Day 15 - Wet Weekend in Wales anyone?

My phone is repeat ringing and following the arrival of lots of shouty capital letter text messages I have completely ignored, my Spidey Senses are telling me my Mother is in a pissey mood.

I answer swiftly in the hope to diffuse the situation.

'SUSAN JANE JONES, Do not mention ME in this so called Drink confessional essay, you seem to be focusing on....I know you think you are funny but you're not and, if anyone at the WI or Walking club read it.........Oh my lord......I FORBID IT ......YOU HEAR ME' she barks down the phone, followed by a lot of tutting, and the handset being repeatedly slammed over and over against the phone base, each time missing its intended landing spot as she adjusts her glasses and refocuses.

Essay, I think to myself, what does she think I am focussing on.......some sort of Winter term  School Project, and as for Confessional.............. the last time I went to confession, Father Cahill stopped me mid chat and asked me to speed it along or he would have to cancel his Summer plans?

Now my Mother's verbal restraining order is to do with her own religious rituals since she  stopped Sunday Worship due to Covid Restrictions back in 2020.  Mum in her religious wisdom, has indeed replaced the Body of Christ with 2 M&S fruit scones (Jam and Cream) and the Blood of Christ with half a bottle of M&S finest Sherry on a Sunday whilst watching Songs of Praise and genuflecting past the TV every time there is a hymn change.

Your secret is safe with me Mum, and for good measure I will say couple of Hail Mary's and ask for the cleansing of your Sherry riddled Soul in my prayers.

Now I digress, todays blog is about my rather last minute wet weekend in Wales and by wet I mean Rain not Rioja sadly.

Without the usual alcohol induced slumber of a Friday night, I am wide awake at the crack of dawn and decide today is the day we should go and check up on our Welsh Caravan to blow away the cobwebs.

Now Caravanning is a love or hate subject, I mean nobody likes driving behind one at 28 miles an hour in a 60 and especially when these slow fuckers, adorned with all their caravan club gleaming paraphernalia, only seem to be available to buy strangely enough in Discharge-Beige.  

Anyway ours is one of those fixed ones, the double fronted, all singing all dancing, complete with inside Bar, wraparound decking and the word 'Lodge' emblazoned on it to completely justify the additional 100k on the sales price. 

Irene, has for as long as I can remember, been a huge fan of weekends in Wales, with her slurry tag line, 'The Wetter the Better' as she mooches from the beach, to the bar, hilltop to hideaway and Inlets to Inns on our ever so familiar walking pub crawls. (Crawling being the actual bodily movement for the last leg of the journey)

In fact back in the day, the rather savvy Saleswoman, clearly with an honours degree in 'reading the room', placed a rather fancy crystal glass of bubbly in her hand as soon as she entered the resort and Spa sales office. 

Wasn't quite so funny when two bottles in, Irene decided to take control of the Sales golf buggy and see if it 'corners like its on wheels'.  It didn't and the price of a replacement one was promptly added to the 6753 payments, pissed up Irene had signed up for.  Oh how Rob laughed on the way home.......NOT!

Anyway this weekend was one with a difference.  A clear head, enlightened vision, and memory fully in tact,  I felt like I was viewing the magnificent scenery with a completely different set of not so yellow eyes.  Wales is simply stunning, and sober, ever so much more so.  The days are longer, they are fuller, more enriched and the memories are wonderful without an ounce of beer fear in sight.

The pubs with their roaring fires are an absolute pleasure (although their takings may be down) and rather than only reading the wine menu, I actually take in the entire ambiance of each place we visit and love everything about the experience.  

Rob finishes his beer and we set back along the beach path home.  Much to my surprise the path is a straight line back?  I was about to confess that I had always thought the road home meandered a tad from my fit bit tracker evidence, but decided last minute Irene's slaloming fancy footwork should remain private like my Mothers Sherry habit which around about now, 3pm on a Sunday will be in full swing.

Enjoy Mother and Wales I bloody adore you! xxx