Walking Disaster

WALKING DISASTER

The wheat field stretches ahead as far as the eye can see. Fully ripened heads dance on delicate stalks in the gentle summer breeze, like a thousand golden fingers beckoning. Cotton wool clouds drift lazily across an azure sky; the sun illuminating the dense trees surrounding the field of shimmering grain.

         A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. As we venture into the field we do not yet realise the irony of those words.

         Unsure of what to do with the day, we’d started the morning with a leisurely stroll through Shanklin’s old village. Personally, I was hoping it would turn too hot to do anything but laze on the beach but knew from experience Mother would have other ideas. A holiday with my mother is about as relaxing as a fortnight backpacking through Iraq. After the shops, we followed the road to St Blasius church, standing aloof cloaked by ash trees, where we spent some time wandering through the churchyard. At the end of a row of weathered gravestones we’d discovered this unexpected wheat field basking in the summer sunshine.

         Mother’s studying a signpost. I say goodbye to my lazy afternoon acquiring a sun tan, knowing she’ll now have a plan of action forming in her brain.

         “Do you fancy a walk to Ventnor?” she asks before I’m quick enough to feign a sprained ankle.

         “How far is it?” I reply unenthusiastically.

         “I don’t know, but it doesn’t take long on the bus, does it, so it can’t be that far.”

         “What about lunch? We haven’t brought any sandwiches.”

         “Oh, that’s typical of you; always thinking of your stomach first. We can have a pub lunch when we get to Ventnor. Come on, it’ll do you more good than lolling on a beach.” That’s a matter of opinion but no one else is allowed one.

         So begins our journey through the gently undulating field; the dusty aroma of dried earth mingling with the musty scent of wheat ready for harvesting. Our trusty Cairn Terrier, Boo, (don’t ask) scampers excitedly ahead of us, camouflaged by the waist-high crops. She’s never walked through a field of wheat before. Come to think of it, originating from a city, neither have I. Nor am I aware of the allergy I have to the pollen that floats everywhere around us as we crunch our way towards the woods that lay beyond the field. By the time we reach them I’ve broken out in a sweaty rash and can’t stop sneezing. Do we have any tissues? Of course not. Being summer, sleeves are not an option either. Believe me; wiping a runny, sore nose with sycamore leaves is not a pleasant experience.

         Emerging from the woods, we find ourselves confronted by an almost vertical slope stretching into eternity. A monument stands where the summit appears to be, looking like a child’s model from this distance. My already struggling lungs wheeze in protest at the thought.

         “Oh Mum, I really don’t feel like mountaineering in this heat. Shall we turn back?”

         “Don’t be such a wimp. Where’s your spirit of adventure? If I can do it, so can you, just think of the view from the top.” Mother on a mission is unstoppable.

         Thirty minutes later, lacking the necessary oxygen to swear or light a much needed cigarette, we collapse onto the monument. The view from here offers two choices. Behind us, the sharp incline we have just tackled; in front, another hill even steeper and longer than the previous one.

         “Well, we’ve come this far,” my over-enthusiastic mother remarks before I can complain. “I bet we can see the whole island from up there. Come on.” It’s at times like this I sometimes wish I’d been orphaned at birth.

         Admittedly, the view from the top of St Boniface Down is breathtaking; once we’ve recovered some breath, that is. In the far distance the horizon meets the English Channel, reflecting the blue of a perfect summer sky, melting into the many rich greens of fields and woodlands caressing the quaint old towns of Shanklin and Ventnor. We pause to rest, sitting on an uneven stone wall to take photographs for the family album.

         The climb down is easy by comparison; it’s only when we reach the bottom and look back at the stone wall that I realise my expensive camera is still on it. Another climb to retrieve the forgotten camera does nothing to improve my mood or frayed nerves. Exhausted, hungry and thirsty, we ignore the seats placed at regular intervals as we tackle the downward slope again.

         “Why is it they always put seats on hills going down?” my mother observes. Logic doesn’t run in our family; I ponder again where the genes came from that enabled my sister and I to pass the eleven plus examination. Our father’s rarely allowed to speak, so we’ve never gauged his intelligence level. In fact, we’ve often contemplated how we even managed to be conceived with parents who come from different planets. Maybe we’re adopted, or maybe we just hope we are.

         At least now we’re on the flat as we continue our walk, following the signpost over a stile and into a grassy field. After a few steps, Mother comes to an abrupt halt.

         “What’s that over there? They look like cows to me.”

         I sense more problems. “Mother, they’re miles away. They can’t even see you from that distance. Anyway, they won’t hurt you.”

         I know it’ll fall on deaf ears. My father told her the same thing on a walk along the River Trent a few years ago. After dancing cheek to cheek with an upright Friesian on that occasion, she’s never trusted my father or anything bovine since.

         “I’m not crossing this field; we’ll have to find another route.”

         There’s no point continuing the discussion. I must admit the distant cows do look rather beefy (excuse the pun) and sinister, with threatening horns and very large dangly bits. (Not udders) We turn to leave the field but not before Boo has discovered a juicy cow clap to roll in. Instead of that sunny afternoon on the beach I now have a rash, a blocked nose, blisters, an hysterical mother and a foul-smelling terrier. Oh joy.

         The alternative route adds a few extra miles to our trip, as well as nettle stings, insect bites and numerous cuts and grazes from overgrown flora and fauna. The icing on the cake arrives in the form of an unpredicted, torrential shower. Do we have an umbrella? Of course not. Eventually the rain stops, the sun reappears and the air is filled with steamy cow-dung-scented condensation as the dog dries out. We reach the far side of the field of cows, where a notice on the gate informs us ‘The cattle grazing in this field are Aberdeen Angus Highland bulls. They are completely docile and harmless.’ By this time, Mother is more at risk of being trampled by her shattered, wet, starving daughter.

         The path now leads through another small copse, emerging into very pretty scenery. Heavily scented shrubs and a variety of colourful flowers fill the borders of a large area of plush, newly-mowed grass. It’s almost like someone’s garden. Only when we come to a fluffy rabbit in a hutch and observe an enraged figure flapping his arms like a bird of prey ready for the kill do we realise it is someone’s garden.

         “Do you realise you’re on private property?” It becomes apparent we have inadvertently wandered into the local vicarage plot and the vicar is not pleased. He strides towards us angrily, robes flying; face rapidly turning crimson above his dog collar. I feel a bubble of laughter rising but manage to suppress it.

         “I’m sorry,” I attempt. “We’re not familiar with the area and didn’t realise we’d taken the wrong path.”

         But the vicar is on a roll. “How would you like it if I decided to have a Sunday picnic in your garden?”

         The mental image of this large country vicar eating cucumber sandwiches on our postage-stamp-sized council house lawn, with the ethnic and mad Irish neighbours peering over the fence is too much for me and the bubble of hysteria bursts.

         “Damned tourists,” the vicar concludes as he shoos us off his property.

         “I thought you were supposed to help lost souls.” I retort, making a mental note never to donate to Christian Aid again.

         Back on track, my spirits lift as the town of Ventnor comes into view. Crossing an extensive car park to find a much needed public convenience, Boo decides to develop the psychological bad leg that always accompanies the sight of gravel. Hauling a muddy bundle of wriggling canine, stinking of wet dog and cow manure into the toilets, is of course, my sole responsibility, as is the delightful task of cleaning her up sufficiently to be allowed inside a pub. Are there any paper towels in the loos? Of course not. The only available wiping material we have is the swimsuit I intended to wear on the beach. I cringe as I carry out my cleaning duties, making another mental note to ensure Mother buys me the most expensive replacement I can find when, or if, we get home.

         We step through the doors of The Blenheim Hotel looking like twin scarecrows from The Wizard of Oz, our stinky Toto now securely leashed.

         “I’ll have to sit down.” Mother sinks into the nearest seat. “You get us something to eat and drink. I’m exhausted.” Yes Mother, no Mother, three bags full Mother.

         “Two halves of Guiness and two cheese salad rolls please.” I manage a smile for the Landlord.

         “I’m sorry my dear, we stopped serving five minutes ago.”

         Perfect timing is another of my family’s traits but that’s another story.