Post 342: Homeward bound.
Getting up is always a mixed experience on the last day of any holiday, but leaving this comfy profiling bed would be interesting.
The car was packed and the cottage swept clear of our belongings, which up until late last night had been strewn far and wide. My Darling left the key in the door and opened the big gate for us to leave. She jumped in the car and said, “Let’s go,” so I set the navigator to home and rolled off down those little lanes for the last time. Happy to leaving them behind.
We had a good hour before we were skipping along the motorway, the miles clicking by easily. I wondered how long I would last in the driving seat. We had enough fuel to get home, so no worries about which of the hiked prices to choose from. Things had changed — this war was affecting all parts of life now. Go hike! you money grabbing shisters.
While we were flying along the three-four lane motorway, we chatted about this and that, but the thought of getting a new bed was front and centre.
Would it be better to get a double bed in the main room, or a single where I am? It’s a tricky one. If it’s for years, there’s a lot to be said for a double — finding each other again, listening to each other snore. I haven’t missed that… well, maybe a bit.
A riser-recliner chair would be a good idea too.
After tossing a few ideas around, we got nowhere with the bed — but we’ll find a local second-hand shop for the chair, I’m sure.
One hour passed, then another two, and suddenly we were on familiar roads and nearly home. It was only 11:30am, so most pubs weren’t even open yet, but I kept suggesting places where we could stop for food. By the time we’d worked our way through the online menus, we’d already passed the turnings to their dining rooms.
I suggested we get home and walk back to the pub we know is good — the one we only ever go to for special occasions (like our wedding reception). A call was made for a reservation and, by then, we were home.
Instead of unpacking the car, we didn’t have time for that — apart from grabbing a walking pole. We pulled on our best winter coats and set off straight away, before the rain starts. No toilet break, no pause — just grabbed onto each other and disappeared down the road.
Nearly a mile later, we were there, sat down with a drink in a warm, cosy atmosphere.
The warmth wasn’t just from the heaters around the room, but from the steady stream of couples, older couples, arriving and filling the place. It was pensioners’ Friday lunch, and we were lucky to get a seat.
We had a difference of opinion about starters and ended up with the usual compromise — her starter and his dessert.
I had a pint, nearly finished, but the treacle sponge and custard defeated me in the end. What a feast. What a good call.
I cruised home without the same energy as before, and due to my Darling needing a pit-stop at the Co-op for a few essentials, I ushered her along at her pace while I took my own sweet time.
We arrived at the front door together, pushing past the pile of post that had built up. The kettle was on within minutes of getting in and emptying the car boot.
Ah… to sit down in familiar seats, with familiar remotes aimed at the familiar huge TV. Bliss.
I had found my feet again after a restful holiday. A near two-mile walk after a three-and-a-half-hour drive — this is more like it. This is more me.
I shall sleep well.
I shall sleep happily.
Mr U is as healthy as possible — and that’s great.
Good night.
PS
Mr Vicious is well and cuddling up to us like we’re never away, bless him.
