NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 7

Monday 13th September

(Just realised we were mindlessly oblivious of the September 11 anniversary - so belatedly - condolences to all who suffered or lost their loved ones on that fateful day but perhaps it presented yet another lesson to humankind in ways too complex to be processed by our emotions)

Insert - 1 minute's silence here...............................................................................


Well, what is so gratifying about being in England is looking at the roadmap and wondering how the hell we're going to cover the distance in a single day then realising that the density of development within all those intersecting lines on the paper are so close together that nothing is further than 2 1/2 hours away - brilliant!
So the preparation of the cars and organising "padkos*" and anticipating an epic journey seemed so funny afterwards when it took around an hour to get to where we were going which was near Totnes in Devon at a little resort called Edeswell Farm.
Cute place I have to say but the mattresses were the highest quality from the new IKEA Marquis de Sade summer range and left us all buckled, bent and grumpy each morning - fucking atrocious things.
Another interesting dynamic was the assumption by sister-in-law-from-hell that there were 2 double beds in the 2nd bedroom, so accommodating 7 of us would be no problem but the sneaky gits who posted the pic on their website must've used a fish-eye lens because the skinny little single beds that were actually snugly (and I mean 'snugly') ensconced in the bedroom were anything but accommodating.
And I have recently discovered that my wife is not just into retail therapy but has evolved to a fully-fledged serial shopper and the pathetic sight of Robin & myself trailing after the women in various shopping precincts like a pair of puppy dogs is about as good as it gets for the boys who have no browsing capabilities whatsoever and, it has to be said, no retail stamina in any manner or form.
Men can run, cycle, jog, shag or walk for hours and hours to attend a desired sporting event etc. and this only serves to invigorate them, however, when it comes to a mere 20 metres of lethargic meandering around any form of specialist store boasting how much you will be saving by spending money there for items that may perhaps never see the light of day other than the very moment of purchase, the will to live just seems to fizzle out and die within the breast of the normal man. Women, conversely, are buoyed by these activities and seem to suck the lifeblood from their partners with scant disregard for his dwindling life-force which seems to be inexorably connected to the thickness of his wallet. And it's an event of attrition - the shopping stops when a) the husbank falls over in the mall, twitching and gasping for air or b) the wallet dessicates into dust as the remaining credit is drained from its innards never to be resurrected in that particular realm of retail.
Having survived the rigours of mallemia or craftcentre-fever, we assembled at the local supermarket to buy 2 days groceries for 7 which seemed to result in the gross domestic product of a small developing nation squeezed into a landfill's worth of plastic bags and catered for every dietary requirement from vegetarian to cholesterolarian.
An afternoon of swimming, eating, eating, eating and then surprisingly eating when we were bored, ended in an evening at the local pub which is reputedly haunted and, I'm told by my wife, is called The Coachman circa 1046 which boggles the South African mind. Not the possibility of haunting (we have millions of spooks scattered throughout car-parks of South Africa haunting the hapless motorists daily), but the vintage of the place and the fact that it is still an operational establishment in fine condition and, judging by the dank atmosphere of the place, still boasts the original plumbing system.
Having instructed the resident barman in the intricacies of concocting of a rock-shandy for moi, we settled for a very cosy evening of banter and bullshit before retiring for the night, knackered and unaware of the horrors that faced us...
and no, once again, not the haunting which would have been welcome in comparison to the torture visited upon us by the self-minded man-eating mattresses.
Twisted and tetchy we breakfasted unenthusiastically then headed off for a drive to Bigbury-On-Sea as Robin cited this as a potential surfing spot and an area he would have visited aplenty if he'd secured a transfer to this part of the country. It was beautiful and typical of the dramatic coastline we would see over the weekend and I was fascinated by the elevated sea tractor they used to drive people across the isthmus to the island hotel across the way.
What was even more impressive for me was the stainless-steel self-contained hand-washing units in the public loos. What a great idea - soap-dispenser, lukewarm water and dryer all in one compact unit. Brilliant! I know I am odd but these practical gadgets would work a bomb anywhere and I've never seen anything like them in SA.
We enjoyed a pleasant lunch at a local fish & chip shop in Torcross where locals tucked into the giant cod portions - catches that would have sunk a destroyer but were happily consumed by denture-challenged wrinklies with much gusto and broad exposure of semi-masticated food.
Is it just me or do people generally have fucking atrocious table manners? I've never seen so many people chewing open-mouthed, talking at the same time while exposing their lunch to their dining companions who, in deference to their piggy partners, seem to reciprocate with a similar obliviousness. Head down, eat food, don't look around and escape became my lunchtime motto.
Now that we have acquired a Garmin satnav device - a must for anyone hoping to traverse the mazelike hedged-in roadways of Britain, we gave our little device a name - Gabby and true to her programming she guided us in the "fastest route" possible around the Devon countryside which is great unless you suffer from motion sickness and/or claustrophobia being contained within green tunnels, hedgerows whipping past the windows like verdant carwash brushes.
And I'd tell you about the passing scenery if I'd been able to see the fucking stuff! Hedge heaven.
A lazy meander back after breaking Kayla's yo-yo while attempting to demonstrate the walking-the-dog manoeuvre and smashing it on the pavement. Someone needs to teach that kid how to tie slipknots I tell you.
Night of telly in the room and the dread of the Marquis-de-Mattress to look forward to.
Goo goo ga joob...