"A Reilly male is never without a handkerchief" - Kirsty Kissell née Reilly

It was a warm day in Crete. By warm, I mean 38 degrees Celcius. Classic British understatement really; it was, in point of fact, unconscionably hot.

The wider Reilly family had been landing in Crete in preparation for Dominic's wedding to Eleni. Dominic is my cousin, the eldest child of Frances and Jim. Frances is the youngest sister of my mother Ann. To Fran's great delight, she is closer in age to me, than to her oldest sister / my mother.

Dom, who's birth I discovered from a note pinned to my bedroom door at university, was due to marry a girl named Eleni who was a Cretan. For clarity, let me say that this is not some sly dig, rather, if you are from Crete, it turns out you are a "Cretan". As a lady named Cassandra explained "yes, we know what it sounds like, but that is what we are". I appreciated that they refused to be bowed by any attempt at mockery at their chosen name and effectively said "no, this is ours".

On Saturday 24th May 2025, a variety of Reillys, Kissells, Kerrs and more had assembled on the Greek island of Crete. All set for the wedding that would unite Greek and UK families.

Whenever you have the privilege to attend a wedding of a culture that is not directly your own, it is fascinating. The differences and the similarities clamour for your attention.

As someone born and bred in the UK, the first difference I noticed was the start time. The wedding was set to officially start at 7pm. Back home, 1pm would be more typical. But as we sweated our way through 38 degrees that day, the logic of the start time became undeniable. If it had started at 1pm, we'd be passing out in our suits by 1:15.

The entire wedding took place outdoors. Coming from a country where it rains half of the time, and a further quarter of the time it looks like the weather is considering a dowsing, it seemed inconceivable to have an entirely outdoor wedding. And yet that's what it was. The service took place in a large courtyard with a chapel in the centre. The reception took place in a garden under the open sky.

The nature of the service was different as well. In the UK, you show up at a church. You sit in a seat and stand and sit as you are directed. You sing some songs. You observe the vows. Typically there will be some kind of address and some prayers. But what is a given, is that all eyes are on the ceremony.

In Crete, it's a little different. There's a few chairs laid out, but these aren't for everyone, more for those who really need to sit. Everyone else stands around at varying distances from the ceremony that is taking place. And there's a lot more people. So many that if you're further back, you probably don't really know what's going on. And that appeared to be fine. In fact, for some people it seemed that whilst they were happy to be here for the wedding, paying close attention to the ceremony was not necessarily high on their list of priorities. They weren't exactly second screening the wedding; rather it was more like "yes there's a wedding, but there's other things happening too - I haven't seen this guy in, oooh, weeks!"

The wedding service was conducted in, I assume, Greek. Whatever happened, I didn't really understand it. It was, as they say, "all Greek to me". I think it was a Greek Orthodox wedding, looking at the outfit of the priest and the paintings of icons in the chapel. Dominic is Catholic, and whilst Catholic and Greek Orthodox have differences, there's a lot more that unites them rather than divides them.

It wasn't just the people there taking in the ceremony that evening. Pat, younger sister to my mother and older sister to Frances, was with us in an online sense. She is a Poor Clare nun, and lives in an enclosed order in England. David, my brother, had kindly dialed her in from her convent in the UK, so she could watch.

The priest was a bearded chap, with a full head of hair and an impressive gown. To my great surprise, he appeared to be the older brother from another mother of one of the curates of my own church back in Twickenham. I took the opportunity to let the Anglican priest in England know I'd encountered his probable relative near Heraklion. He pondered it may actually be him in future, suggesting he has some knowledge of time travel and flexibility in theology which hadn't hitherto come through in his sermons.

Hurling of confetti or rice is something that appears to be shared across the cultures. Towards the end of the ceremony, a large bowl of rice went around the crowd, from which everyone took a handful. Someone said the Greek equivalent of "at my signal, unleash hell" and the bridal party, who were processing around the table where the service was conducted, began to be pelted with the hard rain of uncooked rice. What started as entertainment to me, mutated into genuine concern. The rice being used was risotto style and the grains were quite circular. I feared if we were using basmati we could have had someone's eye out. The priest had wisely decided that the magnificent Bible being used in the ceremony, could do double duty as a makeshift umbrella. Not his first rodeo.

With the ceremony complete, the wedding moved into a large garden and the eating and drinking began. Greeks like to eat. I thought I liked to eat, but I now realise I don't even feature on the leaderboard. It was explained to us that a flock of sheep, belonging to Eleni's family, had been executed and roasted for us that day. We had seen racks of meat roasting in the corner when we first arrived.

So we ate, sat in the open air. It was dark by now, and we couldn't always tell what we were eating. But it was great. We ate more. Then more. Curiously, we hadn't eaten any lamb. Unless it was disguised perhaps? But whatever we had eaten, it had been fantastic, and very satisfying. As we sat back and focused on digestion, Jim (Dominic's father) approached.

"Now I just wanted to give you a heads up. We've had the aperitif, and we've had the starters. Next we've the mains, which is Gamopilafo. And after that there's the mutton course, of course." We blinked slowly at this news. Jim grinned, nodded and headed off to share the information with other tables. I made a strategic decision to go down a belt buckle at this point in preparation.

Gamopilafo is also known as "Cretan Wedding Rice". It's lamb which has been roasted, and rice and pasta which has been cooked in the stock of the lamb, with lemons. It's kind of a brothy risotto and it is fantastic. As it arrived we reached down to our reserves of eating space, and tucked in. Gosh it was good.

We ate what we could, then sat back. Overwhelmed. I was mulling how many belt buckles a man could go down. Much food was subsequently removed from the table. As Jim had predicted, then came the mutton course. I think it was called Antikristo.

We tried a forkful. It was exceptional. Such a shame then that there was no way we could have much more. In the end, we sat there staring at the meat, occasionally stirring and chopping and consuming a mouthful. Each time it was a reminder that a mouthful was too much. We couldn't eat more. We felt meat guilt as they belatedly took away plates which must have contained nearly the same amount of meat as they arrived with.

We heard, some days later, that the uneaten food was not wasted, and will have been eaten over the next week or so by the family. I'm writing this a week later, so I'd say by now that Eleni's family have reached peak lamb, passed through it, and are now making resolutions to never eat lamb again. Well, until the next wedding at least.

Main courses out of the way, the wedding turned to dancing. There was a traditional Cretan dancing display lead by a troupe of dancers in costume . It seemed to involve a lot of high kicks and jumps from the most athletic member of the troupe and more sort of "bobbing up and down" style dancing from the other five members. No doubt I'm doing them a disservice with that description.

Towards the end of their display, everyone was invited onto the dancefloor to do some traditional dances. I think "Zorba the Greek" may have featured as part of this. Bruce, Kirsty and a variety of other family members headed to the dancefloor to get involved in the action. There was swaying and linking of arms, and also a conga. I would have joined in, but recent back issues meant I had to appreciate from the sidelines instead.

The male members of the family were all gifted traditional Cretan wedding scarves called "sarikis". If you can imagine the scarf worn by scouts, but rendered as a decorative string vest with tassels, that's roughly what they were. If you look at this picture of my father, you can see what I mean. The sarikis had been made by Eleni's grandmother.

The traditional music gradually shifted to more modern music. Well, Abba. It was at this point we became aware that my youngest brother Peter had somehow acquired a microphone.

Speeches, a standard feature of English weddings, appear not to be a feature of Cretan weddings. My mother was slightly forlorn at learning this, counting the speeches as potentially one of the best bits of a wedding. If the speech was good that is.

Peter had evidently decided that his role in the wedding was to bring a UK tradition to bear. A noble aspiration. "Dominic is a beautiful man, beautiful inside and out..." he intoned. So far so good, though he seemed to be going toe to toe with Donald Trump in his love of the word "beautiful". He continued "and Eleni is alright too I guess..."

"Oh Peter! You can't insult the bride" wailed Mum. The speech continued onwards and featured references to "Wise One", Peter's chosen term of endearment for Dominic's mother Frances. The speech meandered for a while; the uncharitable in the audience may have considered that perhaps it hadn't been entirely prewritten.

Peter, realising perhaps that he was in need of a punchy ending to the speech, opted to sign off in an unexpected fashion. He offered an appreciation of the dancing that we had seen thus far, and that he'd like to perform his own dance for the bride and groom. It would be great to report that I took the moment to look in their direction and gauge a response. But to honest, it was hard to look away from Peter at this point. Slow motion car crashes are undeniably compelling.

The DJ put on some kind of dance track and Peter, taking the whole dancefloor to himself, proceeded to vibrate with energy as he danced. If the guests weren't surprised enough by what was taking place, his regularly dropping in the breakdance move "the worm", which involved hurling his whole body forwards onto the ground, wriggling and propelling himself back upright, certainly impressed them. By the end of the song the audience applauded wildly.

At the last Greek wedding I'd attended, I discovered a university friend had a significant alcohol problem. It seemed almost appropriate at this wedding to discover that my brother Peter was making every effort to appear he may be ploughing a similar furrow. On the upside, Peter seemed to be enjoying it all a lot more than my university friend. Upon reflection, I am drawing an ungenerous parallel.

Meanwhile, Peter had clearly had the time of his life. Never one to be bothered by the showbiz saying "always leave them wanting more", he did further dance displays over the course of the evening. Frances later reported that Dtavros and Yianna "loved your energy!!"

One final tradition which seems to be shared between the UK and Greece, is the throwing of the bouquet. Late in the evening, Eleni threw her bouquet into the crowd. And, as luck would have it, the best man, Dominic's brother Patrick, caught it. He was delighted. His boyfriend Luke, was perhaps best described as "startled" as Patrick cackled like a mad thing.

Watch the moment Patrick caught the bouquet.

Elsewhere, the younger children were now exhausted. Accustomed to being in bed by 9pm, they now found themselves dressed in suits, stuffed with food and drink, and still awake at 1 in the morning. The wedding was due to run until at least 3am. Our youngest boy James occasionally lay on the ground and gave a thousand yard stare to all around him. At this, parental guilt broke in. Realising this was a once in a lifetime occurrence, neither Lisette or I wanted to leave. But we realised that as responsible parents, we probably should. So, with reluctance, we summoned our taxi.

My parents and Peter and his son Joseph decided to join us in the minivan taking us back. Eight of us sped along the darkened Cretan roads headed back to our hotel. It had been a Cretan night, and a magical night.

Working out where to go on holiday has always seemed like slightly hard work. How do you choose? Do we go to Italy? We've been before. Do we go to France? They'll only want us to wear Speedos at the swimming pool. So where shall we go?

We were delighted when we discovered a friend in Belfast, who had recently had a baby, would be up for a visit. A mutual friend of ours, was also planning a trip back to Ireland from where he lives. We've known each other for 25 years now, and have travelled before as a group. Why not get the band back together and spend some time in Ireland this summer? That was the thought, and so the Reilly family made plans.

Passage was booked on the Liverpool to Belfast ferry. Grandma Reilly kindly leant her car to the Twickenham Reillys, so that myself, Lisette and the boys could roll Northwards and over the Irish Sea to Ireland.

We were leaving an English summer that was that rarest of things: warm and sunny. The week before we'd left, Twickenham had been basking in temperatures of 31 degrees Celsius, and I'd been busy watering the lawn, for fear of the grass going brown. Ireland is known for having weather that's a little... less generous. Or, as one of my brothers had been known to say, "Remember there's a reason most Irish don't live in Ireland".

But it's not so far from England to Ireland. If you look at the globe, Britain is pretty close physically. How different could the weather really be? In my mind, I thought "maybe we'll drop five degrees - that's still pretty good!"

But somehow, in the time from leaving the M25 behind us, boarding the ferry in Liverpool, going to sleep and waking up in Belfast, we'd dropped from a sunny 31 degrees to a rainy 17 degrees. Baffled but optimistic, the Reilly family began their holiday.

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The plan was a holiday of two halves. After popping in to meet our friend Una and the baby in Belfast, we'd head North to base ourselves in Portrush and tour around the top of Ireland for three days. Then we'd head down to Enniskillen and stay in a big house on Lough Erne with Una, Kelvin, the baby plus our other friend Conor and his boys.

We found ourselves roaming around and visiting sites like the Giant's Causeway (or as we came to think of them: the tremendous volcanic hexagons). We stopped the car at the side of the road when we saw people pointing out at the water, and got to see a pod of dolphins playing in the water. We headed to the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge that allows you to sway over to a island covered in birds, which looks out towards the Scottish island of the Mull of Kintyre. I hadn't realised just how close to Scotland, Ireland is.

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There's something inherently exciting about a boat trip. I have always loved the notion of getting away on the water. I would have made a great pirate. We discovered there's an island to the North of Ballycastle named Rathlin Island. It's a place to see puffins and to walk. It sits only 11 miles from the Scottish island of the Mull of Kintyre.

The closeness to Scotland has meant that both Scotland and Ireland have laid claim to the island over the years. Robert the Bruce hid out there at some point apparently.

You will remember the legend that St. Patrick banished all the snakes from Ireland. Inspired by this, in 1617 the disputing folks in charge used the snake story as a guide to determine belonging. They freed a snake on the island. If it lived, Rathlin was Scots, if it died, Irish. It died.

We discovered a boat would take us over. We booked a trip out from Ballycastle at 10am and a trip back on the 3pm. Demand was high and the boat entirely sold out after we booked our tickets. We were wary of seasickness after a recent traumatic crossing to Jersey, when the boat had heaved up and down, and passengers that had eaten a full English breakfast lived to heartily regret it. That trip has entered Reilly family folklore as "the time when daddy swore". I had, in my defence, had the fullest of full Englishes that morning.

But whilst the fifty minute trip to Rathlin was boisterous, it wasn't too excessive. Once we hit shore, our plan was to:

• hike west
• feel righteous
• see puffins.

Rathlin, it turns out, has more up and down than you might expect. We set out on the hike imagining we'd be there and back in no time. But it became clear quickly that progress would be slow. By the time we'd got to the top of the first hill we were heaving and puffing. Puffing for puffins.

We pushed on, following the road as it weaved westward. Every now and then the "puffin bus" would ease past us and we'd have an image of rather more leisurely tourists gazing out of the window at the scenery as they were transported up hill and down dale. To our surprise, the landscape featured a good number of old abandoned cars. Presumably, if a car breaks down, it's pretty difficult to get it back up the road and onto the boat to Ireland. So instead, vehicles are left to moulder when they break.

People often say of English weather, that you can have four seasons in a day. Ireland is that premise on steroids. It's entirely possible to experience four seasons in ten minutes. And two of them may well be winter. As we tramped westwards we would take off our jackets and jumpers as we got hot, then put on the jumpers as the wind picked up, then put the coats on and hoods up as the rain kicked in. Then we'd do it all over again.

That level of variety in the weather is pretty tedious to my mind. But it did make me ponder what the consequences of living in that sort of weather perpetually might be. Irish people are, on average, far friendlier than English. Of course that's subjective, but I still think it's pretty accurate. I had more casual chats with folk in an afternoon in Ireland than in a month in London. Stereotype it may be, but it doesn't mean it isn't true.

In the end, we reached the bird centre on the west of the island. By the time we got there it was heading for two o'clock and it was apparent that we wouldn't be able to walk back to the boat on time. No problem, we thought, we can catch the bus back. I approached the driver who had just arrived and asked him if we could buy tickets to get back to the boat. "Well now", said the driver, "I'm not sure if there's space, but be ye here in an hour and we'll find out!" He seemed very upbeat in his response, but as I parsed his meaning I thought I'd better seek clarification. "So Francis" (someone had told me his name was Francis) "does that mean we might not get back for the boat?" Francis considered for a while and responded "hmmmm.. well be ye here in an hour and we'll see what happens!"

This didn't seem like commitment to me, but after a while I concluded that commitment wasn't on offer. Given that Francis had given us an opportunity, at the least, we decided the best we could do was take it. There followed an hour where we sought to see puffins through binoculars, and possibly did, but they flew past so quickly it was hard to appreciate the experience a great deal. Also, when the possibility of potential drama is present, it's a little tricky to experience the moment. Certainly Benjamin, our oldest, was demonstrating that he'd inherited his father's desire that things go according to plan, and attendant anxiety when they do not, or threaten not too.

Ben ran up and down at the bus stop wailing "we're totally screwed..…" This did not aid his father's anxiety one jot. By the time Francis swung round the corner in the bus, the Reilly family had entered a state of hypertension. The bus loaded up, and was full before the Reillys could board. All seemed lost, and Francis could see the crestfallen expression on our faces.

"We'll find a way" he said. And after a certain amount of negotiation, we found ourselves on board, with various Reillys sat on one another and sharing seats. I found myself sat on the floor of the bus, surrounded by legs, but entirely grateful to be on the vehicle. It started swaying its way back to the boat. Every now and then Francis would pause the bus to tell a story, point out where a viking was buried, where Robert the Bruce may have hidden and draw everyone's attention to a seal frolicking in the sea. I saw none of this, from my vantage point on the floor.

This was fine. We were going to make it back to Ireland, unlike all those abandoned cars. That was all I needed to know.

It was the start of the summer holidays. The Reilly family had headed North to the Peak District to go youth hostelling, prior to heading East to Newark for the Focus festival.

A good time had been had by all. We'd been staying in the picturesque and slightly remote village of Hartington. The weather had been typical of British summertime. Which is to say, a combination of not raining whilst looking like it might, actually raining and on occasion, being suspiciously pleasant. One must roll with whatever nature throws at you in this country.

The UK loves a railway. We have many. But we used to have more. Back in the 1960s a man named Dr Beeching wrote an infamous report on the profitability of our forest of railway lines. And as a consequence there was deforestation; many of those railways became ex-railways.

Death can lead to rebirth. Whilst many railways stopped being railways, they left behind them tracks, tunnels and paths that joined up destinations. By and large, these tracks were too small to become roads. So a number became walking paths and cycle tracks. We found a repurposed railway joining Bakewell to near Buxton. And, having rented bikes, rode it from end to end. We whizzed through tunnels, we looked out from viaducts and some of the bolder Reillys even stopped to paddle in chilly waters. There's something remarkably freeing about freewheeling along what used to be a railway station platform, imagining what it would have been like as steam trains whooshed into it a hundred years ago.

I mentioned Bakewell. It's a town famous for creating the Bakewell Pudding and the Bakewell Tart. The pudding is undeniably better, but strangely less well known. I blame Mr Kipling. (The cake guy, not the poet )

The Reillys very much like to try local food. Well, perhaps more accurately, we like to eat. Eating local food is as good a reason as any to eat, and if you look at it just right, it almost feels noble. "Support local" and all that. So we stopped in Bakewell, visited the famous pudding shop and purchased a number of puddings and tarts to eat by the river. Wildly unhealthy and delightfully enjoyable. Do we really need vegetables when we're on holiday? No!

Back in Hartington, there was also a possibility to eat some local food. Hartington has a noted cheese shop selling local cheeses. So on the day of our departure from the village, we popped in and Lisette purchased some ginger and mango cheese which she placed in her bag for later.

The plan for the day was to travel to the Crich (pronounced "Cryyy-ch") Tramway Museum. A thing we have learned about our boys, is that they are reliably fascinated by heavy machinery; cars, trains and the like. The tramway museum is exactly what it sounds like. It's a tribute to the age of trams, which has mostly passed in the UK. Buses are just easier to run. But there's a kind of magic around trams, and there's a lot of enthusiastic people who put a lot of energy (and their free time) into keeping the magic alive. Incidentally, there's definitely some kind of Venn diagram of tram enthusiasts and steam train enthusiasts which is almost entirely intersection.

Crich is an unusual place. It's effectively a model village with tracks laid down on the roads to allow trams to rumble back and forth, transporting grinning visitors around. There's old fashioned pubs and tea shops in the village and warehouses full of trams through the ages, telling the story of a now mostly sunsetted form of public transport. The boys loved it. They loved getting their tickets stamped. They loved waving at trams as they went past and waving to people on the street as they sat on the top deck of a tram trundling up the street.

The day was beginning to draw to a close. Before we departed, Lisette remembered she had the cheese in her bag. Knowing that cheese doesn't survive long outside of a fridge, we decided to consume it there and then.

Our eight year old currently has a brace in his mouth. Well I say a brace. I think technically it's an orthodontic plate. But that's a bit of a mouthful. (Pun not actually intended, but let's appreciate the accidental glory of it for a moment.) Anyway, expensive wire and plastic, intended to push his top teeth forward so they don't sit behind his bottom teeth. I had the same thing when I was his age, although funded by the NHS in my case.

It's the sort of brace, or plate rather, that has to be removed when eating. So James prepared himself for consumption and Lisette dug through the bag. Finally she unearthed the ginger and mango cheese and the Reilly family sat around a wall next to where the trams trundled past and chowed cheese.

We needed to get on the road to Focus where we'd be camping. We were just over an hour away from Newark. We packed up Grandma Ann's car, which she'd kindly leant to the Twickenham Reillys, and started travelling. Time passed, different family members drifting off to sleep and then waking up as we accelerated and decelerated. A terrible thing had happened, but as yet no-one in the car had realised it.

We rolled into Newark about 5pm, prepared to start putting up our tent and see our friends. It was at this moment that the most unwelcome sentence rung out in the car: "where's my brace?"

It was James. Having checked around the car, it became apparent that the brace wasn't present. After we got through the bitter recriminations and false accusations around who had had it most recently, we got into the fun memory game "where did you see it last?" A high stakes game with an unsatisfactory conclusion given you're never really too sure if you've landed on the right answer. It emerged that James last recalled taking it out of his mouth so he could eat cheese and resting it on the wall. I might add, this was a highly expensive piece of bespoke dental equipment. We'd blinked heavily when we paid the bill for it.

Lisette phoned the tramway museum, no-one picked up. It seemed there was nothing to be done. Just carry on. I am, in all honesty, not that great at "just carrying on". At least not when it comes to large sums of money being left on walls. It's one of my flaws.

So here I was at Focus, a Christian festival where people come hoping to connect with God and spend time enjoying the company of their friends and fellow believers. Whilst everyone around me seemed to be doing reasonably well at these noble goals, I was not. I burned with inner fury and frustration.

I'm not a good concealer of my emotions and so when people asked me how I was, I was honest. Pretty grumpy. I spoke to friends older and wiser than me, who reminded me that whilst it was indeed a lamentable situation, James was still happy and well. That mattered a great deal more. They were right. I knew they were right. But I struggled to get to actually feeling that way. I would in time. But I wasn't there then.

I am a prayer, and I often pray for important things. Really I do. For people who are suffering, for situations that are difficult. For things that really matter. At this moment, my prayers turned to a topic that was smaller and certainly self serving. I prayed for safe recovery of my boy's brace. And I encouraged the Christians around me to do likewise. If you ask a Christian to pray for you they kind of have to otherwise it would look terribly bad.

That night I slept badly and woke early. Partly that was down to sleeping in a tent next to a busy road. Partly it was down, no doubt, to the brace situation. I awoke with a plan. I believe in praying, but I also believe in meeting God halfway. If I was going to see the brace again, I figured I would increase my odds if I went to where it might be. In addition, I've found in life, that it's worth knowing yourself. I am incapable of "being". I have to "do". Sitting and waiting was incomprehensible to me. So I got in the car.

I drove for just over an hour, whizzing back from Newark towards the Peak District again. Rumbling into the carpark of the tramway museum before it opened, I took myself to the very much closed door and knocked.

"Excuse me, is anyone there?" A woman opened the door, suspicious of the interloper. I explained the situation, and after looking at me carefully and weighing me up, the lady opened the door and walked me down to the wall in the tramway museum; the cheese eating site. I looked around. I looked along the wall. I walked in ever expanding circles around the wall. Nothing. No brace. The museum lady went to check lost property. Nothing. I looked in the plant pots near the wall, hoping it had fallen in. Again, nothing.

I was done. I hadn't expected to find it. I hadn't found it. I had tried, and I was pleased about that. Not as pleased as if I'd found it. But I thought I'd done what I ought to, given the circumstances. I disagree with Yoda on this. There actually is try.

It was time to go back to Focus. I leaned against the wall, sighed and looked down. Staring back at me was that beautiful, revolting thing: my boy's brace.

Victory! Never has a hideous lump of wire and plastic seemed so glorious.

It is June 2022. COVID hove into view back in early 2020 and radically adjusted all our lives. Part of that was the ability (and ease) of travelling abroad. Like so many, the Reilly family were effectively grounded since then. We have made trips, but we never left England.

So when life started to seem less restrictive, we made plans. We found ourselves camping in a place called Cavallino in Italy. It looks on a map, as if it is near Venice. Looks can be deceiving. It turns out Swindon has better travel links to London than Cavallino has to Venice.

However, links it has, and links we have used. You can travel from Cavallino on the bus down to Punta Sabbioni and then switch to a boat for the trip into Venice (or rather "Venezia").

This is the Reilly family on Burano, an island to the north of Venice.

Having left the UK, where pretty much all COVID related mask restrictions were lifted some time ago, it was a surprise to discover that they are still in force in Italy. They're due to be relaxed in a week or so. For now though, bus, boat, plane and train travel requires a mask.

Generally I keep myself to myself whilst travelling. That's only emphasised when travelling abroad as my linguistic abilities beyond my native English are slight. However, as we bussed our way to Cavallino one day I found myself unable to resist the call to right a wrong.

As we swayed around successive roundabouts, gently swinging from handholds, I realised there was a very harassed looking mother and her young daughter in front of me. The mother was clearly tired. She grasped her daughter tightly to stop her from falling over as the bus variously accelerated and decelerated.

Nearby, a Venetian teenager was sat in a four seat space on the bus. He was pointedly not wearing a mask, and had carefully distributed his coat and bag on the seats around him. The lady was demonstrably in need and so I asked him in pidgeon Italian to move his things for the lady and her daughter. Rather than leaping to attention as I'd hoped, he looked at me with disinterest, rolled his eyes and then studiously ignored me.

I was surprised. Why wouldn't he want to help? And given it was clear that he didn't want to help his fellow humans, what to do? What, I asked myself, would Phileas Fogg do?

For those of you unacquainted, Mr Fogg is a fictional character who famously travelled around the world in eighty days. There was a television adaptation of his adventures on the BBC at Christmas. It was a big hit in the Reilly family, meeting each family member in a different way. Lisette remains an ardent fan of David Tennant and so was delighted by his playing the titular role. James was thrilled by the trains in one of the episodes. Benjamin thought the music was "ace". Everyone was happy; I digress....

Phileas would persist, I thought. So I persisted. I'm quite persistent.

After some time the youth was eventually persuaded (with a complete lack of grace) to let the mother and daughter sit. Rarely has a human huffed so much. I was entirely unreasonable, in his view. The Venetian Kevin the Teenager then slumped back in his seat and turned up his stereo in what we'll consider to be a passive aggressive protest against his new neighbours.

All things considered, I was pleased. I remained gently swinging from the handrail as the bus continued rounding roundabouts.

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The campsite we were staying on was named "Camping Village Garden Paradiso". Unlike your most basic of campsites which can be little more than a field with questionable plumbing, CVGP (as no-one called it) was a vast estate. It boasted not only a beach, but a swimming pool with multiple waterslides, a supermarket and a kind of town square complete with shops, restaurants and a stage where nightly shows would be performed. In addition, there was a resident glassblower from Murano who did daily demonstrations of the art of getting glass really hot, and then shaping it into miniature animals and the like. The campsite even had a "feeling spa" where it was possible to have "emotional showers". We never quite plucked up the courage to discover what those were.

Our typical parental standard of "boys in bed by eight" was massively disrupted by the nightly show. Benjamin and James would alternate between watching a multi talented lady named Thea perform on stage and staring glassy eyed at glass getting very hot. Thea, who also lead the swimming pool aqua aerobics in the morning, was a revelation. A one woman Amy Winehouse cover version singer, MC, dancer and director of campsite entertainment. She also appeared to be the doppelganger of a school mum friend Lisette and I knew back in England. Most disconcerting.

The gentle routine of campsite life was disrupted by an unexpected email. Lisette's Uncle Yves had died. Uncle Yves was the older brother of Lisette's mother. He had lived his whole life in Nantes, in Northern France. Unwell for some years; he moved to live in an assisted care home.

As it must for all us in the end, his time here came to an end. He left behind his wife (and Lisette's aunt) Nicole. The email was from Nicole's brother Jean-Yves, and said simply that Yves had died and that the funeral would be on June 7th, the Tuesday upcoming.

James can be a very caring boy. He said "I'm sorry your family dies a lot" and gave Lisette a cuddle. "I'm sorry too" said Lisette. She had sadly lost her mother Annie, Yves little sister, some years earlier. That had been a very difficult time and James remembered the toll it took. It was really touching to see him caring for Lisette.

The holiday then took an unexpected turn. Having previously been quite a relaxing time, it now became akin to a film script. Lisette had to travel from Eastern Italy to Northern France. Not the most straightforward journey at the best of times. This was not the best of times. After the height of the pandemic had kept the majority of people in the same country for some years, there was something of a "great unlocking" taking place. People realised they could travel, and so were travelling. Airlines were struggling to cope with the increase in demand and were cancelling flights.

EasyJet cancelled our flight home from Venice, booking us instead onto a flight that left at 11pm. That wasn't doable for us as all the trains would have stopped running by the time we arrived home. So instead we found ourselves cancelling that flight, finding one from the nearby city of Bologna, and planning to travel down to there to make our flight, trailing cancelled hotel reservations in our wake.

But now, it would be me doing that with the boys alone, as Lisette would be on her own Indiana Jones mission to get to Nantes. A day of travel, made up of multiple flights, boats, buses and taxis, awaited her.

Meanwhile, the Reilly lads would be similarly on our own pilgrimage. Catching the dawn bus along to Punta Sabbioni and clambering aboard a boat bound for St Mark's Square.

We had a final family breakfast together there, munching on rough sandwiches made of the leftover loaves, charcuterie and cheese we had. Then we had to part.

We caught a water taxi to the bus terminal. (Water taxis are *ridiculously* scenic by the way - looking out at the beauty that is Venice... Glorious!) We waited there for the number 5 bus to show itself. Then, after many hugs, and with tears, Lisette got onto the bus and disappeared off to the airport.

I won't dwell too much on the next 24 hours. Suffice to say, myself and the boys went to Bologna on the train. We stayed in a charming Air BnB called "Quattro Gatti", or "the 4 cats" hosted by a delightful man named Filippo. But whilst we were in 31 degrees heat, playing ping pong in the garden, Lisette was staying in a featureless hotel overlooking a Lidl. Then attending a funeral and a burial as it rained.

As Lisette reflected later, she was glad to have gone. But she was sad for what she missed too.

I leave you with Benjamin playing a song on the piano at Quattro Gatti. It's a song he's been writing with his friends with the name of "emotional damage". He has a flair for the dramatic, our boy.

My dear Lisette,

You are an amazing mother to the boys. You might doubt that yourself on occasion, but you most certainly are. Let's take a moment and think about how this is true.

Providing​

Each day you provide food, clothing and bedding for the boys. They don't worry about where their next meal is coming from, they don't worry about whether they'll have clothes. Children shouldn't have to worry about such things, and ours don't. They are relaxed and know these will be taken care of, because of you.

The Rolling Stones​

"You can't always get what you want But if you try sometimes, well, you might find You get what you need"

If you listened to what the boys wanted, they would live very different lives. They don't have phones, they don't watch everything on TV that they'd like, they don't go to bed at 10pm. You're careful to have children that have what they need, but not what they want. If they had what they wanted, they'd be less content than they are.

You've created healthy boundaries which make for happier children. The boys wouldn't thank you for this now, but I will. Thank you.

Their biggest fan​

The boys know that you really dig them. Even if they don't always respond in kind, they know that you think they are amazing. This builds quiet confidence in them. It means they don't have doubt about their tremendousness as human beings. They know they are brilliant as they have a cheering section in you. You want to spend time with them, you enjoy their company and believe that the best possible time you could be having is with them.

Rituals​

In your days you've built rituals for them. You start the day with cuddles and stories. We pray as a family before we leave the house and at bedtime. There's showers and stories before bed. All of these build happiness within the boys. Humans like rituals. It's a basic need we have; it centres us and calms us. You've made good rituals for the boys that make them happy and that connect then with God.

You're an amazing mother and your boys are blessed to have you xxx

The bodies lay upon the ground in the field. They were dressed colourfully, each kitted out in varieties of neon outfits that shone in the sunshine. "They're very still" I said, by way of summing up the situation. "They all died" said Lisette, who was also taking in the view.

Because I'm a slightly gullible fellow (and, well, you just never know) I watched keenly half wondering if it might be true. They were very still. After a surprisingly long period of time, the figures started to move slowly. It turns out that yoga in a field can, temporarily, be indistinguishable from death.

Camp Wowo​

We were staying at a campsite named Camp Wowo in East Sussex, England. It's a campsite I have stayed at many times over the years. Initially just myself and Lisette. More lately, having got past the initial intensity that results from the arrival of children, we've come to taking our boys to camp together as a family.

It's never been without incident. The first time, one of my brothers melted the trainers I'd come wearing next to the bonfire. This left me hobbling around the campsite in shrunken shoes with brittle laces.

The last time we stayed, a friend was in a car crash which they fortunately walked away from. This time our visit coincided with such strong winds that a gazebo lent to us by some friends was lifted, tent pegs and all, out of the ground and into some nearby woods.

So I've come to the conclusion that there is something implicitly risky about Camp Wowo. Perhaps it's the yurts.

The boys loved camping. And, as a dad, I loved them, loving camping. My eldest boy is highly influenced by the works of Bear Grylls, and would explain at great length the best way to construct a bonfire. To give him his credit, his bonfires were very good. In the evening, after dark, the boys liked to go for "nightwalks" which amounted to rambling in the woods without being able to see, occasionally falling in streams. I couldn't quite see the joy in it myself, but I was clearly the exception.

Myself I found something magical about us waking up in the tent together. Blonde boys with tufty hair, squinting and yawning like baby bears as they opened their eyes for another day of fun. Coming over for cuddles before the day fully kicked into gear.

A trip to the past​

One of the attractions of Wowo is the Bluebell Railway. The Bluebell Railway is what's known as a "heritage line", the trains that run are all historic, and mostly steam engine powered. The boys like trains generally. Steam trains are, naturally, even more exciting. The combination of them being from times gone past, incredibly powerful and noisy, as well as being dangerous, makes them thrilling. They're like dinosaurs that aren’t quite extinct. The Bluebell Railway is Jurassic Park.

So a trip to Camp Wowo would be incomplete without a trip on the Bluebell Railway. Sadly the last time we were here, it was fairly early into the COVID 19 pandemic and the Bluebell Railway was closed. The line is mostly staffed by retired volunteers. Given that this demographic was considered high risk, it was unsurprising to discover that the line was out of action for a while.

But this year it was back up and running and we found ourselves at the ticket office happily purchasing a family return to East Grinstead. It seems to be a general trend that prices have risen now that places are starting to reopen, and the BR was no exception as we parted with £60 for our tickets. Probably lots of places are trying to make back the money they lost whilst they were closed. It's hard to begrudge but also hard on the wallet.

One of the things that is so delightful about heritage lines is that it's not just old trains running. All the stations and staff are decorated and dressed as though it was 1933 or thereabouts. The waiting rooms feature adverts from years ago. For day-trips to Brighton, and for ice creams and cigarettes that no longer exist.

Curiously a number of cigarettes used to rejoice in variations on the name "flake". "Gold Flake" and "Dark Flake" and similar. I grew up in the UK of the 80s and 90s, where every third advert on television was a woman in a bath eating a chocolate bar named "Cadbury Flake" to the strains of "only the crumbliest, flakiest chocolate, tastes like chocolate never tasted before".

So the idea of a flake being smoked seemed deeply puzzling. I had to keep reminding myself that people would not be eating the cigarettes being advertised. Incidentally, I have vague memories of being able to purchase chocolate cigarettes in the sweet shop when I was very young, which can only have contributed to my confusion. I assume that chocolate cigarettes are no longer being sold. It feels likely that someone at some point will have asked the question "are we sending helpful messages to the children of society by making these?"

We had wondered if the trains would have been forced to make adjustments to cater for the pandemic as many establishments have been. But as we looked around we realised that very little tweaking was probably required. Steam trains and their rolling stock are either entirely open air, or enclosed carriages. "Open-plan" was not a strong design influence in the 30s and 40s. As such, each party could generally find themselves an individual compartment where they were safely isolated from the rest of the passengers.

The Reilly family steamed out of Sheffield Park on the first train of the day. We chugged slowly up to East Grinstead, travelling through Horsted Keynes and Kingscote along the way.

Whilst it's notionally fun to realise you're being conveyed by a steam engine, this high passes quite quickly. A compartment is just a moving box; the steam engine is where the action is. Happily, getting to the action is totally achievable. The engineers that run the train are essentially excited seven year olds in seventy year old bodies. They happily showed off the engine to the awe inspired children gathered around, once we'd pulled into a station. I got to glimpse into the firebox and I have to say it was terrifying. I found myself looking at a large bath of shimmering fiery coal, pushing out a fierce wall of heat. I didn't realise I was scared of baths of fire, but it turns out I really am.

Mr Ow Much and the steam engine​

On that particular day I was wearing my "Mr Ow Much" sweater. It's quite a striking outfit as it features an image of a made-up "Mr Man" character invented for a song by Ben “ExP” Goodwin; a hip-hop artist from West Yorkshire. The Mr Man in question is a character who is the very definition of judicious in his expenditure. Or as he says: "It’s Yorkshire, I'm tight".

As we wandered up the platform at East Grinstead, the stationmaster stopped me and asked me about my sweater. I explained it wasn't a real "Mr Man" and it was from a song. And that I'd got the sweater for being one of the people to crowdfund the album that featured it. The stationmaster nodded and looked slightly thoughtful.

In the pause, we asked him how much it was to get into the steam train museum. Without missing a beat, he said "£30 a head". He then grinned and waited for me to retort "'Ow Much?!"

Tragically it turns out that I'm slow on the uptake and in the awkward silence that ensued he had to explain that this was actually a joke and entrance was included with our train ticket.

I profoundly wish this story had a better ending.

It was Friday 13th. Gran had never been keen on that date. So it was ironic, or perhaps appropriate, that date came to be the occasion of her funeral. The universe likes a giggle.

At 10 o'clock in the morning the family and friends of Averil Bessie Jenkins gathered at the Poor Clare's Convent in Crossbush, near Arundel. Home of Sister Pat; aunt to me, sister to my mother and my aunts, daughter of Gran. Averil had been a Jenkins, a Frame and a Luxford over the course of her life. The building was filled with people who had known all three.

I'd travelled down with my sister Kirsty from London that morning by train, where our brother Peter met us at Arundel station. Mum had primed me beforehand and so I found myself clean-shaven, dressed in a black suit, wearing a tie and smart black shoes. It was very unlike me. Mum was delighted. Aunty Frances took a photograph.

The chapel at the Convent had high ceilings and was painted white. Windows high up let light stream into the room. As I stood near the entrance I could see the coffin sat in the centre. It was surrounded by tall candles and draped with flowers. One of the windows in the chapel was etched with memories of Kevin James Frame. Kevin was Gran's son. He had died young; at the age of only 20. I'd never met him; Kevin having died before I was born. I can't imagine how painful that must have been for Gran. Aunty Pat would say at the wake later "Your mum's not supposed to die. She's supposed to go on forever." That's a sentiment I can dig. I feel it. But what's far worse is your child going before you. Having a memory of Kevin etched into the window of the room where we were going to remember Gran, made me feel something. I couldn't tell you quite what. Some emotion I can't articulate.

I was to be a pallbearer. Alongside me were my brother Peter, my cousins Patrick, Dominic and Matthew, alongside my cousin Laura's husband Calum. We were arranged in height order and drilled by the undertakers until we understood what we would need to do later on.

It had been a difficult year. Lisette's mother Annie died last year. She wasn't my mother but I loved her very much. Gran died this month. Likewise I loved her very much. Gran was a constant in my life. I didn't see her a great deal. But she'd always been there. I was missing Annie too. I didn't go to her funeral. It took place in Mallorca and someone needed to take care of the boys. I was wearing cufflinks that Annie had given me some years before. I liked having something from Annie with me.

I sat in a pew with Aunty Kathleen, Bob and Calum. Behind me were my parents. Bob gave me the order of service. With it came a picture of the farmhouse gran was born in. I knew the picture from having seen it on Gran's mantelpiece. Seeing the image brought a rush of vivid emotion.

The chapel is used all day and everyday by the sisters at the Convent. It's part of their daily life. They had arranged chairs around the coffin. Aunty Pat sat next to it. The candles were lit.

I could hear voices raised in song. As ever, my father's louder than most, intoning "Be thou my vision". I found that I couldn't sing without getting choked up. I didn't want to sob, so I didn't sing either. I became aware of Dad's voice dropping away here and there. I wondered if he was similarly afflicted. The emotional Reilly men, perhaps? I put it to Kirsty later. She said "No, Dad just stops singing when he can't hit the high notes. And because he's so loud in the first place you notice his absence". So perhaps not.

The funeral was Catholic. My mother's side of the family generally are. It's not my tradition, but there is much in it I appreciate. The service was taken by Father John, an elderly priest who had in fact married Gran and Grandad some forty years previously. (Gran having lost her first husband, my biological grandfather, when I was a baby.) Father John lead us through the service. There were songs, there were prayers. There was communion.

Mum and Aunty Frances walked to the front, turned and stood next to the alter, facing the congregation; family, friends and, of course, Aunty Pat's fellow sisters at the Convent. Mum and Fran alternated sharing memories of Gran. Telling stories of her life. And their lives. How Gran had met her first husband James Frame, by throwing a bucket of water over him. How Averil was born in a farmhouse and lost her father when she was only eight years old. How, as a grandparent, Gran regularly hosted and cooked roast dinners for twenty to thirty family members. Where large quantities of food would be consumed, and then the family would slowly wander around the farm to help the lunch go down. When Gran's first husband died, how she carried the burden of ensuring that Aunty Frances still got to be a child. How Gran had not given up when she lost her son and her husband in quick succession. How she had married Brian Jenkins, the man I have always known as my grandfather, and in many ways started again.

Frances read words written by my cousin Tracy, sent over from Canada, recalling childhood memories of staying with Gran. Tracy said "Gran wasn't very cuddly" but then told a story of when she was had become very scared at Gran's house and how Gran held her until she wasn't. Mum and Fran spoke of many kindnesses. Of many determined acts of love.

Life was not always easy for Gran. What was abundantly clear was this: Averil did not do defeat. When life gave her lemons, she quietly made lemonade.

Myself and my fellow pallbearers came forward. We bowed towards the alter, then, instructed by the undertakers, lifted the wooden coffin into our hands and then onto our shoulders. It was heavy. Very heavy indeed. Gran was a sturdy lady who had played hockey for Horsham. As her coffin rested upon our shoulders and we shuffled forward there was little doubt of that.

Gran died at age of ninety. She was at home in bed and was surrounded by her four daughters who loved her greatly. To be surrounded by a family that loves you at the end of your life must be a tremendous comfort. Death is hard. I'd say that it was made more bearable for my aunts and my mum in that they had each other. We need one another.

Emotions are not like they are in films and on television. They're not straightforward. It's less like a consistent feeling of sadness and more like an ebb and flow. You surf the waves of your mood. And at times of grief, the height of the waves is just that much higher. Or lower. One moment you're just fine. The next you're feeling highly charged emotion. Maybe you're crying. Maybe you're delighted. Perhaps you are overwhelmed by a sense of love. All told, there's a lot of emotion involved. It's tiring. Mr Spock had a point.

Directed by the undertakers we carefully manoeuvred the coffin into the hearse and slid it into position. We stood back, massaging our shoulders. For a moment, the sun shone upon us all.

Everyone got into their cars and followed the hearse out of the convent grounds. We travelled in convoy to the Catholic church in West Grinstead. Gran was to be buried in the same grave as her son and her first husband James. Next to the grave of Aunty Pat's husband Tony.

The hole had already been dug. Across it lay two wooden struts which supported the coffin. Father John lead prayers. Aunty Kathleen stood with Grandad as the struts were taken away and the coffin was lowered to its final resting place. People took turns blessing the coffin using a cut of rosemary that Aunty Pat had harvested from the Convent garden that morning. You could see small purple flowers along the length of the rosemary.

The church bells rang out.

---

The wake took place in a pub in Henfield. Everyone gathered. And drank. And ate. And talked.

There was a lot of hugging. Whilst Gran may not have been the most cuddly of individuals, her family have taken a different path. I like that we hug. The last time I saw Gran was the Saturday before Christmas last year. Gran couldn't move much by then. She was hugged and kissed by many children and grandchildren that day. Although Gran wasn't the most expressive of people, I believe she enjoyed it.

Laura brought out her phone and showed a gallery of photographs of our family over the last forty years. There were images I hadn't forgotten. But that I hadn't remembered enough. I've had a wonderful life. Truly. Each picture was full of love and smiles. Happinesses remembered.

I felt tremendously grateful. As I looked at the pictures I realised that in each one I represented the youngest generation. I'm not anymore. When those photographs are taken now, I'm the grown up in the picture now. I'm not the child. And one day, God willing, I'll be the oldest generation and there'll be young faces in the pictures that I haven't yet met.

That's what I hope.

On May 27th 2019 the weather in Peschiera del Garda looked like this:

Whilst in Twickenham it was more like this:

Since myself, my good lady Lisette and the marvellous, "extreme" (that's right! - Ben) Benjamin and James were camping in the former location, we collectively agreed it was a bummer.

To be more accurate, we were not so much camping as glamping (correct! - Ben). Whilst we were living under canvas, we had not erected that canvas with the honest sweat of our mutual brows. Rather, we had opted to show up and occupy a tent which had already been pre-assembled for our living pleasure. Even calling it a tent seems a stretch, given that it featured a 4-ring gas stove, a fridge, a microwave, beds, lights, electricity and was sited upon a raised wooden deck rather than muddy earth.

But it didn't have a toilet or running water, so we could still argue that on some level we were still "getting back to basics". This kind of camping also fulfils a basic life-need of mine, that is to say: access to cooking facilities. The absence of stoves means I've always viewed hotels as disempowering experiences. To me at least, not being able to cook is in the same ballpark as being denied the right to vote. Hotels are essentially prisons with a more lenient gate policy.

In many ways, this kind of trip harks back to the holidays of my childhood. Apart from the first seven summer breaks of my life, family holidays were spent on a campsite somewhere in Europe. Before that, each August we'd gone to stay in a chalet in the Gower in South Wales. This particular family ritual was brought to a brutal close due to a tragic brewing accident which I will attribute to my father. As it was his fault.

Back then, Dad was a keen brewer of ginger beer. Ginger beer unlike the bottles of Idris you might see in Waitrose. Different. This was potent stuff. Filled with yeast and sugar and (in the end) alcohol. The recipe resulted in a fiery liquid which, as it fermented, pumped out prodigious quantities of gas courtesy of the yeast. Now, this was in the days before plastic bottles. Imagine. A time before David Attenborough documentaries of ecological tragedy. Instead, my father used glass bottles.

The ginger beer-in-waiting was treated much like the Incredible Hulk. Tentatively. Cautiously. Carefully. Each day, past a certain point in the brewing process, someone would be called upon to perform the great gas releasing. What this meant, was taking each bottle in turn and opening it a touch to allow some of the excess gas to escape. Then reclosing each bottle once normal atmospheric pressure had been achieved. It was a delicate task and not unterrifying. The rich reward was the amazing liquid left at the end of the brewing process. A fiery brew which I have not subsequently tasted the like of in my life. It truly was that good.

Upon this occasion, in our holiday chalet in the Gower, we were all milling around the lounge. Reading, playing boardgames and suchlike. Suddenly there was an explosion. A fully fledged boom. For a moment there was a fear it could be a minor terrorist incident. It's hard to believe now, but it was genuinely a concern at that point in time. Busily active then were Meibion Glyndŵr; a Welsh nationalist movement violently opposed to the loss of Welsh culture and language. They were responsible for setting fire to English-owned holiday homes in Wales from 1979 to the mid-1990s. We were staying in one such home.

Once the shock of the moment passed, we went to investigate. It turned out that one of Dad's bottles of ginger beer had achieved critical mass and exploded. In fact it had gone off like a rocket, launching from the carpet, climbing, climbing until it reached escape velocity. Punching a jagged hole in the ceiling as it left the chalets atmosphere. Scattered around the room were smashed bottles, shards of glass with droplets of the sticky, fizzing liquid rolling down the walls. Whilst it's good no-one was present to witness the event, one can only imagine it was quite a sight. You can see why we weren't invited back.

I digress. Family holidays after that were, invariably, camping trips to somewhere in Europe. I seem to recall that the first trip split our time between Jard-sur-Mer and Biarritz. Over time we established a pattern of driving, catching a ferry and travelling to either France, Italy or Switzerland. Always camping in pre-erected tents. Generally with Eurocamp. (Still, I understand, a going concern.)

Looking back upon those holidays, some questions come to mind. As I recall, at least in the beginning of those trips, we would take all the food we were going to eat with us. I'll say that again as it bears repeating: we transported, from England, all the food we intended to eat in France. All the food.

I can't think quite why. I think of my parents as game to eat most anything. Perhaps that was not always the case. Or they feared shops didn't exist; too much reading of Asterix the Gaul leading to the mistaken belief that the French hunted wild boar for each meal. Who can say?

Either way, the first Reilly trip to France was like Matt Damon travelling to Mars. Carefully bringing with us all the supplies necessary to support life. Not knowing quite what might present itself in reality. I'm certainly aware of a tendency in myself to over prepare and leave nothing to chance. Lisette will occasionally remind me of the time in the Galapagos where I proposed catching a bus to see the bus stop where we would catch a bus in a weeks time. We Reillys can be like that.

I think this is probably something my parents got over. Perhaps they weren't willing to initially accept that French people probably did have shops which sold food, but came round to the view after sufficient evidence had been gathered. I picture them upon that first trip after I and my brothers and sister had been dispatched to bed. My father, looking for all the world like Mr Spock with an afro, thoughtfully writing in a journal one evening in Jard:

Day 4: Again today we saw people who are demonstrably not starving. Some perhaps even could be described as... overweight. Fascinating...

My father pauses to consider, sucking his biro. In the meantime, my mother turns to him and says "Mark, we keep seeing this sign; 'boulangerie'. I've been paying careful attention and I think this may be a food shop..."

Whatever the mechanism, clearly they came around. Certainly I can remember on later trips attending that most excitingly named place: a hypermarket. (Very similar to a supermarket it turned out.)

It is striking to me that the holidays I'm having now are not that different to the ones I had thirty years ago. Just that now I'm playing a different role in the family en semble; I'm the father now. I've been mulling over why we have chosen to have such similar holidays as my parents. In the end I suspect it's simple: they were good times and I remember them with happiness. I will certainly do the same when I recall these new holidays in future. We enjoy each other; family, friends and the world around us. We laugh. We eat ice cream. We are together. Content. I feel very fortunate indeed sometimes.

Whilst we seem be retreading an existing path in some senses, Lisette and I have opted not to emulate my childhood in regards food transportation. We have instead been standing in awe inside the various food temples on offer to us. There's so much potential for culinary happiness when you're surrounded by ingredients. So very many possibilities. You can see why communism didn't work out; insufficient varieties of cheese and olive oil.

The Reillys had set out on their summer holidays. Benjamin, James and the Reilly parents were going to stay with some friends on a working farm in rural Devon. The farm was proudly carbon-neutral; it generated electricity and had its own water supply. This was a holiday that could only be more middle class if they breastfed the livestock hummus.

Rather than travel directly from Twickenham to Devon, the family had opted to break up the journey. So it was that on a Wednesday evening the Reillys found themselves outside their Somerset Airbnb and in need of food. Having wheelspun into the driveway, Mr Reilly was driving no further. Instead, the four of them set out on foot to search for dinner.

After an initial disappointment, involving a delapidated pub with ashtray and bleach issues, technology was consulted. According to Mrs Reilly's phone, a 50's America style diner could be found just fifteen minutes walk away. Whilst Mrs Reilly had misgivings about the health qualities of burgers, fries and milkshakes, she felt it still represented the best available option.

Having studied the map, the route seemed straightforward. Across a picturesque bridge and then up a long thin farm lane. This ran for a mile or so through fields, finally connecting to the road upon which the diner would be found.

The Reillys turned in a Northerly direction, heading single file across the bridge and onto the lane. It was very basic; just a single track with the occasional passing point. Unsurprisingly there was no pavement, and the lane was gifted a natural ceiling by hedges and trees that had grown out from the sides to meet in the middle. There didn't seem to be an intentional trimming policy in place. Rather, the vegetation was only restrained by the occasional tractor punching through and knocking limbs off trees.

Mr and Mrs Reilly were mindful that it was perfectly possible for a tractor to do the same thing to people. So, when a stile was spotted at the side of the road, they decided to hop it and orienteer across the fields.

It started out very promisingly; Benjamin pointed out delicate white flowers growing in the hedgerows. Sheep were spied gamboling and munching grass nearby. The family continued clambering through woods until the pathway began to descend quite steeply, towards a gap in the bushes. They crept through, expecting to be presented with the promise of food.

Whoooosh!!! An articulated lorry thundered past the collective Reilly noses. Thwip! Thwip! Two cars followed in quick succession. Through some error of geography, the family was standing not outside a US period themed eatery but at the side of a very busy multi-laned road. Traffic continued to rumble past at an alarming speed. Benjamin and James stared awestruck as heavy vehicles of all shapes and sizes whizzed past their nostrils.

Having briskly consulted the map, Mr and Mrs Reilly realised they were very close to their destination. Just four hundred metres separated them and sustenance. The family edged up the minimal verge in the direction of the diner. After three hundred and fifty metres everyone came to a halt, confronted with a thick bush that spilled out to the edge of the road blocking their path.

"What do we do?" yelled Mrs Reilly above the noise of a passing juggernaut. Mr Reilly spied that on the other side of the road the verge was clear and unencumbered by greenery.

"Everybody join hands" he bellowed over the continual drone of traffic. "We are going to cross the road together.... When I say..." Mr Reilly paused for a long time. "Ummmm... It is quite a busy road" he observed, in case anyone hadn't noticed. "... Quite soon... Okay. After the white truck.... Go!!!" The family, hand in hand ran across the lanes, very aware of vehicles fizzing towards them from 2 directions. "Ruuuuuuunnnnnnnn!!!!!!!"

It is commonly observed that time can slow in moments of danger and high tension. If the Reillys had last had foot on verge on a Wednesday evening, as far as Mr Reilly was concerned, they arrived at the other side a week Thursday.

Panting, the family turned themselves back to face the road once more. In the distance could be seen a building surrounded by 50s memorabilia, Chevrolet cars, neon signs and the unmistakable profile of Elvis Presley adorning the front door.

Everyone linked hands again and waited for a gap in the onrushing traffic. Again they had to wait some time. "Go, go, go!!!!" bellowed Mr Reilly when the time finally came. Eight legs of varying lengths raced across the road, heading directly for the bequiffed blue suede shoes loving icon. "Go, go, goooooooo.............!"

Heaving and shaking, the four figures arrived at the other side of the road and edged up the verge. James could be heard muttering "me no like motorway, no like motorway". Benjamin was white faced and Mrs Reilly was in the early stages of shock. Meanwhile, Mr Reilly was really questioning the wisdom of whichever authority that had allowed him to parent children. Enacting a human version of the classic computer game Frogger was just further evidence to add to the already teetering pile. Mr Reilly imagined some cosmic authority looking on and shaking it's head whilst marking a cross on a clipboard next to his name.

Once they'd caught their breath, the family made their way into the diner. It was a mighty pleasant meal; albeit just as unhealthy as Mrs Reilly had feared. Throughout dinner there were regularly mutterings from small voices of "no like motorway" and "might have got bashed".

The family took a different route back.

As I have grown older, I've become aware of a characteristic of mine, which I don't much like. It's not casual racism or a prediliction for keeping a lap dog in a handbag about my person. It's more complicated than that.

It's my face. Or at least: that's where it starts. I have a resting facial expression that gives off a vibe. A hostile one. Not intentionally; it's just well... It's a thing. My face at rest looks like Vinnie Jones thinking "you don't get to talk about my mum".

I get it from my father, who got it from his father, who in turn... All the way back to Cro-Magnon man. Somehow my family line has managed to maintain the same physical characteristics as the European early modern humans of 15,000 years ago, almost without compromise.

I used to joke about this with people. Then one afternoon, in a moment of boredom, I decided to google what Cro-Magnon man looked like. You know you get those artists impressions of long dead species? Well the same exists for CMM. Lo and behold, atop the list of my image search results was a gentle portrait of... Well, not to put too fine a point on it, me. I'm handsome enough, but to all intents and purposes I am also pre-historic man.

Daily people say to me "are you okay?", seeing the foaming torrent of fury upon my brow. What they don't realise is, they're almost certainly seeing me imagining "what will I eat for lunch today?" The person asking the question doubtless thinks I'm giving genuine consideration to eating them. Alas.

This isn't helped by a number of other qualities of mine. I have a deepish and booming voice, excellent for terrifying small children... And adults too as it turns out. It all goes together to form the impression of an altogether terrifying man. C'est moi.

Tragically for all concerned, the inquiry "are you okay?" now triggers a Pavlovian reaction. Immediately I'm thinking "oh no's! I'm giving off that vibe again!"

Even my own wife, who at this point I've known for half my life, asks this question. It's as if I have a broken sensor which feeds people the wrong data. My face is the human equivalent of a smoke alarm cited too near a toaster. Daily triggering panic in those around me when really everything is fine. It's fresh toast, not the end of the world.

Whilst this may seem immediately comic, it is not. Not really. I spend more of my life than I would like attempting to compensate. Trying to make people feel everything's okay, when actually everything is okay, it's just my face that suggests otherwise. This is tiring. Adjusting the person that you appear to be, to be closer to the person that you actually are. It really is exhausting. It merits a chorus of "I am what I am, and what I am, needs no excuses". And then some.

The question is: what to do? I need a lifehack to help me. I've had a small bunch of ideas so far:

Idea #1. Literally look through rose tinted spectacles if you're giving off that vibe. What I mean is: get some sunglasses of a cheery disposition and wear them when you fear you're giving off negative vibes. If they look somewhat ridiculous, so much the better. That can only serve your purpose. Aim for Elton John's heyday and you can't go far wrong.

Idea #2: always be looking in mirrors. This has the disadvantage of coming across vain but might help as you'd be aware of your appearance. It's also impractical; mirrors aren't everywhere. Mind you, Arthur Fonzarelli managed to swing this.

Idea #3: Eye contact; make more of it. This helps people know that you're not a serial killer; I'm certain of that.

If anyone else has any suggestions I would warmly welcome them. Debug me; you have my blessing.

I proferred the binbag. "All the rubbish; in here please". Conor turned to his right, "Una, will you climb in now?" Una grinned and mimed throwing objects into the sack. "There's my hopes and dreams right there Conor."

Conor, Una, Lisette and I have known each other for half our lives. Well; Conor's not quite there - he's the elder statesman of our group. We met when we were working for British Airways as students, and living in Hounslow's finest dodgy digs. Since that time we've been scattered to the four winds; Una to Ireland, Conor to Switzerland. Lisette and I, well, maybe 3 miles tops to Twickenham.

In seeking a mutual meeting place we found ourselves reaching for the logistically logical location: Italy. (I know; like a stepladder where you least expect it.)

In keeping with how we first got to know one another, luxury accomodation was not our priority. We decided to camp. Can there be a fuller way to challenge your fear of shared toilet facilities? When one considers the possibilities afforded by a squat toilet I would suggest not. Thus it came to pass that 4 adults and 4 children went camping together on Lago Maggiore.

The joy of travelling with Benjamin and James is the vicarious appreciation. Like it or not, as we age we become inevitably dulled by the remarkable things in life. Do you still gaze out of the window of the aeroplane open-mouthed, as the earth drops away beneath you? Do you jump up and down emitting a voluble "yayyyyyy!!!!" because you've just been on a cable car?

Events that should spark joy inside us, and once did, end up being things we don't notice. Experiences we should appreciate and feel deep in our gut, no longer provoke wonder. I don't think it's our fault. It's just nature. Familiarity breeds contempt and all that. Or at least boredom.

As we left the runway our on EasyJet flight to Milan, James (who is 3) gazed out of the window of the aeroplane in complete awe. Occasionally turning back to the rest of us to check we'd noticed that London's clouds were now beneath us rather than above, slack jawed by the all out incredible-ness of defying gravity. And quite right too! This is why I dig travelling with the boys; they have the reactions that I used to have. It thrills me to be reminded.

Also, I must admit, there are other advantages to their company. Would I have been invited onto the bridge of a ship if I *didn't* have a 5 and 3 year old with me? Probably not. Thanks to a generous Captain, both Benjamin and James got to see the view from the top deck of the craft navigating us from Stresa to Arona across the lake. Not only that, they got to take the helm, steer our noble metal steed and (obvs) parp the horns. All the while, Lisette, Una and the rest of the passengers sat unaware of the junior helmsmen to whom their lives were entrusted. As far as the boys are concerned, life goal = achieved.

---

Revolut is really turning out to have unexpected benefits. For those that don't know what it is, Revolut is a debit card. You can top it up on your phone with pounds, and spend those pounds in Euro, Swiss Francs etc without getting a horrendous FX rate. But that's not the killer feature. No; the reason you should write home is the little discussed (but all important) feature it offers: embarrassment-reduction.

Did you ever go up to the counter in a bar and in your best pidgin Italian utter "Uno cappuccino per favore e duo croissants... Uh per favore. Um.... Grazie"? Perhaps you use less pleasantries but I find that when you've no idea of the language you're speaking, it pays dividends to liberally season your utterances with Ps and Qs. If things have gone well, food and drink will be headed your way. But what comes next? They'll tell you what it cost. In Italian. The rotters. You see, I can just about mumble an Italian sentence. Understanding one... That's another matter entirely. Neither Conor, Una, Lisette or I have any real Italian to speak of. Non una salsiccia.

Traditionally at this point of the transaction I would be squinting hard as I attempted to guess the meaning of "quattro euro trentaquattro". After 20 seconds of pondering, 10 seconds of frustration, and 5 of desperation I would generally proffer a 20 Euro note and hope that I'd get change. This works as a strategy in the short term but it has the downside of landing you with more coins than a fruit machine. By the end of a trip I'm jingling all the way.

But with my handy Revolut card I have a get-out-of-jail-free. Don't bother working out what they've said the cost is - give them the card. Don't listen attentively, think hard and attempt comprehension of Italiano.... Give them the card! I realise this is weak and isn't exactly aiding my personal development... But it is convenient.

By the way, this is exactly how languages die out. Foreign languages, killed by laziness circa 2050. Carry on camping!

The difference between Spanish winter and British is not really temperature. A mild British winter day isn't significantly colder than Spain. The difference is light. Winter or summer, there is a lot more light to go around in Mallorca than in London. Lisette, Benjamin, James and I are staying in Palma visiting family. The day we arrived was not auspicious; it was overcast and stormy. The next day however, well... As I looked around I realised I was squinting. The light was too strong. I haven't squinted in London since October.

So it's a shame I distrust sunglasses. For some reason I always have. If the eyes are the windows of the soul then it follows that I regard sunglasses as harbingers of suspicion. If you won't let me look into your eyes then part of my brain is convinced you must be up to no good. Probably only a hop, skip and a jump away from pretensiousness too; that most tragic of attributes.

Quite apart from the not-so-nice-judge-y aspect, this is a lamentable attitude for another reason. The thing is, I look quite fabulous in sunglasses. Really I do; Ray-Bans were born to be on my face. Aviators; sitting atop my nose have reached their pinnacle in existence; they can do no better. I base this on memories of me wearing sunglasses when I would have last countenanced it; when I was 20. It might not hold true now I'm 40. But then, ha! Move over Beverly Hill 90210's Luke Perry, there's a challenger for the throne.

I'm both a man of integrity and a man with silly ideas. That's why I'm stuck doing my best Mr Magoo. But if there was ever a locale where compromise for eye's sake would seem reasonable, it's Spain. Each morning I've watched the sun rise over Mallorca; soaring into the sky above Palma old town. Watching the glowing red orb climb until the light is too much. It's beautiful.

Benjamin and James are enamoured of their Christmas presents: toy bendy buses. Plastic and metal approximations of the the sort that used to rumble through London's streets, occasionally catching fire. Ah, those bus shaped phoenixes, how we miss them. Galaxy S8's are but a lowly tribute act. In one of those peculiar ironies it turns out that all buses in Palma are bendy buses. Consequently the bus drivers of Mallorca are presently being greeted by 2 small blonde haired boys, who enter their vehicles waving petite bendy buses at them as they proceed past in search of window seats.

Travel generally (not just bus journeys) is much easier now than it ever was. It's all down to the internet. o2 have dropped roaming charges in Europe; you can use data in Mallorca just like you're in Margate. (I've never been to Margate but I have to believe it would make me want to use the web.)

Having the internet opens up a lot. We can Google bus routes on our phones and know just when the bendy buses will round the corner. When we're on the bus we can see ourselves slowly shuffling along the roads on Google Maps. Oh and my Google phone has this thing where you take a photo, it detects any text in the photo and then translates it (with Google Translate) into English. It's incredible! Minority Report has arrived.

With all this in hand, the world is less scary. (Or considerably more so if you're into George Orwell.) Travel is so much easier! But we've lost something too. Lisette and I used to get around, get shelter and get fed in foreign lands with no knowledge of language, customs or infrastructure. It felt like such an achievement. Such a noble mountain we had ascended each day. Though if I'm entirely straight, I'd say that particular challenge is not one I'd be up for with 2 children in tow.

So on balance, I'm really pleased that Google got good at running my life in the last couple of years. I'd be lost without them. Quite literally. Let's hope they don't turn evil.

---

I have this Dickensian ideal of Christmas. I know that the first Christmas happened in a hot country (and more likely in September than December). But I don't care. Actual facts be damned. To me, the person who really "got" Christmas was Charles Dickens. Christmas is supposed to happen in a snow covered London. Where there are snug pubs, mulled wine, minced pies, roasted big birds, carol singing, big Christmas trees, churches, Victorian waifs and strays - this chap called it right! (OK - the child poverty I can live without.)

All this goes to say that the idea of being away from London at Christmas time filled me with deep suspicion. Even dread. Everywhere else is a pale imitation of how Christmas is supposed to be. Christmas happens in London.

That's how I felt. I was wrong.

Christmas in Palma is different. They celebrate more on Christmas Eve than Christmas Day and if anything the real action is 12th night; January 5th. Epiphany is known as "The Arrival of the 3 Kings" or just "Kings". It's a tradition that has evolved from the idea of the Magi turning up with gold, frankincense and myrrh for Jesus. (Just what every 2 year old needs, right?) For 200 years, the "kings" have been arriving annually in Mallorca. In the modern day retelling the kings arrive in Palma by boat (obvs!) They then proceed around the city for 3 km as part of a kind of carnival with music and sweets, passing by palm trees wrapped in fairy lights.

Christmas here has Mallorcan ways, food and traditions. It's not London but that's not a bad thing. Palma has a glory of it's own. And no Victorian waifs either... So props!

Lisette and I have proven ourselves incapable in the "booking holidays" category of competence. After months of attempting to find something we realised we'd fallen at the first hurdle by failing to do the requisite planning-one-year-in-advance. This is alas mandatory now Benjamin is in school and restricting our holiday times to select high priced periods. Why did he have to grow up?

So it was, that around 3 weeks prior to us having to explain the meaning of the word "staycation" to Benjamin and James, we received an offer. A couple we knew from church, Peter and Sarah, were going to be in Portscatho, a village in Cornwall and would we like to stay with them? Would we? Popes / Catholics / bears / woods - you get my drift.

We set our sights for the Southwest. And so, the four of us came to find ourselves winding our way down a single-lane road with the rain lashing the windscreen of our rented car. Always say yes to a memory.

In a gesture towards being actual grown up adults we had opted to break up the long journey into manageable chunks. We did this by Air B&B-ing our way to Cornwall. On the first night we stayed with a retired hot air ballonist in Somerset, who was convinced 9/11 was in reality a conspiracy courtesy of the Illuminati. We followed that with a night at the most lovely of farmhouses just inside in the border of Cornwall. It had what few other B&Bs have: a functioning steam railway. James was beside himself with joy; muttering "train.... Me... Me! Train! Me! Train. Train!"

We had something of a baptism of fire concerning the single lane roads for which Cornwall is famed. I must be ruthlessly honest: unlike Rain Man I am not an excellent driver. So much so that each journey tends to begin like this:

Me:

Dear God, please don't let me kill these lovely people and if you could get us where we're hoping to go safely that would be oh so greatly appreciated. Thanks.

James (from the back, in a muffled but distinct voice):

Not God! Oh my gosh! Oh gosh!

James is very hot on outlawing perceived blasphemy these days.

So finding myself front bumper to front bumper with a Land Rover, on a road without passing space, jolted me somewhat from my happy place. During the tense standoff with the other car, I pondered whether car technology had moved on significantly since I'd last checked. There's an awful lot talked about driverless cars and drones these days. Perhaps there was a "flight mode" for our Vauxhall Insignia that I had hitherto not noticed? I inspected the dashboard optimistically, searching for a button I hadn't yet pushed. The other vehicle eventually tired of my misguided wonderings. It reversed to a passing point. We edged past it and onwards to glory. And Portscatho.

---

Portscatho is a beautiful village on the the East coast of the Roseland Peninsula. It slants down a hill which means at almost any position you can look out to sea. And being East facing, the sun rises above the bay each morning, looking for all the world like a megawatt-bulb Zeppelin. The village contains a pub, a butcher, a couple of shops and the harbour club which doubles as the local cinema on Monday nights. The small harbour is populated with motorboats sat just inside a stone quay which juts out into the sea. Children can occasionally be found hurling themselves off the end of the quay, enacting a worrying local tradition. Apparently it's safe as long as there's no more than 4 flagstones depth to jump. More than that and legs might be broken. Ah tradition!

The water is crystal clear and you're likely to find people crabbing. 🦀 Crabbing involves using some bait, typically bacon, to tempt in shrimp and crabs to nets. On the first night Sarah took us on a tour and we met some boys doing just that. No friends of caution, they'd opted for a full rasher of bacon in their net. They no doubt figured that if you scaled up the bait, you scaled up the prize. They were hoping to land Godzilla. Alas life doesn't work like that and they had thus far acquired a single (rather puny) shrimp. But we admired their intentions.

The third personality we were living with was Peter and Sarah's dog: Jess. Jess is a giant black walking carpet of friendliness. An enthusiastic and affectionate labradoodle with breath that, post-breakfast, could stun an ox. She's awesome and, with a little coaxing, enabled the boys to get past their fear of dogs.

One evening Peter and Sarah were out for dinner. I volunteered to take Jess for her pre-bed constitutional so their evening could go with more of a swing. I should say now that whilst I'm a dog lover, I'm not a dog owner. We headed down to the Lugger (your guess is as good as mine - it's a road that overlooks the quay). There Jess wandered from bench to telephone box to grassy area, sniffing, panting and occasionally urinating. What felt like the appropriate period of time passed, and I reattached the lead and pointed her homewards. We mooched past our car, which I had parked in a temporary waiting spot. By Portscatho standards, where every second car is double parked or sat on double yellows this seemed small beer. But still I thought I should do something about it. It was then I realised that Jess was busy voiding her bowels on the driveway next to the car. It was dark. And I had no bags. After a moment's guilty squinting at the dark (and now smelly) driveway, I affected nonchalance and, with lead in hand, strode purposefully upwards to where we were staying. I awoke the next morning with this mantra running through my head:

Move the car, move the dog poo, move the car, move the dog poo. Almost meditative. I might have it engraved on a plaque. Once I'd summoned energy for the day, I did, and I did. Anyone who was near the harbour at 6am that morning, may have witnessed a man furtively foraging in a driveway; attempting to retrieve something whilst desperately trying not to wake the occupants of the house. Such witnesses would have quickly realised that the driveway being made of super-audible gravel really worked against his noble aims.

Walking distance from Portscatho is Porthcurnick Beach. It's a glorious stretch of sand to which we dragged 2 bags, buckets and spades, and a buggy. We arranged ourselves on Lisette's picnic rug, pretty much immediately resigning ourselves to it being persistently covered in sand. Different people have varying expectations of a beach trip. Just along from our modest pitch a family had erected a tent. The entrance of the tent was expanded out on each side by windbreakers taking the form of walls leading out from the tent to the sea. At the end of the windbreakers a tennis court had been etched into the sand where 2 of the party were gently thwacking a ball to each other. Applying for planning permission was undoubtedly their next logical step.

The beach is well known for a beach side café called "The Hidden Hut". There's been articles in magazines and papers about it. And once someone off of the telly ate there. Or something. Either way, it's popular. Having eaten there a couple of times, we can say it deserves its reputation. The prices are very "London" though. Also, when rain kicks in (as alas it was wont to do on a regular basis) you can really find yourself wishing for a roof to shelter under.

In that wonderful way that children have, Benjamin and James almost instantly made friends with an assortment of other like-minded spade wavers down by the seafront. Negotiating amongst each other what should be constructed next and how. Much digging was done and many moats and castles were made. If I close my eyes I can still see Benjamin standing facing the shore, laughing as the waves hit his back. Magical.

When I was 16 years old, my father gave me a piece of advice that dramatically changed me. His advice changed my interactions with the world. I rather doubt he thought it would have such impact, but change me it did.

Having finished my mandatory schooling, I had recently started attending sixth form college. I was taking A-levels in Maths, Computer Science and Economics. I found I took to the former 2 subjects like a duck to water. They weren't a struggle, they were interesting and I had a natural aptitude. For want of a better phrase, I could "do it".

However, Economics was a different kettle of fish. It did not fit in my head. I could not grok it. I sat there, in lesson after lesson, listening hard to Terri Wilcox explaining Keynes, Monetarism, supply and demand. Occasionally she deviated and talked about her beloved Blackburn Rovers. It did not go in. Not the Economics and certainly not the football. At the end of each sentence uttered I found myself more bewildered than the last.

What made it worse was that I was alone in this. We all sat there in this silent classroom. Everyone else drinking in the new knowledge like so much ginger beer. Except me.

After a couple of weeks I began to despair. I was learning nothing. I felt I was about as likely to gain a qualification in economics as I was to learn how to breathe underwater. (A life goal that I had only recently realised wasn't actually possible.) So, whilst drying up after dinner one night, I explained my predicament to Dad.

"If you don't understand something, you should ask" he advised.

"But I'll just look stupid"

"No, if don't ask then you'll remain ignorant. And that is stupid."

"But no-one else needs to ask, they all understand!" I moaned.

"How do you know?"

"Well if they didn't, they'd ask."

"Like you, you mean?"

The man had a point. He continued:

"I reckon that every person in that room is in the same position as you. I reckon they're all sitting there saying nothing and learning nothing. That's what I think. And even if I'm wrong, you're certainly learning nothing right now. You have an opportunity to change that."

I couldn't fault his logic. I was slightly concerned about where it might lead, but there was a chance he was right.

In the next dreaded lesson I sat there listening. Terri was talking about the money supply or some such fanciful notion. As usual, in the realm of economic education, I was demonstrating all the sponge-like qualities of a pumice stone. Terri reached the end of her spiel and said "Any questions?"

Summoning my courage I raised my hand and said "I don't think I quite understand..."

"What don't you understand?"

"Well... Any of it really." There were were titters, as I had feared. Terri paused for a moment and then grinned. She proceeded to start explaining at the beginning. At the end of each paragraph she would check with me that I was following along. I'd respond, honestly, and where I didn't follow it, Terri would take me through, concept by concept until I did. From my perspective my classmates might as well not have been there; it had turned into a dialogue between Terri and myself. When it came time to leave the lesson I had a first: I'd learned something.

That's how it continued from thereon in. If I didn't understand something, which was most of the time, I asked. Terri stopped and she took me through it. I never came to find the dismal science straightforward or interesting. It is dull. But I did learn it. In large part I credit that to Terri for being game with a student who showed no gifting for her subject. But mainly I credit this to my father.

The principle he espoused applies far more broadly than A-level economics lessons. If you don't know: then you should say. Find out! You're wasting your time otherwise. The only reason other people don't do the same is that they're scared. But scared of what? Looking ignorant? That passes in a couple of minutes. Actually being ignorant doesn't.... Unless you take action. It's a lesson that's stuck with me. Thanks Dad.

Happy Father's Day!

On Friday night I went to the cinema and saw T2: Trainspotting with a mate. I loved it; for my money it's a wonderful film. Albeit one with a terrible name. I put it to you my alternative title is better... Ish.

I went to see the original in the cinema. Like pretty much anyone of my generation I had the mandatory orange posters plastered on my walls. I read the book multiple times. I had the video, the VHS cassette (I'm that old). Hell, I had the green special edition VHS with the deleted scenes. (Which was probably only released because at that time the marketing men realised they could slap Trainspotting on *anything* and make some money.) If I was going out for a night I watched Trainspotting with a drink in my hand before I headed out. It was part of the vague rituals of my life.

The film meant a lot to me. It's hard to express just why; excessive exposure has tattooed it into my mind. Part of it may be that the characters feel real. I have the same reaction to the Before Sunrise / Before Sunset characters Jesse and Celine and they're quite different but equally distinct.

I had some trepidation knowing that they were making a sequel to Trainspotting. Sequels usually fail to honour the original. But I've got a lot of time for Danny Boyle and I thought it could work out. In Danny We Trust. Rightly so.

It's not the same sort of film as the original. The nominal plot is not what the film is about (which is as well as the plot is fairly unedifying). The film is about getting older. Aging. How do you feel about how your life has turned out? How do you feel about the relationships in your life? Your family? Your friends. How are you doing?

It got me at a gut level. I have a feeling I responded to it so much because I'm not the same age as the me that originally imbibed this. Time has passed. I see these faces up on the screen and in the same way they've got creases in their faces and lines around their eyes, so do I. George Orwell said: "at 50, everyone has the face he deserves". The idea being that by the time you reach that age the movements of your face, the smiles and the frowns will have become etched in stone. Recorded in your skin as the permanent expression of the memory of a million emotions. So get smiling or I'll know you haven't been.

The characters, those that survived the original, are all back and you believe it's them. It's not some actors turning up for a paycheck; it's totally them. It's Mark Renton, Sick Boy, Spud and the supremely terrifying Begbie. The latter member is, somehow, one of the most fear inducing characters committed to celluloid. At any given moment he could do *anything*. You have absolutely no idea what he will do. Then he does it.

If you had any time for the original I think you should take a look at this. It's wonderful. It's hideous and filthy in large part and yet it is fulfilling and somehow... Elegiac. The best part for me is what happens to Spud. I won't spoil it - but there's a great idea that is used for his character. It's beautiful; it's right.

Oh and lest I forget; the soundtrack *rocks*. Just who are Wolf Alice? Never heard of them before but I think I've listened to Silk a thousand times now. So good. So good.

PS I'm a member of the Church of Wittertainment (Hello to Jason Isaacs) and I'm with Mark Kermode on this

There's this film called Away We Go. It's about a couple expecting their first baby and wondering where they should live. Over the course of the movie, they travel to different places in North America, spend time with different groups of friends and family. In the end, (spoiler alert) they work out where they think they should be.

When Lisette and I first saw it we thought it was fantastic. It's got a great soundtrack. It's got John Krasinski, making me question my own sexuality and reinforcing Lisette's. It has beautiful locations. It has great characters. What's not to love?

When we first watched it, the main theme of the film was just incidental to us. "Where should we live?" That's the question. Where should we be now? Where should we raise our children? Where do we belong? Over recent years this theme has become something Lisette and I actively think about.

Never Let Me Go​

We live in leafy Twickenham on the outskirts of London. We have done for more than a decade. As we've lived here we made many good friends and we've had wonderful times. There was a beautiful period when our first son was born where it felt that every person we'd see on the street would be someone we knew well and loved.

But a serpent entered our garden idyll: people started to leave. One by one we started to notice friends and family upping sticks and moving away. Some would like a bigger house. Alas, unless you're an oligarch, that's a somewhat difficult proposition in London. Some want to be nearer family. Some don't like the city. Some have dreams of living abroad. Or perhaps their work sends them away. They all had and have REASONS.

The leavers (let's call them that) are *still* your family, *still* your friends. But they're not part of your life in the same way anymore. You have different lives, different reference points, different experiences. Those differences make a... well like it or not (and naturally I do not), they do make a difference. So the realisation has started to sink in that a period of life I'd naively thought would last forever is ending. Has it already ended? Who knows; it's all a bit nebulous.

How Did We Get Here?​

I was born in the maritime city of Bristol, as was my brother. At the grand old age of 3, our family left the Southwest. We moved East to Fleet; a commuter town an hour away from London on the train.

Most people I've met look back with unalloyed fondness on the area they grew up. Lisette, a Geordie to her fingertips, is no exception. "Wey aye, man, Newcassel's purely belta like!" she says. Or some such incomprehensible positivity like that.

Fleet regularly tops polls of the best place to live in England. I ought to love it. I had friends. I had a decent education. It was a green and pleasant land and there was plenty of space. But alas, I'm a contrararian.

As I grew up I found Fleet to be tremendously boring. The number of times Public Enemy toured Fleet? 0. This is a place that struggled to pick up Channel 4; never mind Channel 5. In fact, the cultural highlight of my youth was one of the world's strongest men coming to pull a coach the length of Fleet High Street to celebrate the opening of a pizza shop. So you can see why I left.

Oddly I never felt like I belonged there. I grew up with a personal Jiminy Cricket sat on my shoulder telling me "you're not supposed to be here..."

After university I decided to head to London to seek my fortune. The streets are paved with gold, right? Lacking any real knowledge of the capital I aimed my vessel to the home of David Bowie, Mike Skinner and Delbert Wilkins. Brixton. Being one of the rare white faces in the many splendid diaspora of Lambeth I naturally felt completely at home. My flat was in stabbing distance of Brixton Academy as well as the glory of Electric Avenue, Coldharbour Lane (where actual stabbings took place) and the Ritzy Cinema. Each night the town's character changed; morphing based on the fan demographics of whoever was performing at the Academy that night.

In a way that defies easy explanation I felt like I belonged. My now wife, Lisette, felt otherwise. Having been raised in Whitley Bay, a seaside town near Newcastle she didn't warm to London. But we loved each other, so the deal was we'd find somewhere that was London but didn't feel like it. That was Twickenham. And it was great. It *is* great.

What's Next?​

Do a thought experiment with me: close your eyes and imagine all the people you know in your community. They matter to you. You love them, don't you? Now imagine they're all gone. One way or another, they have left. Do you still want to live there? Is "home" still your home?

I ask as it seems the inevitable conclusion of this drip-drip exodus.

London feels like home. In London the air is electric. To me these are both truths. But the other thing to bear in mind is that London is a very transitional place. People come and people go. Often. That's one of the things that makes it so exciting. So dynamic. And that's why, in the words of Johnny Cash channeling Trent Reznor, everyone I know goes away in the end.

That's not true of the suburbs. People settle there. They stay. I have friends living in and around Fleet that have been there since I was a boy. My parents are still there. There's something in that stability. Whilst I didn't appreciate it at the time, perhaps I benefited from that as I was growing up. It's worth considering.

Should I Stay Or Should I Go Now?​

I feel like I'm approaching a fork in the road. And on present evidence I'm liable to go straight.

I just don't know what to do with myself. With my family. Do we double down and stay where we are? Knowing that the majority of the relationships we form will have something of a time limit associated with them. Knowing that we'll regularly need to recommit to making new friends as old ones move on. Who's worth investing in? It seems terribly transactional.

Or maybe we should be thinking about moving out of the city. Back to where I was raised? Close to family. Nearer to old friends. Longer lasting relationships but less excitement. More space for the children but less vibrancy. Less difference.

Or something else entirely. Maybe abroad. Brexit is likely to restrict Brits' ability to work in the EU. But I've got an ace up my sleeve. Despite being born and raised in England, I find I'm eligible for an Irish passport purely by dint of my family. My wife is eligible for a French passport in the same way. What glorious mongrels we are. Maybe if we went abroad for work things would become a little clearer in my mind. It helps that I'm a software developer. You can do that anywhere. And, in fact, even working remotely is a pretty common way of working in my industry. So there's options.

What I lack is clarity. I pray I would know what to do. And when. And why. It comes down to this: I don't want to go. Or do I? And if I do, well where?

It was a warm Thursday morning. Despite it being mid-September and the beginning of autumn it still felt summery. Just another day of sunshine.

But that wasn't quite true, for today was Benjamin's first day of school. He was going to get up, eat breakfast, put on a shirt, shorts and a tie and walk the 6 doors down the road to St Stephen's Primary. Lisette had reservations about the tie; the shirt too for that matter. It seemed excessive for a child as young as 4. But they were the rules. She had other things to worry about; John was faintly baffled by the level of stress accorded to the difficulty in acquiring shorts. But there you go.

The morning began as most mornings did. Lisette drank a mug of tea upstairs. The boys drank milk, played and sat around her. Downstairs, Radio 4 could be heard in the background as John flicked various knobs and twisted dials on his coffee machine until something was produced that sat somewhere on the scale between "cappuccino" and "latte". There was something deeply satisfying to him about the level of effort required to produce coffee. The idea that the varying levels of attention to detail meant you could either produce a gloriously flavoured treacle or, alas more likely, a mug of brown slop.

This was a milestone morning. Everybody knew it was a milestone morning. Something big was going to happen come 8:40. The odd thing about the imminent approach of significant moments is not knowing how you're supposed to feel or behave. There's a notion that there is a certain path you should be treading but no idea of what that might actually be. So instead, for want of anything else, the morning continued as it might normally. James still wandered off mid-cereal to find his scuttlebug, only tempted back when he heard the "pop" of the toaster. Benjamin still insisted on 2 bowls for different types of cereal; the majority of which remain uneaten. He also decided that he needed to have porridge to which he gave a similar level of inattention.

But imperceptibly a point was reached. The countdown clock had started ticking. Benjamin needed to be togged up in his uniform, pictures needed to be taken. It was time; the boy needed to go to school.

The bell was rung. John watched Benjamin walk into his classroom and take his seat on the floor. His back was to his father and Benjamin formed part of a haphazard circle of 4 year olds. In a difficult to describe way, it felt to John as though Benjamin had just left his family. Left his pack, to be part of another pack. Of course he would see him again that evening. But in a way he wouldn't. He'd see a subtly different Benjamin, with the beginnings of new experiences and loyalties and friends. John's eyes grew hot and he forced himself to stare at the wall for a minute or two until he felt more in control of his emotions. Behind him he could hear Hazel exclaiming to Lisette "you're tearing up!" At least we're in the same boat.

Meanwhile, James had decided that by not going into the class he was clearly missing out. He lay face down on the playground. Lisette felt rather the same way although for different reasons. Normally on a Thursday it would have been her day to spend time with Benjamin and James. Her little gang. They would have gone to Little Acorns to see friends, then to Marble Hill Park to run around and eat lunch in the enclosure. Then maybe to the 1 o'clock club. But that wouldn't happen anymore. Her little buddy was gone. He had moved on and she wasn't ready to. Being a mother was, to quote Gilly Charkham, "a wrench". That night it rained heavily and thundered. It seemed somewhat appropriate.

It is a truism that there are holidays it is a pleasure to go on and holidays that make you appreciate home. We have just returned from France where we chose to stay on a French-only campsite, miles from the nearest town, where there was no public transport and (crucially) without any transport of our own. For the first half of the holiday we seemed likely to be falling into the second holiday category. We piled misjudgement upon unbelievably bad weather upon sickness upon unavailable taxis until we made manifest a teetering blancmange of calamity.

The whole journey was planned in order that Benjamin and James might meet their Great Uncle Yves and their Great Aunt Nicole. I'm happy to report this was achieved. There was a gathering of 3 generations of Priou, all in the same room at the same time and enjoying one another's company.

The rumours that the French had outlawed Bermuda Shorts seemed unlikely to have any basis in fact. I mean, it's a joke, right? Outlawing tasteless yet comfortable summer legwear. No. They really *really* mean it. They revile Bermuda Shorts. For why, for why? It's surely an irrational hatred, no?

In response, in a rare moment of weakness, I yielded. I purchased one of the (to me) offensive, yet (to the country of France) curiously approved of, items of swimwear. The sort in which no-one, save an Olympic swimmer, actually looks good. Mercifully I was then struck down with a vicious cold that incapacitated me and forced me to lie in a darkened room for several days, thus preventing me taking my plans any further. I feel the universe was staging an intervention. Quite right too.

---

I can't say why but at moments of linguistic failure I am filled with a profound certainty that everyone can speak English if they just reach deep within themselves and try. Alas, disappointingly often, the bounders disabuse me of this notion.

My approach when abroad has rarely, to my shame, been learning the language. I find I can generally get by knowing the numbers 1-10, please, thank you, hello and goodbye. For any more complicated transactions I tend to adopt the manner of a slightly well-to-do and, importantly, pathetic Englishman. I'm shooting for somewhere between John le Mesurier and PG Wodehouse. I attempt to radiate the air of a hapless fellow abroad and out of his depth. In short, the sort that people would take great pleasure in assisting. I'll be the first to admit to mixed results on this front; yet I press on regardless.

This was never more obvious then when I encountered an older French man as I was lugging shopping bags of sustenance back from the delightful La Bernerie-en-Retz. 20 minutes after my initial encounter, this 80 year old fellow was still regaling me with hearty tales of love, lust and life. Probably. In all honesty he may have been telling me that galettes just aren't up to much these days. At any rate there was a great deal of nodding, pointing, handshaking and belly laughing as I tried (and failed) to extract a mere word of English. I have not the first clue what we discussed. But it was awesome.

---

My mother-in-law (who is French) moved from Nantes to Newcastle back in the 70's. (You may be aware that it is from Newcastle that Lisette hails. She occasionally hints at this.) Anyway, Annie went through something of a culture acclimatisation as part of her arrival in Geordieland ("God's own country"). She tells the tale of when she was feeling low and homesick. She happened upon a Gregg's, an institution which you might imagine would not lift the spirits any further. However on this occasion it offered A New Hope. Pain au Chocolat! That greasy mix of pastry and chocolate which is a comfort on a dark day. She wasted no time in "pain"-ing herself up. And as she reached that fatty salvation to her lips she made an important discovery: in a certain light what may appear to be pain au chocolat will emerge to be a sausage roll.

The principle remains important: pain au chocolat rocks. It also tastes discernibly different to stuff acquirable in the UK. So I made the choice: if ever it is available then that's what I'm having. Lisette meanwhile is deeply concerned with the boys only ingesting "proper food". That means sandwiches. Well I don't agree: bugger sandwiches, say I.

Consequently, lunchtimes have been a deceptive affair. Commonly the boys "share" a sandwich. (Benjamin has the sandwich and is pursued by an aggravated and motivated James who shakes his brother down for scraps.) In the meantime I wait until they've raced past me but not yet turned back round again in order that I can grab a fistful of sweet chocolatey pastry and swing it gobwards. Ah the glamour.

Our own judgement on this holiday has frequently been off. I have been pretty horribly ill. The rain has been biblical. However, for the last 2 days the sun actually shone. We ate about 7 pints of moules frite. It felt like a holiday at last! Even if that welcome sunshine hadn't come calling we would have been worth it for this:

Miss Rachel at Nursery had a grand idea. She would give Benjamin a number of words and ask him how he felt about them. So she did. As Benjamin responded she diligently scribed away the results and presented Lisette with this at the end of the day:

It's not the best photo I've ever taken but the contents are gold and I didn't want to forget them. So here they are; Rachel's words and Benjamin's musings:

Police Car​

"Mummy might be worried that James will wake up."

"I like them because they make me happy; I like police cars."

Fish​

"Happy. They swim everywhere and I like to see them swim under water, I like to catch them under water, but I don't have a fishing net, maybe on holiday but then I need a suitcase too."

Mouse​

"Worried because it might fall over - it would run into something and fall."

Crocodile​

"I think it might eat. I would be worried."

Monkey​

"Because it swings on branches so it won't fall... It might make me happy."

Lion​

"Because it might scare me away I would be surprised. It might roar at me and I would run away with mummy and daddy and James."

Thank you Miss Rachel; you quite made our day!

Fun fact, the word "typical" enjoys a vastly different meaning when used by Brits as opposed to when used by the Spanish. The English usage of typical is effectively: "It's rubbish and I knew it would be". Example: the word uttered upon learning there is no car parking space when you need one. The Spanish definition is simpler; it means "traditional". Consequently the examples are jollier: olive oil, tapas and maracas.

---

The flaxen haired youth's name was Benjamin Luxford Reilly and, as he was fond of telling people, "I *not* a baby, I a big boy".

It was another sunny day in Mallorca and it had been decided that a trip to the market was in order. Benjamin wasn't too clear what a market was exactly. He had supposed that it would be much like a supermarket, but apparently not. Benjamin's father delighted in telling him that whilst supermarkets were a relatively recent innovation, markets went all the way back to Roman and Greek times. Perhaps even further still, but the prohibitive expense of using his mobile phone whilst abroad meant Mr Reilly wouldn't stretch to checking Wikipedia, preferring relative ignorance to massive bills. It emerged that it was Benjamin's father's view that markets were far more exciting than their "super" equivalent because they were

1. Outdoors and
2. Far less likely to sell washing powder and far more likely to sell tasty snacks.

The family proceeded together on foot in the direction of the marketplace; Granny Annie, Benjamin, Baby James and Mr and Mrs Reilly. Well "on foot" perhaps does not describe James and Benjamin's modes of transport. James was snoring in the buggy with a sunhat on, being pushed by Mrs Reilly. Benjamin had opted to sit upon upon Mr Reilly's shoulders. Mr Reilly enjoyed his equine duties but, given Benjamin's not insubstantial weight, would have welcomed the occasional break. Benjamin disagreed, feeling it was better that he remained in the saddle, so to speak. It toughened Daddy up. He saw himself as much in the tradition of Yoda training Luke in "The Empire Strikes Back". Though perhaps without recourse to the levitation of rocks and X-Wings accompanied by troubling hallucinations of Darth Vader.

As they entered the market, the first stall they came to was offering all manner of bread and baked goods. Alongside these were sold a Mallorcan variety of pizza which seemed to have replaced the traditional tomato base with a mixture of caramelised onions and peppers. Benjamin eyed the local speciality with some concern but finally agreed that they could procure a slice. "Uno, por favor" stumbled Mr Reilly in his pidgin Spanish, gesturing hopefully in the direction of the bready goodness.

The family took a seat on a wooden bench in a park that was located just to the side of the marketplace. Sat upon the bench Benjamin had decided that he definitely didn't like the pizza. Without first trying it he opined "don't like it" quite forcefully, fearing that, perhaps, it may even be poisonous. After about 10 minutes of special pleading by Mr and Mrs Reilly, Benjamin was persuaded to give a tiny corner of the pizza a try. "Mmmmm!!!" He intoned, delighted, and indicated that contrary to prior sentiments expressed he would actually be open to having some more.

It was obvious to Benjamin that by waiting 10 minutes before putting incisors to peppery bread, the flavour had been quite transformed and the poison dissipated. Mr Reilly was not so convinced; Benjamin's change of heart had rather put him in mind of that quotation attributed to Mark Twain:

"When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years."

The park was of the sort that didn't allow dogs and, to inform patrons of this, large signs were hung here and there which featured the profile of a dog with a thick red line running through its head. As the family sat there, they watched a variety of dogs and their owners ambling slowly past the signs in and around the park. Granny Annie observed that rules and laws are generally regarded as symbolic in Spain. Few Spaniards feel particularly bound by them. In fact, in all likelihood the signs were only erected to put the Germans at ease. In some ways this could be seen as a charmingly relaxed Mediterranean attitude towards needlessly strict rules. After all who would honestly say they don't enjoy the spectacle of a golden retriever romping through grass of an afternoon? Not Benjamin, who basically considered himself quite pro-dog (provided the dogs weren't too large). However Mr Reilly had observed other side effects of the laissez faire attitude to the law, in the form of smoking in restaurants and pavements liberally splattered with dog waste. (Which had not been pooped, scooped and binned by their rebellious owners.) As such he felt that perhaps the Germans had something to offer on this occasion.

It was at this point the Reillys decided to try and pose for a family photograph. Baby James was, perhaps understandably, a little less than thrilled to be woken from his slumber, picked up and turned to face the noonday sun in all her beaming glory. Reviewing the photographs afterwards it was agreed that three out of four people facing the camera was not bad at all. Benjamin, seeing Mrs Reilly's phone, took the opportunity to grab it and bring music to the park. Earlier in the day, Benjamin had discovered a small pile of coins on a cupboard. They were the loose change that had been in Mr Reilly's pocket when they arrived from England. Given that the coins were of currency Pound Sterling and effectively useless in Mallorcan shops, Mr Reilly had discarded them until the return journey. Benjamin, feeling that big boys needed money, decided to take it himself and had placed the coins in the breast pocket of his T-shirt. As Benjamin jigged up and down to the tinny beats of mid-90s Erasure, a fountain of coins leapt from Benjamin's pocket filling the sand with shiny metal. "Oh no!" lamented Benjamin, looking entirely crestfallen. Fortunately for Benjamin the Aged P's were on hand and Mr and Mrs Reilly busied themselves on their knees excavating pound coins and fifty pence pieces from the earth whilst delicately trying to avoid some of nature's surprises, tucked away alongside. "Living the dream!" murmered Mrs Reilly, hands deep in the ground.

A little later on Benjamin was presented with the gift of a lolly by a kindly, well meaning man. "Ank-u!" Benjamin said. Mrs Reilly felt similarly about the notion of Benjamin eating a lolly as she did of the prospect of poverty, famine, war and death. "Think of the effect it will have on his teeth" she seethed inwardly. Benjamin didn't improve matters by then proceeding to suck the lolly hard and then exhale in an ostentatious fashion. Mrs Reilly realised, in a moment of absolute horror, that Benjamin was using his lolly to emulate a man smoking nearby. She is probably still twitching in a state of trauma at this very moment...