It seemed that, every time I've been to Yarmouth in recent years, my wanderings have taken me past the Waterways. This, though, was the first time I'd actually set foot inside the gate for several decades. I felt a sense of peace and happiness there, thinking of the boats that had carried holidaymakers around the site, and the illuminated figures that once adorned the banks. It was fun to cruise past these in the dark evenings, watching with some excitement another boatload going down the opposite stretch of the layout, which consists of a sort of double figure-8. On each island between these canals was a neat shelter, within which adults took their ease, courting couples delighted in each other's company, and children could scamper to their delight and to the annoyance of everyone else.
The shelters are still there, and seem to be well cared for. It was with a tinge of sadness, however, that I noted that there were no signs of either the boats or the bank-side figures. When I got home, I found that there is a facebook page for the Waterways, and that it is still an operating feature of the resort - it just happened to be closed that afternoon. The people running it now have even restored boats to the waters, too!On my journey home, I gave some thought to the question, just what was it about the Waterways that I found so poignantly personal, and that gave me such happiness? Eventually I came to some conclusions; we used to come for a week to Yarmouth every summer from my fourth to fourteenth year at least, and probably before and after as well, if truth be told. And somehow, it's these summer holidays that remind me specially of my father. As a farm worker, dad worked a 48-hour week in those days; during my earlier years, at certain seasons, I saw little of him at all, because I would be in bed before he got home from work. When he was at home, he was always busy, usually outside on the garden, where I was forbidden to go for fear of either getting dirty or trampling on the growing vegetables ... or both!
At holiday times, dad was released from both work and garden; like it or not, he was ours, mum's and mine! I could enjoy his presence, chatter to him about my world, and he seemed to take it all in, and paid attention to me. Any other time he would be distracted by the day to day 'stuff' that adults always seemed to put first. But for that one week in the year we were a proper family, and it wasn't until now, looking back, that I realised just how important that was to me.
Turning to the other end of life, I'm hoping not to end my days in the flat - nice though it is - where I'm living now. I've yet to find the ideal home of my dreams (maybe never will), but I believe it will be in a village or small town. Today, I delivered in a part of a town not far from here that I'd not seen before, and as I began my return journey, I spotted a row of four bungalows. If possible, you should read the rest of this with the Welsh accent that suddenly, and inexplicably, came to my mind as I thought these words. Perhaps it was something of my unknown future echoing my undiscovered heritage!?
"These almshouses are lovely and quiet. The neighbours are near enough to be handy when you want, and there's a school across the road to give you a bit of young life to look at ... so long as they behave themselves. There's a nice broad avenue to walk down, and a little shop for your essentials. It's all very convenient; and there's a chapel down at the end of the road. Primitive Methodist, it says it is - built in 1910 - not old enough to be falling down, but old enough to have been refurbished: comfortable."
And that last word, quietly satisfied, had four evenly-stressed syllables.
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