Fraser left us as we prepared to fly home to see our daughter, Laura, who was making a short visit soon her way home to Canada after a conference in Finland. We travelled light (ish) with just small rucksacks, but there was a 300Watt/hour lithium battery hidden inside my bag, which made it pretty heavy to carry. Yes, we finally managed to get the bike battery back to Northern Ireland!
I did a lot of digging in EasyJet’s small print, and discovered that a battery of this size is allowed IF it is for a mobility aid. Despite Fraser’s constant teasing about my laziness in having an electric bike, it really is a lifeline for me. Without the electric bike, I couldn’t manage to get to a supermarket to provision the boat, or to the Port Police to get our transit log stamped in every port we visit. Now, a bike is not legally considered to be a mobility aid (although cycling organisations and disability charities are fighting to get them recognised), but we decided it was a grey enough area too be worth the risk. So we packaged it up and clearly labelled it, being prepared to risk confiscation at one of the airports (since this battery doesn’t work reliably anyway). If successful, we would then hope to bring the replacement battery back with us.
I’m the sort of person who looks guilty even when I’m innocent, so I expected to be questioned about the massive battery in my bag. At each security desk, I blurted out, “There’s a mamoosive battery in my bag, but EasyJet said it would be okay!” This caused some amusement but no issues until we met a Jobsworth at the final hurdle on our way back to Greece yesterday. A grumpy security supervisor lectured me for a while but let us onto the plane. More about that later. We still have to try out the new battery on the bike. Fingers crossed the problem will finally be solved…
Once back home in Groomsport, we prepared for Laura’s arrival, caught up with our other adult offspring and their partners, and shivered. We shivered a lot, and slapped the heating onto constant, and loaded the bed (and armchairs) with extra blankets. What a pair of wimps. The temperature when we left Greece was in the low- to mid-30s Celsius; in Groomsport it was less than half that. My joints didn’t appreciate the cold and damp, and all my Mediterranean suppleness turned into aches and pains that lasted the entire time we were in NI.
Laura’s plane landed in Dublin, and we collected her. She was totally confused about timezones, since over the previous 10 days she’d gone from Canada. (UK minus 8 hours) to Finland (UK plus 2 hours and the same time zone as Greece, by coincidence) to Groomsport (UK time). Consequently, she was waking around 04:00 every morning and wanting her breakfast. Luckily we were still on Greek time, so the day began early for all of us.
Laura had sent her big sister a baking list of homemade yummies she says she is incapable of making herself, so Fraser and I benefitted from chocolate chip cookies, Yorkshire parkin, old fashioned school sponge cake with icing and sprinkles, and finally chocolate biscuit cake. All the pounds I’d lost in those few weeks on the boat piled pack on again, but Je ne regrette rien.
While we were home, I managed to do a library talk for the lovely readers of Carryduff. It was a full house, with extra chairs required to seat everyone. These events are always fun, but this time I had my wonderful family around me (almost all, as two stayed away to prevent passing on their colds).
This was, as always, a great experience (at least for me; not sure about the audience!). I read from each of my books and answered questions about the writing process and where I get my ideas from. Several old friends turned up, some of whom I hadn’t seen for years, so it was a perfect opportunity for a catch up as well.
We really enjoyed spending time with all the family, and especially Laura. Several fun day trips that wouldn’t have been possible before Laura moved to Canada (she’s become accustomed to long drives and now no longer complains or turns green). However, even though we were home for little more than a week, Fraser, Patrick and I still managed to get up to some mischief. For some time, the boys have been looking for a project old car to work on, and I showed no interest until the word, “Mini” escaped their lips. An advertisement for one that ticked all their boxes had appeared and they wanted to look at it (just look, mind, nothing more). I went along as the resident Mini specialist, having owned two Minis over the years, and we all fell in love with Charlie.
Although Charlie is 30 years old, he’s been kept in immaculate condition by his two owners, and it was an easy decision to buy him. He was clean when we collected him, but Patrick, who details cars as a hobby, wasn’t satisfied. After a couple of hours of tender Ministrations (see what I did there?), Charlie looked showroom-new both outside and under the bonnet.
Finally it was time to tuck Charlie up in the garage (although I think Patrick has a car show planned while we’re away) and pack our bags for the flights home. We labelled the battery, stuffed our new knitted fender covers into a bag, and coaxed Laura into driving us to the airport at silly o’clock in the morning. Her flight back to Canada was the day after ours, so she was going to have to bus it this time.
The flights we’d booked had a 3.5 hour layover, which seemed plenty at the time, but next time we’re going to double that. Our flight from belfast City was delayed by almost 2.5 hours (just under the time required for them to have to give us compensation!) because one of the service doors wasn’t working. This was the front right hand side door of the plane, the door they use to load wheelchair and otherwise disabled passengers. Fraser and I (he comes along with the Special Assistance folks so he doesn’t lose me in an airport) and three others waited for an hour or so in a cold, draughty corridor, and then again in the accessibility wagon, and then back in the corridor, but we had it easy.
Photo credit: Hugo_petitjean via Pixabay
Speaking much later to another passenger, we discovered that because one of the escape doors was out of action, the plane couldn’t take off with its full payload of passengers. The staff asked for volunteers to take a bribe of £250 to be moved to a different flight. Roughly 10 volunteers didn’t step back fast enough, and they needed 60. Next, they used criteria to cull the passengers, so we were okay because we were Special Assistance, as were parents with young children and people with connecting flights (us again, so doubly safe), but after that, you were in their sights. Eventually, and after many raised voices (we’re told), they whittled it down to the correct number and everyone was allowed to board. By then, our take-off slot was long gone, so we had to wait until there was a space. At Gatwick, where we’d obviously missed our landing slot, we flew a holding pattern while Fraser and I glanced at our watches in ever-increasing panic. Our nice, safe, layover was disappearing fast.
Image credit: austingmackell0, from Pixabay.
Luckily, when we did eventually land, we were met at the gate by Cedric, one of the Special Assistance helpers. Having been told by the stewards how tight we now were for our next flight (slightly over half an hour, with check in closing in 4 minutes), he shoved me in a wheelchair and set off at breakneck speed through the airport. Honestly, he really should consider a career as a rally driver. There was a slight hold up while Mr Jobsworth questioned the battery, but then we were off again, with me leaning into the corners. We made it, but only because this plane was also slightly delayed. Phew! A couple of Pinot Grigio’s later, we both began to relax and sag into holiday mode once more!
