Back to the Start

After seemingly endless hot nights, the constant purr of the overhead fan, the early morning quack quack quack of ducks floating in with the stifling breeze and that very first submersion in the soothing waters before breakfast, we were on the move to a cooler, damper place, where duvets are duvets and rain is a nuisance. It was a darkening, sodden Devon countryside as we landed in Exeter for a trawl along familiar sights – Trago, the Wrangaton turnoff, the Little Chef – building up to the bright lights of Plymouth – the Sainsbury sails, the ski slope, the signs for Home Park. It may be half as cold and, yes, a little damp, but the comfort is unparalleled.

There is a ritual to a homecoming, beyond the g’days and hugs and “give us any of your washing” instructions. This involves a trip to town, a Cornish pasty from Warrens and a walk up Armada Way to the Hoe and around the shoreline to the Barbican. The pasty was disappointing, but that’s okay, it gives me improvement to strive for. The walk was as it has always been, footsteps paced a thousand times before, minute changes in evidence here and there, but the same, fabulous view from the Hoe, the same ice cream vans struggling for trade on a blustery cool breeze, the cobbled streets and smell of sizzling onions on the Barbican. And as I become older, the memories seem to get more vivid, like a Noel Edmonds sweater… the warm days clambering about the foreshore, the rides on the Gus Honeybun train. The ice cream or fudge or pasty or fish and chips or Jasperizer or pint of cider or multi-stacked burger in that pub somewhere. The spring tide and people canoeing in the streets. The Lord Mayor’s parade and endless majorette bands. Playing computer games at Ian Lowman’s old house on the Hoe. Having a beer at the Notte Inn when the barmen were dressed in drag one night for some reason. Stepping in dog turd near the Court in the chunkiest shoes I ever owned…

OK, time to stop reminiscing I think! Back in the world of Digital Technicolour, life goes on in the city of Plymouth. Shops are closing down, people are drinking that awful coffee in those awful coffee chains, the sun is flitting between dark clouds, Tesco is selling clotted cream and scones and – suddenly – all is well with the present.