ISLE OF WIGHT 2021
The Sibling Staycation
30 years after our last adventure to the Isle of Wight, the exile order has expired! As the ferry sailed out of Portsmouth a tear of pure joy glistened on Grandad’s cheek as his two children, three grandchildren and Muttley were safely onboard, leaving him behind. His only slight concern was that the family doctor had gone with them and she may have been helpful with winter coming. Oh well, you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs!
As the Special Seven (nothing really secret about them) arrived at their cottage in Niton the pecking order became clear. I was, as always, bottom of the pile although this time at least the dog could keep me company. My sister was only one rung above me (and only because she had such a hacking cough that I felt marginally sorry for her) while Joseph showed that age is no substitute for raw volume. Amy and Emily traded places for silver and bronze but Nova was undisputed Queen. An almost unique ability to repeat herself endlessly, with each repetition slightly louder than the last, could be a tactic she learned from her time watching Parliament Live (at 3 it is hoped she is not too familiar with Spitting Image).
Given this, it was with some trepidation that we approach Carisbrooke Castle on our first morning. The magnificent castle was a favourite of Queen Victoria’s daughter, Beatrice, but more concerning for me was that it was the castle where Charles I was imprisoned before his execution. As we listened to ghost stories of disappearing professors (yes, again, I felt this was directed at me), a scream of delight could be heard as the children entered (breached?) the armoury. Charles’ attempt to escape had been thwarted by getting stuck in the window but time (and gunpowder) meant there were now several large gaps for me to run screaming into the woods. What followed was worse than any ghost story.
Being bottom of the pile, no-one listens to you so after I had been tracked down in the woods it was suggested we take a short walk from our cottage to the local beach. The phrase “short walk” usually has the dog bounding for the door in excitement so some people may wonder why she ran and hid in her bed as Karla announced the plan. What other people don’t know is that on our first evening Karla had suggested another “short walk” to the local pub (her father would be proud of her), which would only take a few minutes. 30 minutes later, 6 drenched humans and one dog that could be mistaken for a drowned rat, felt like they had conquered Everest having hiked over a mile uphill from the cottage to the pub.
“Dolly come!” was not a request, nor really a demand by Nova. It was said in such way that non-compliance was unimaginable and even reluctant compliance could be met with the most feared punishment in a dog’s world, the Squishy Hug. Dolly therefore leapt out of her bed, thinking, as all intelligent beings should, that lightning shouldn’t strike twice while knowing that it was technically possible.
“Stupidity,” reasoned Einstein, was doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results. After a brutal descent from the cottage, we discovered our local beach didn’t have sand, the cafe was closed for the season and the colourful green moss that stuck to everything was more slippery than Dominic Cummings. “Fear not!” declared Karla, there is a lighthouse just a short field away and that will be beautiful. The field was not short, the lighthouse was not beautiful and the ground was a bog.
After reaching the lighthouse it was clear that the children could not go on (neither could the adults). In the distance, we could see our cottage, perhaps a mile away and several hundred feet above us. An hour’s walk or more with three hungry, angry, tired children would prove another of Einstein’s theories (that time moves differently depending on how much you are enjoying yourself). A volunteer was needed to run to the house, collect the car, drive to the lighthouse and rescue the team. In fact, two volunteers would need to go to bring both cars while one adult would stay with the children. It was never discussed who had the worse option but Karla and I set off at a jog up the hill while Emily heroically stayed behind.
“The shortest distance between any two points is a straight line” may be scientifically true but it does mean that is the quickest way. As Karla made a bee-line for the gate at the top of the field, I headed back to towards the cove and the known path. A couple of minutes later a scream that any lady walking the plank would have been proud of, shattered the otherwise noiseless air, as Karla got stuck in shit. Literally, her boots were overflowing in cow shit. The pain from laughing almost made me forget how much this was going to cost me later. Never has the word “squelch” been used so accurately as the noise Karla made on her return to the house.
The storm was no longer limited to a teacup as we awoke the next day. 40mph winds, not just arising from the local cow fields, whipped the sea against the local flood defences. It was, therefore, in my opinion, the perfect morning for a dawn walk on the beaches in Shanklin. I mean if Dorothy can be swept to Oz, surely there were good odds that at least some of the three children and a miniature dog would follow suit but, alas, Emily decided at the last minute to come with me (Karla still being traumatised by yesterday’s hike stayed resolutely off her feet) and therefore hands were held and dogs retained on leads.
Having being thwarted in the morning, I remembered the motto that, “if at first you don’t succeed”. Therefore we headed off to Alum Bay to see the famous rainbow sand. Rainbow Sand may sound like something you buy in the shady streets of Soho but is, in fact, an apt description of the sand of Alum Bay, which, due to local mineral deposits, truly takes on all colours of the rainbow. We nearly turned back on arrival when we were told that the high winds meant no cable cars were running and therefore anyone wanting to go to the beach would need to descend (and presumably reascend) the long staircase from the cliffs by the Needles to the shore. Still, descend we did, nearly all the way to the bottom before realising it was high tide and there was less than 3ft of beach not under water. The ladies decided discretion was the better part of valour and returned to the top and a cafe but Joseph and I soldiered on. We had the beach more or less to ourselves and, dodging the waves that threatened to soak us, had a magnificent hour on the beach.
Eventually, the ladies rejoined us after Karla, who like me grew up by the sea, declared the tide was turning and therefore there was no risk of getting wet now. All I can say is, “splash” (surely now she would have learned her lesson?!
After all the excitement of the last few days, it was decided that a quiet day on the beach was the order of the day. We packed up a picnic, drove to the beach and looked out at the sea. Surely, this was we wanted right? Well, when I said we saw the sea, what we didn’t see was sand as we arrived at high tide. If I told you that there was just a thin gap between the tidal wall and the sea and that Karla announced that the tide was definitely going out and there was no chance of getting wet can you guess what happened next? Don’t you hate it when a narrative becomes predictable. Still, this did not perturb the three children who proved ice cream solves everything.
The final day saw us leaving the 21st century and heading to Osborn House, the holiday home of Queen Victoria. As a student of history, I found the house was a treasure trove. Sadly, for most of the group, the real treasure was found in the local tea rooms or in the playgrounds of the Swiss Cottage. However, as I am constantly reminded, it’s not all about me (although no-one has explained why not).
All (or nearly all) jokes aside, it was a fantastic family holiday but now we return to the mainland and, hopefully, a rest!
