At work yesterday I asked the kids how old they thought I was. 'OLD!' seemed to be the consensus response and I couldn't fully disagree. 'Thirty-six' I told them, rolling the number over in my mind. Thirty. Six. When you're ploughing through your late teens and into your twenties, numbers like 'thirty-six' seem clunky and baggage laden. You don't actively volunteer your age to someone if not asked when you're thirty-six, it seems unseemly. So I guess I'd just pushed my birthday to the back of my mind this time around.
This time round I think X was more excited than I was. We spent a couple of days in the New Forest and stayed at one of those plush corporate hotels which host weddings and upscale Tom Jones impersonators at £35 a head. The breakfast was something to behold though - they served up feathery scrambled eggs with that melt in the mouth quality which I would've eaten a bucket of. We filled our boots (and sneaked out a little extra for luncheon) before hitting the road early Sunday afternoon.
We arrived at Deadman's Hill in the New Forest for our afternoon stroll (and to walk off our morning breakfast indulgences) about 2pm and set off to conquer a nearby woody hillock. It was sunny but cold and the ground uneven. I had the inconvenience of having a baby strapped to my chest - visibility was.. challenging, lets say. The journey uphill was alright, we dodged a few boggy patches and clumps of pony poo and reached our peak to drink in the view. The way down was a different story, it all started going pear shaped when we left the path to take a direct route back to the car. The muddy patches became boggy and soon we couldn't navigate around the wet stuff but had to plough through the middle of it, hoping for the best. Now this is good fun when you're travelling solo, but disconcerting when there's a baby attached for company. D was her usual stoic self, she drank in the views and letting out little coos of interest every few minutes or so. I won't forget her little chuckle when my right foot went into the swamp almost shin deep and some animal instinct told me I better start running for safety.
The crowning moment was leaping a stream running between us and the footpath upto the car park. E and X cleared it like the doughty mountain goats they are, Diz and I weren't so lucky and stumbled before clearing the bank. I rolled onto my side in a Colt Seavers stylee to spare D a winter soaking and got further drenched for my trouble. Her non-plussed look of "what's all the fuss about?" following our sodden adventure was particularly entertaining.
Anyway, we lived to tell the tale, X thought it would've made a good TV show. I won't forget that feeling of my feet marinating in a sock full of ice cold water and taking one for Team Dizzy.
Hopefully next year will be just as satisfying,
A.
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