“I never thought I’d ever go to a place where I felt young again.”
Leapy
Leapy’s lucky streak appeared to have exhausted itself as much as we had. The Ravenscar Hotel was either a geriatric’s paradise or a euthanasia retreat.
I’d not seen a bedside phone like that since I wanted to marry Chris Evert.
The bath had a giant handrail to assist the elderly in and out; the way Patch was walking he would be glad of that on his fiftieth birthday.
We’d gone in search of the promised jacuzzi to rest our limbs but there wasn’t one; oblivious to four elderly residents – not including Big Al – and various signs around the pool, I belly-bombed Patch.
That might have been okay back when I was twenty or if I had a belly the size of my target but it hurt like hell and I almost drowned.
Big Al came in and looked like he would do the same which was enough to convince the residents that the bar was a better option.
The hotel was gearing up for a care awards ceremony with a red carpet being rolled out for the rubber glove army. Once more any notion that we come away on these jaunts to re-live our youths was destroyed.
It was our last night before our homecoming at The Scruffy; for the tour virgin it had been a long week.
Dinner was magnificent, the kind of last supper I would want if attending a Dignitas function. Indeed, if it was my turn for a lethal injection, a burger, pint of Amstel and the company I was in would be all a man could wish for.
Our last day awaited and was time critical as a train awaited at Scarborough. An early start was planned and a fast trot intended, so much so that Big Al already had the bus timetable to hand.
There were several obvious flaws in our strategy:
1 – Leapy said it was all downhill
2 – We had a big fat cripple in tow
3 – Patch had latched onto the whisky bottle again
Bizarrely, the temperature in the hotel ramped up. Five Pints suggested they had the incinerators on taking advantage of cheaper gas rates at night for the Disposal Unit beneath.
An old lady, close to the point of no return, pushed past aided by her walking frame; Big Al eyed this enviously as he considered tossing her into the flames of hell and making Scarborough in an assisted fashion.
It was a time of reflection; who would do anything different next year? Leapy confessed he had erred by bringing his entire summer/autumn collection. In direct contrast, Five Pints had gone minimalist and smelt so.
We could all learn bits to make next year’s trip that little easier albeit Big Al’s suggestion of a week in The Scruffy seemed limited.
Morning broke with Five Pints looking like Casper the Ghost. We assembled for our early breakfast, talk turning already to the guide book’s claims of an easy twelve miles.
Big Al disappeared having failed to get a volunteer to cut his toenails; our suggestion of the local sheep farmer was not well received. Unfortunately, Uncle Andy still had the key to the room. Of course, we could have called him back but…
We waited for his eventual frustrated return to the dining room – 5-4-3-2-1! – and burst out laughing in unison. It was so good to be nine again.
What was supposed to have been a gentle “downhill” stroll into Scarborough was never destined to turn out that way, not that Leapy and I had anybody else to blame.
We’d set off in glorious weather high up on the hill, the sky so clear Scarborough was already in view way off in the distance.
Big Al, having been away from The Scruffy for some two weeks, set off at a furious pace. It looked as if we would have far too much time on our hands.
As we found the first steep descent, there were two confusing signs; predictably Leapy and I took the wrong one.
There were tell-tale signs to turn us around such as ground that had barely seen a mountain gorilla plus cries in the distance from Uncle Andy of “you’re going to die!”
With all the conviction of blind confidence above any rationale thought,so typical of two ex-sales people, we strode on into the jungle.
After about an hour of pretending either of us understood the map, which we didn’t, we decided an old rail track was our only salvation to find life again and set off at an Olympian pace.
It was a brutal slog, driven on as we were to try beat the rest to Scarborough, competitive spirits always alive and well, never more so than in deluded middle-aged men.
Finally we found Scarborough; it was like the land of the zombies. Drab streets and a lot of people who looked down on their luck hardly lifted the autumnal drizzle.
Eventually we found the rest of the gang, reunited once again. And so it was that a week that began in the splendid surroundings of Great Ayton ended in the Railway Men’s Club, albeit, in the “best” room.
What a week it had been, well worth the numerous aches and pains shared across the group. Roll on next year and thank you for reading.
M.T.Leahy says
Brilliant.
Feel exhausted reading it !
Bill Bryson watch out….
Steve says
Flattered…thank you very much