up to much these days. Come to think of it it was never up to much.

‘She’s in pretty good shape for her age…’ continued Mrs Guest-House.

Now I wondered if Mrs Guest-House and her husband were going into the dating agency business? I Know I am knocking on a bit but even I felt I could aim for a woman a good thirty years below that!

I raised an eyebrow and this must have registered with her.

Mrs Guest-House enlightened me further. ‘They are regulars but they’ve never been here at the same time as you. They’re registered blind…’

I still wasn’t sure why I was being so enlightened. I do have an extreme fondness for dogs but was quite dubious about my ability to do impersonations of a guide dog…so I rather hoped they had brought their own! The nearest I got to barking was when I got something stuck in my throat; woe betide anyone who was standing in front of me when I freed it!

‘They do quite well for their age and disability. They’re very nice. They’ll be joining you for the evening meal.’

At first I thought she meant on the same table. It would be cramped because my table is usually only meant for two.

‘They’ll be on the table next to the window in front of yours,’ she told me.

Something of a relief, I thought. Nothing worse than being on an overcrowded table. There tends to be problems with getting food in the mouth. One wrong shove of the elbow and somebody else ends up with what was on your fork on their plate or worse, in their ear. One thing I’m disinclined to do and that is to share my nosh…very few have ever attempted to remove food from the Fitrambler plate and the few that have usually get a warning growl…and if that doesn’t put them off then embedding my molars in their hand usually helps them get the message!

It was five minutes later I was at my usual table when I heard Mrs Guest House and three other voices alternating. The voices sounded a little like Minnie Bannister and Henry Crunn from The Goons, save for a slight Midlands twang.

I guessed this would be ‘The Trio’ Mrs Guest House talked about earlier.

They emerged into the dining room with Mrs Guest House helping The Trio, giving them instructions as to where everything was and who was where in the room. I was mentioned along with my geographical position and I was then introduced to Mr and Mrs Makeit and their friend Mrs Withem.

They seemed a nice enough group. Mr Makeit, I decided after a few minutes, was obviously the ring leader and organiser of the group. He was also, I came to realise, the one who did most of the talking and explained things to them.

Mr Makeit stood about five-six, thinning brushed back hair, brown framed glasses with very thick lenses. He wore a jacket with a thin jumper separating it from his shirt. Mrs Makeit was a few inches taller, white haired and looked as though there was oriental blood from a few generations ago; it was the eyes that gave me that impression. She wore a jumper, slacks and sensible flat shoes but no socks. She moved well for her age and I later found out she was capable of doing ten press-ups. I thought that was quite impressive; it was something I couldn’t do. Not that it was something I would ever want to aspire to; I could think of many things I’d rather do than press-ups…not doing press-ups immediately sprang to mind.

Mrs Withem was shorter than Mr Makeit, thinner and seemed greyer, not just her hair but her mode of dress. Grey skirt, grey jumper and blouse. She wore smaller, more oval shaped glasses but with equally as thick lenses as Mr Makeit. Her hair was very thin and short.

They were from Stoke area, Hanley, which would explain the Midlands accent. He certainly mentioned the place many times over the next few days. He seemed well-informed about the area in which he lived, taking a great deal of interest in its history.

Mr and Mrs Makeit had been married for fifty-three years. I quite admired married couples who stayed together long stretches like that. Not everyone has what it takes to survive such a gruelling endurance test. Let’s be fair the divorce courts are full of people who swore to love each other forever!

Other than where I came from and being told where I was sitting and whether or not I drove here, their conversation remained strictly between themselves. Mr Makeit ensuring they all had what they needed, after Mr and Mrs Guest-House pointed out where the food was. Being in possession of a decent set of peepers I hadn’t thought about let alone had to go through the worry of where things might be on a dinner table; being able to see everything to hand was something I took for granted. But when you can’t see things all that well then the assistance given by Mr and Mrs Guest-House becomes vital; after all, no one wants to put their fingers into hot soup when the real aim was to pick up the soup spoon.

As was usually the case, once lunch was over coffee or tea was served in the front lounge. I rather liked that routine as it gave me thinking time about what had happened during the day; relive a few of the pleasant memories. The Trio and myself were the only ones there. They were talking amongst themselves or so I assumed so I got on with writing out my postcards. Then, there would be a silence, almost an unnatural silence. I would look up and see they were all looking ahead. Then Mr Makeit would ask a question again. It was greeted with silence for a second time. Then I realised he was talking to me!

Again it was a difference between me, a sighted person and them being blind; I would look directly at a person I was talking to but they didn’t. I suppose if you cannot see anyone all that well there was no real need to look at them.
Then, after he repeated the question a third time, I answered him and he proceeded to talked over the last part of my answer. He would continue for a minute or two asking me (or so I thought) whether I remembered something, perhaps a place and a person, only to find he was now talking to his wife and Mrs Withem. I learnt that talking to them you needed to listen and be aware at all times so you would know your cue. I couldn’t rely on being looked at when I was being spoken to.

I would go back into trying to get the postcards written as they chatted to each other and then suddenly out of the blue find I was back in the conversation. Of course I would have to get him to recap – he must have thought there was something wrong with the old Fitrambler lugs!

The two women didn’t make conversation and all communications went through Mr Makeit.

Finally, when they went to their rooms, I was able to finish writing out my postcards, then went out and posted them.

The next day I was early for breakfast and finished just after 9am. I spent a little time looking at the light drizzle outside from the lounge; working out what I would do if it was going to rain all day? Over the last five years of holidays get in Llandudno I’d always been lucky and never suffered all that much rain. Most of the time it might rain over night and for an hour or two in the morning but usually stop just as I was due to go out. That being the case I hadn’t been forced to look for alternatives to being out in the fresh air.

There was a little drizzling of rain but on inspection of the clouds over the Great Orme I decided it wouldn’t last long.

Twenty minutes later I saw a gap in the weather and nipped outside before the Trio came into the lounge from breakfast. Within two minutes of being outside it started to spot with rain again. I got up and then realised I’d left my keys on the small coffee table by the side of the armchair I’d been sat in. I stayed on the porch and cursed myself for my stupidity.

What I should have done was to ring the bell and got Mr or Mrs Guest-House to let me in but I thought the Trio would get there first and I didn’t really want to get into another confusing conversation with them. However, I decided I would wait until I could see Mrs Guest-House and then get her attention…

I looked through the glass in the door to see Mr Makeit staring at me. His glasses made him look like a bee staring through the bottom of two jam-jars. I almost jumped back; luckily I didn’t as I would have sent the poor old postie sprawling across the path. I hadn’t seen him come up behind me.

Mr Makeit probably hadn’t seen me but after nearly committing common assault on the postie, I panicked and knocked the door and Mr Makeit let me in but not before the postie had deposited the letters in the wall box, staring at me cautiously, looking for a warning move that would place him in harm’s way again. Trying to smile at him reassuringly didn’t help.

With the postie gone I thanked Mr Makeit for letting me in.

‘Forgot my keys,’ I said.

‘Ah, it’s you, Fitrambler,’ he said, as I got within ten inches of him. ‘I thought you’d gone out ages ago.’

‘I went out into the garden to see if it had stopped raining but forgot to take my keys…’ I more or less repeated when I said a few seconds ago.

Again I reflected how easy it was to take for granted how well one’s own peepers worked and so everyday recognition of people was so easy. Mr Makeit needed to be very close for a decent identification. It reminded me of Gloom-Laden and his similar eye problems easy to forget how bad his eyes are; although they were not as bad as Mr Makeit’s.

For a minute or two I thought he was going to block the way for the rest of the day, but he finally moved to one side and he followed me back into the other room.

‘Still raining,’ Mr Makeit announced to the two women.’

‘Oh,’ responded Mrs Makeit.

‘What’d he say,’ asked Miss Withem.

‘I said it’s still raining,’ replied Mr Makeit.

‘I know, you said,’ said Mrs Makeit.

‘I were telling, Miss Withem,’ said Mr Makeit to Mrs Makeit.

‘What’d he say…’ Miss Withem asked Mr Makeit.

‘I said I was telling you it’s raining.’

‘I know, you said, I heard you,’ responded Mrs Withem.

I sat down in my chair. It was a depressingly bad start to the day but the sun arrived at about 10am and I was able to got out for a walk day.

When I arrived for lunch later that day, the Trio were already in place. As soon as I entered the room I was introduced by Mrs Guest-House again. I almost felt I was expected to do five minutes of stand up. I sat at my seat, was asked by Mr Makeit what I did after I went out that morning.

I told him about my walk to Conwy and back again…

‘What’d he say?’ asked Miss Withem.

‘Is that the young man?’ chirped in Mrs Makeit.

‘Said he went for a walk,’ responded Mr Makeit.

‘Who did?’ asked Miss Withem.

‘Fitrambler,’ clarified Mr Makeit.

‘Is he here,’ asked Miss Withem.

‘Yes, he’s in his usual seat behind you, Miss Withem,’ said Mr Makeit.

‘Did he go for a walk?’ asked Mrs Makeit.

‘Yes he did,’ Mr Makeit replied and then said to me. ‘Was it you that passed us in the afternoon, about 1pm.’

‘Yes, I did,’ I said, swallowing my water.

‘What’d he say?’

‘He said he said hello when we were by the Church. Told you it were him, I recognised his voice.’ He turned to me. ‘I recognised your voice.’

‘Whose voice,’ asked Mrs Makeit.

‘Fitrambler’s.’

‘Is the young man here?’ inquired Mrs Makeit.

‘Yes, I told you,’ replied Mr Makeit.

‘She forgets,’ added Miss Withem. ‘She’s nearly 93.’

The soup came and for a while my participation in the conversation was over for a while. Mrs Guest-House gradually served everyone with a bowl of soup. She makes it clear – as she did with breakfast – where everything they need is on the table. Mr Guest House brought my soup and third for Mrs Makeit.

Once Mr and Mrs Guest-House had gone Kelvin played the organiser again making sure each knew what is what and that they have got what they need. Until he felt satisfied they were alright he didn’t worry about his own needs. I guessed that at home he ran around (so to speak) for them, cooking and making sure they were alright. He seemed to relish the role and more importantly it all worked well for them.

The soup was pea and ham, the main course was sausages and mash, with white cabbage and peas. The pudding was syrup sponge and custard. Ah, Fitrambler in paradise.

The next morning, I got down to breakfast at 8.40 and tucked to the usual cereal, the full English (or full Welsh as Mr Guest-House referred to it; although he is actually a Scotsman), followed by toast. It was this breakfast that always set me up for the day.

Most of my days on holiday in Llandudno followed the same basic pattern. The large breakfast, plenty of walking – different destinations each day – an hour break at lunch – generally made up of fruit and water. Then more walking until 6pm when I would sit down to a three course evening meal.

Just as I was on the last piece of toast, thinking to myself are breakfast’s getting quicker or am I just disposing of them faster when The Trio walked into the dining room. Again, Mr Makeit organised things for himself and the two women.

The more I watched him at work the more I admired his spirit. Mrs Makeit, at 93, was 17 years older than Mr Makeit. If things followed a chronological order, then there was every chance she would go first. How sad that would be when you centred your life around someone; facing that day when they are no longer there and a part of your life has become null and void.

It was a depressing thought and I quickly shuddered my way out of it.

I got back early that day being a Sunday, having gone not much further than a walk around the Great Orme; around five miles. By 4pm, the Trio turned up and the peace and quiet was shattered.

They fussed over their coats and getting comfortable, then ten minutes later Mrs Guest-House is on hand with hot tea for them and some sort of cake. Mrs Guest-House was good like that; a sort of female Jeeves who seems to suddenly appear when needed and always with the appropriate item. I wondered when she and her husband ever got time to rest up?

As usual, they were grateful with Mr Makeit leading the ‘thank you’s’. I was offered coffee but declined; never got a look-in on the cake, thought. Probably just as well, as the old Fitrambler cake-shelf needed the break.

Once settled in with their tea and cake Mr Makeit opened a conversation.

‘What did you get up to today?’

‘A walk round the Great…’

Mr Makeit interrupted and then took me through a little of what he and his wife and Mrs Withem did. I frowned but any attempt to look indignant at being talked over was rather wasted on him. I have a rather good disapproving stare but it was useless here. I could never understand people who ask you something but talk over you before you have had much of a chance to answer. Why ask in the first place? Why not just say ‘I won’t ask anything about you because, let’s face it, all I’m really interested in is what I have to say’. It would be a lot more honest and save me a lot of unnecessary effort.

Mr Makeit, however, was no worse than a lot of people I knew, so I didn’t let it bother me too much. These days I tend to take that sort of behaviour to as a good reason not to waste my time in engaging in conversation; as long as I can put half a dozen words together for them to interrupt everything set up nicely for their monologues. I can conserve my energy for other things…

Nearly and hour later Mr Makeit is organising his women upstairs for a viewing of ‘Songs Of Praise’. It is one of their favourite programmes and Mr Makeit wonders if I ever watch it. Mr Makeit never fails to catch it; whether away from home or not.

‘Not really,’ I replied, ‘ I have high blood pressure and shouldn’t allow myself to get too excited.’

Mr Makeit frowned and I remembered he probably couldn’t see my face and thus didn’t realise I was joking. I suspected, however, that even if he did it wouldn’t have had his sides splitting…

There’s a telly in the front room, but also all of the rooms have one so I was a little grateful they wanted to go to their rooms to watch it.

As usual, around 5.55pm The Trio are helped to lunch by Mr and Mrs Guest-House. As I walked into the dining room I am announced as usual – all very Agatha Christie.

On hearing I had arrived Mr Makeit tells me: ‘Songs of Praise’ was from Trafalgar today…’

I sat down, glad my burning curiosity over that was settled, and acknowledged what he said. He carried on about what songs were sung and who was on the programme. However, as soon as the soup arrived the conversation – albeit one way – was over.

The soup tonight was leak and potato. The main course was roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potato, new potatoes, peas, carrots, a jug of gravy and some horse radish sauce. The pudding was apple lattice tart and custard. (I mention this because Blameworthy would never forgive me for not sharing the information with him. I wish I had taken pictures.)

Again, once dinner was over with it was an adjournment to the lounge for tea or coffee.

‘Ever been to Handley,’ asked Mr Makeit, after we’d settled in our usual seats.

I looked around but both the women were looking downwards and as they came from there I deduced the question was for me. I can be quite quick on the uptake when I want to be.

‘Can’t say I have, the nearest I’ve been is Birming….’

‘No good supermarkets in Handley,’ Mr Makeit said.

‘Oh, quite a few where I co…’

‘The only Marks and Spencers was taken way…’ Mr Makeit mused.

I presumed the thief had a rather large swag bag…

‘Stoke’s not a great one for shops, and the pottery industry has gone…’

‘To pot,’ I responded dryly.

‘Yes, yes,’ Mr Makeit replied a little impatiently. ‘The pottery industry, it’s all gone.’

I suspected my inability to know when I was being spoken to and my failed quips led him to believe I was either slightly deaf or perhaps a tad imbecilic.

From there Mr Makeit told me he was seventy-five. I was a little surprised as I placed him more in his sixties. He met his wife while they worked in the Blind Workshops many years ago…

Mr Makeit had been friends Mrs Withit since she was eleven and he was nine. He married his wife in 1956, some fifty-three years ago and despite the age gap it worked well. Mrs Withit’s husband died some years ago and so diminished the gang by one.

Originally, I thought they all lived in the same house but Mr and Mrs Makeit lived in a terraced house in the same area as the one Mrs Withit lived in; an address in Hanley, Stoke. I suspected this was when they married.

The strange thing about conversations with Mr Makeit was that neither of the two women ever really joined in. If they spoke it was always through him. Whether they had hearing problems or didn’t like to speak to anyone other than Mr Makeit I never found out; although to be fair I never spoke directly to them much either.

The next day I missed The Trio at breakfast. I got down earlier and left earlier. It wasn’t that I was trying to avoid them but because I wanted to get out quickly to walk to Colwyn Bay. The weather looked good. The final destination was to be old Colwyn. When I walked to Colwyn Bay last year I hadn’t given myself much time to look around Old Colwyn so decide to explore it this time around.

The walk took about an hour and half and the predicted good weather ended up being in for the day. I broke one of my holiday rules and instead of having just fruit and perhaps a yogurt for breakfast I had fish and chips. The smell possessed me as I went past the third Fish and Chip shop; the willpower just collapsed.

I got back Llandudno at about three in the afternoon, treated myself to a Mint Magnum, which I ate on the sea-front not too far from the Peer. Having spent most of the day walking I relaxed there for nearly two hours. There’s something quite calming to watching the sea while nibbling on a Mint Magnum.

When dinner time finally cam around again Mr Makeit asked me again when I was going home; I was beginning to think he was trying to get rid of me..

‘Saturday,’ I told him.

‘We’re going back on Friday,’ he replied, telling me what he had already told me a couple of times already.

‘Did you go for a walk today?’

‘I walked to Colwyn Bay,’ I responded.

He asked about some of the sights and inquired about Old Colwyn. They never went too far beyond Llandudno and I guessed the logistics were very much against it with their disability. I suspected that even in their younger days it wouldn’t have been easy with their sight problems. It made me appreciate my holiday all the more, the walks and the sights I could enjoy. It also made me admire Mr Makeit and his wife and their friend, Mrs Withem. It wasn’t easy to get around like I could and holidays couldn’t be easy at times. It would be easy to just stick around where you lived and not dare to go anywhere. But they didn’t and enjoyed themselves despite their disability.

Once lunch was over I witnessed the first rebellion I had seen in the Trio. Mr Makeit wanted to go to a show but Mrs Makeit and Mrs Withem didn’t want to go and he wouldn’t go without them. He tried to compromise by suggesting they go for a short walk; but they didn’t want to do that either. I could see both sides – on the one hand making the most of the holiday and on the other being very tired from a busy day. Both women were older than Mr Makeit and so tired quicker. In the end they went to their rooms…

Another day, and another walk to Conwy, then the final evening meal with The Trio. I was in the lounge while The Trio are placed at their seats and then I was called into dinner.

Today, Mrs Withem wasn’t happy that her portion of Cottage pie seemed too big. Mrs Withem had had the best of starts to the meal; having mistaken the Pepper for the Salt and liberally sprinkled it over her soup. She then spent nearly ten minutes sneezing and that seemed to unsettle Mrs Makeit who knocked over a small pot with two artificial flowers in; no real harm done but frustrating for them.

After dinner there was a second rebellion. Mr Makeit wants to go for a walk again but what must have been another busy day for the two women had left them disinclined to go anyway other than their rooms for the evening. This time when the women went to their rooms Mr Makeit went off for a walk on his own but not as a very happy man. I suspected it was stubbornness on his part. He wasn’t prepared to go without a walk for a second day but at the same time knew he wouldn’t enjoy it without the two women.

It pointed out to me that like most people, things weren’t always perfect between them. But they got on better than a lot of people I knew.

Soon, The Trio’s last day arrived and although most of the contact I had been having with them was during meal times, I knew I was going to miss them. I had got quite use to having them around. Usually on the Llandudno holidays I never really got too friendly with anyone. Still, my own departure would be twenty-four hours later…

After breakfast I decided to go outside and wait at the table…well when I say wait I don’t mean take orders or anything, just sit watching the world go by…(ok, perhaps a little too pedantic there…)

As it was rather overcast I had put a jacket on. The taxi was supposed to be picking The Trio up at 9.30am. I was updating my diary and by 10.00am the bloke still hadn’t turned up. Maybe he was an ex-bus driver?

Mr Makeit came out and was as worried as I was becoming. Then a bloke turns up in a cab from a company called Z-Cars. He found a parking space, though at first I thought he was going to the wrong Guest House. But the street wasn’t the easiest to park in.

Minutes later I was helping with the cases and saying farewell my farewells.
Like with a lot of the guests I have seen over the first five years since I first returned to Llandudno as my annual holiday, I never knew whether I would see them again.

As it happened I never did. As of 2010 I wasn’t on holiday alone as the Pink Lady joined me for the next five years. Those next five holidays were also later in the year, no longer early June but mainly late July or August. But as was always the case, I was kept up to date about the people I got fond of by Mrs Guest-House…

Unfortunately, I found out in 2014 that Mrs Withem had died and Mrs Makeit was really struggling to get around; hardly surprising as she would have been about ninety-seven. They hadn’t had their holiday that year. I felt a little sadness as I thought about what Mr Makeit would do once Mrs Makeit died; I got the impression he didn’t have any other family or friends…who would do the job of looking after him as he had devotedly looked after his wife and her friend?