So, the holiday has officially started, Caroline picked Billy and Isabelle up from her mum's this morning, where they'd stayed last night, to ensure that we would be able to get all the cases packed without giving the game away. We'd told the kids I was working away for a couple of nights, which didn't go down very well, though this changed when Caroline had suggested to the kids that they travel over to surprise me by turning up unannounced, with that as their plan, they toddled off to school.
Caroline and myself did the final checks of all the paperwork, passports etc, etc (you'll note that I specifically involved Caroline in this task should any blame need to be attached at a later date) and set off for Leeds train station, where we had a full English breakfast, and a cheeky San Miguel to kick start the holiday. In my disappointment, nay outrage, that there was no brown sauce available to accompany my fine feast, I inadvertently spilt tomato sauce over my pristine white shirt, that I had foolishly decided to wear.
Caught in a no mans land of confusion as to whether I should utilise the final 45 minutes before my train leaving and returning home to change, thus maintaining a facade of semi-respectability, or to attempt to obscure my inability to eat properly by hiding the mark on my shirt by juggling my ridiculously heavy suitcase and man bag continually for the rest of my journey to Manchester. My laziness dictated the latter approach was the only truly viable option.
Anyone that's been to Leeds knows that we truly are a friendly bunch, but put a newly arrived train with limited seating in front of us, and any sense of decorum disappears as quickly as a fast pass to Toy Story Mania. One quick shoulder charge later, I was in possession of a spot for my suitcase, and a much prized window seat, I graciously accepted the knowing glances from my fellow travellers as they acknowledged my herculean efforts that had secured such luxury. Those of you that have travelled via train over the Pennines will know what a fantastic journey it is, the mill towns of Batley and Huddersfield give a nod to their industrial past, but once beyond you have the rolling hills with beautiful countryside. Today was quite overcast, and once we gained height there was the fantastic spectacle of the mist rolling down from the peaks and into the the villages below - I can imagine that the weather in these remote places can be quite challenging, but I wouldn't mind living in a place which delivers as much when it's sunny, as it does when the weather could be deemed miserable.
Talking of misery, I was soon in Manchester. A brooding town, ever since the House of York banished them over the hills with a flea in their ear, evicting them from picturesque Yorkshire forever. I had considered wearing my Leeds shirt, in celebration of our recent spectacular slaying of the less famous United at Old Trafford, but I figured that the quietly in, quietly out approach was probably more condusive to an enjoyable stay.
I disembarked at Manchester Airport train station and rang Bewley's from the freephone at the station. They didn't answer. I rang again three times before assuming that I must be doing something wrong. I glanced out of the window and could clearly see the hotel, so I decided to walk over, after all, it couldn't be too far. Whoever penned the phrase appearances can be deceiving, clearly tried to walk from the train station to Bewley's. I toured several car parks, a garage, and a busy dual carriageway before I managed to ascertain a final approach, which unfortunately resulted in me immersing my brand new, limited edition, faultlessly white Adidas Kegler trainers into an inconveniently positioned pool of black gloop. The fact that I had had to speed into the gloop to avoid being knocked over by a van that had specifically speeded up to ensure some form of inconvenience to myself, made matters worse. The mathematicians amongst you will appreciate the equation of pristine white trainers, divided by a pool of black gloop, multiplied by additional weight of ludicrously overladen suitcase, equals maximum devastation.
I sullenly plodded into the reception much like Steve Martin in Planes, Trains and Automobiles when his hire care wasn't at the correct place and he had to walk five miles back to car hire desk. How I laughed when the clerk mentioned that the "phone hadn't stopped ringing", I couldn't resist speculating as to what the phone call may be for, "a lift from the train station perhaps?", but I cut my losses and left for the room. Thankfully, the male trait of not wanting to complain about things and kick up a fuss saved me from returning to reception to complain that none of the lights worked, it's been a while since I travelled, so after showering in the dark I remembered that you're supposed to put the room card in the light switch to make them come on. It's instances like that which will make you understand why Caroline has to be present pretty much permanently to ensure that I can do menial tasks, such as turning lights on.
Anyway, time for one last quiet brew before my unsuspecting travellers join me, more later...