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Get on board with the Double Deckers
Feb. 14th, 2012 10:55 pmBus-train-ferry-train-bus.
For once I have no complaints about the train. It is timely, quiet (we even have French people opposite us talking about horses, rather than squally teens) and, most importantly, warm. Through a Surrey-scape of frozen lakes, icing dusted trees, sugar frosted fields, icicles hanging off bridges stalactite-style, glum looking animals poking for food, until the Wight Rider ferry which, amazingly, corresponded with the times of the London trains. We, however, didn't correspond with the time of the London train, sailing over Waterloo Bridge on the 76 just as the 11.30 was pulling out, which gave us an hour to drink bowls of coffee in Le Pain Quotidien, an over-priced Belgian bakery chain which nonetheless managed to be relaxed and efficient at the same time. Plus: fig jam.
Over the sea to Ryde where we took the rinkety-tink electric train to Shanklin and then the bus to Ventnor where Alice had hired a house for her birthday, a vast 4 storey Victorian mansion, really lovely, except there was no central heating so we had to huddle around oil heaters and a log fire, kindled with copies of the Daily Mail (it burns green; all the evil and jealousies and spite pouring out). It was fine for those who'd grown up in rambling 19th century houses with secret corners and hidden nooks, but I spent my youth in a 70s double glazed Barrett home. I have no idea of how to be cold indoors.
We ate jacket potatoes and watched The Double Deckers, me wondering who was now dead. We guessed Doughnut. We were right. I spend the evening re-reading The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole. Recently, it was the 30th anniversary of the publication of The Secret Diary of... Mangan of the Guardian stated that originally, she thought the book was a real diary and Adrian Mole had dictated it to Sue Townsend. I didn't think that, but aged 9, I didn't realise that it was supposed to be funny, I thought it was deadly serious and I very much identified with Adrian, despite him being a stinky boy. Anyway, I laughed and laughed and then cried because it's no longer the 80s. I did read The Wilderness years some time ago, but didn't like it because teenagers being unworldly and misunderstanding and self obsessed without self awareness is hilarious, in adults less so. I also realised that the book is as much about Adrian's mother as it is about Adrian with Pauline Mole as a stand in for Sue Townsend.
Saturday, we went for a wander into town, to the perfect curve of Ventnor's cove, past deco and faux-deco buildings and waterfall, to a beachfront cafe for coffee and then onto the Esplanade for a walk round the bay in brilliant sunshine to Bonchurch which featured an 11th century church, snowdrops, red squirrels scrambling in trees, a pond and a pyramid. Dickens stayed here, as did Swinburne, whereas Marx and Turgenev holidayed in Ventnor. Back in the town we have soup and coffee and bump into the others and venture onto the beach before wandering around, past the Potty the Pirate pub to the coastal cliffs before turning back.
In the evening, we have pasta, wine, throwing coal on the fire, listening to Ava's snores on the baby monitor which sound like the Tardis landing, games of What's This Chair in which you use a chair to mime an object. I considered doing tampon but settled for umbrella.
We wander, Everyday is like Sunday style, up the cliff tops to the Botanical Gardens which will look nice when plants are growing and down the steps to the adorably twee Steephill Cove, all fishing smacks, thatched cottages, boat houses, beach huts decorated with buoys, and a lighthouse. We clamber back up and have chips on the front before repairing to the house where Alice is having her birthday cake and tea before taxi-train-ferry-train-tube-bus back to London which, in its southern parts, is still covered in snow, like we've been abroad or something.
For once I have no complaints about the train. It is timely, quiet (we even have French people opposite us talking about horses, rather than squally teens) and, most importantly, warm. Through a Surrey-scape of frozen lakes, icing dusted trees, sugar frosted fields, icicles hanging off bridges stalactite-style, glum looking animals poking for food, until the Wight Rider ferry which, amazingly, corresponded with the times of the London trains. We, however, didn't correspond with the time of the London train, sailing over Waterloo Bridge on the 76 just as the 11.30 was pulling out, which gave us an hour to drink bowls of coffee in Le Pain Quotidien, an over-priced Belgian bakery chain which nonetheless managed to be relaxed and efficient at the same time. Plus: fig jam.
Over the sea to Ryde where we took the rinkety-tink electric train to Shanklin and then the bus to Ventnor where Alice had hired a house for her birthday, a vast 4 storey Victorian mansion, really lovely, except there was no central heating so we had to huddle around oil heaters and a log fire, kindled with copies of the Daily Mail (it burns green; all the evil and jealousies and spite pouring out). It was fine for those who'd grown up in rambling 19th century houses with secret corners and hidden nooks, but I spent my youth in a 70s double glazed Barrett home. I have no idea of how to be cold indoors.
We ate jacket potatoes and watched The Double Deckers, me wondering who was now dead. We guessed Doughnut. We were right. I spend the evening re-reading The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole. Recently, it was the 30th anniversary of the publication of The Secret Diary of... Mangan of the Guardian stated that originally, she thought the book was a real diary and Adrian Mole had dictated it to Sue Townsend. I didn't think that, but aged 9, I didn't realise that it was supposed to be funny, I thought it was deadly serious and I very much identified with Adrian, despite him being a stinky boy. Anyway, I laughed and laughed and then cried because it's no longer the 80s. I did read The Wilderness years some time ago, but didn't like it because teenagers being unworldly and misunderstanding and self obsessed without self awareness is hilarious, in adults less so. I also realised that the book is as much about Adrian's mother as it is about Adrian with Pauline Mole as a stand in for Sue Townsend.
Saturday, we went for a wander into town, to the perfect curve of Ventnor's cove, past deco and faux-deco buildings and waterfall, to a beachfront cafe for coffee and then onto the Esplanade for a walk round the bay in brilliant sunshine to Bonchurch which featured an 11th century church, snowdrops, red squirrels scrambling in trees, a pond and a pyramid. Dickens stayed here, as did Swinburne, whereas Marx and Turgenev holidayed in Ventnor. Back in the town we have soup and coffee and bump into the others and venture onto the beach before wandering around, past the Potty the Pirate pub to the coastal cliffs before turning back.
In the evening, we have pasta, wine, throwing coal on the fire, listening to Ava's snores on the baby monitor which sound like the Tardis landing, games of What's This Chair in which you use a chair to mime an object. I considered doing tampon but settled for umbrella.
We wander, Everyday is like Sunday style, up the cliff tops to the Botanical Gardens which will look nice when plants are growing and down the steps to the adorably twee Steephill Cove, all fishing smacks, thatched cottages, boat houses, beach huts decorated with buoys, and a lighthouse. We clamber back up and have chips on the front before repairing to the house where Alice is having her birthday cake and tea before taxi-train-ferry-train-tube-bus back to London which, in its southern parts, is still covered in snow, like we've been abroad or something.
