The rain came as forecasted; our day was spent hunkered down
inside the caravan with reading matter, apart from a little trip up to the
local service station for milk and the newspaper. As we passed the cleared
fields, we agreed that the frenzied hay baling and harvesting efforts witnessed
yesterday and the previous few days had been well timed, and no doubt well
engineered.
Mid-morning we telephoned the garage for a progress report
and were told that the vehicle also needed a new shock absorber, the steering
had too much play in it and the price for these were bringing the total cost
back to near that which had originally been suggested when imaginary figures
were being thrown around. There is a very coarse expression, coined by the now
ex-Prime Minister of Australia, “Shit happens!” How apt this seems right now.
This morning I prepared lunch and everything else in
readiness for The Call. By 10.30am, I thought we could end up leaving it too
late if we just sat here waiting for the phone to ring, still having to drive north to Ainsdale before their
Saturday office hours ended. So we set off, up through the rain, again across
the cultivated lowlands, the carrot and potato tops all flattened by the rain.
The trip was shorter than expected, and we arrived soon after 11am to be told
they were still waiting for the shock absorber to arrive from somewhere else.
We could wait? The car was sitting in the car park; we checked it out to find
damage to the rear bumper and reported it to the girl behind the desk.
Instead of waiting and stewing, we drove south a little to
the Tesco at Formby, where we bought the
weekend newspaper and extras for lunch,
buffeted by the winds forecasted to be gale force on this west coast. We were
back at midday and sat leafing through sundry tabloids available to entertain
the waiting public. Finally, well after the official closing time, we were
handed the invoice for payment. Those able to offer remedy for the external
damage to the car were not in today, but the girl would see that the
appropriate reports were made. She imagined that we would have to bring the car
back in next week for the repair; we told her that would not suit at all. We
would be well gone from Merseyside.
In fact our host, Chris G, had come calling earlier in the
day, with his hand out for payment and an indication as to when we would be
gone, and no wonder; we had outstayed our booking by more than a week. We had
assured him we were hoping to pick the car up today, but agreed that he could
move the caravan with his tractor if we were still here by tomorrow afternoon,
before the grass was too long to rehabilitate.
There were mixed feelings as we drove away in our own car
about 1pm; joy that the car was now safe and frustration regarding the damage,
albeit superficial. We headed south yet again to Formby, this time to Formby
Point to follow National Trust signs I had spotted on one of our drive-byes.
Two miles west of the main highway, we found ourselves at the entrance of more
than just the beach car park I had expected, but a coastal park of sand dunes
and pine forest.
After we had eaten our lunch, we set off in the rain along
the Squirrel Walk, a half mile circular walk beneath pine woods now home to red
squirrels. When we were in the Lake District last year, we had learned of the
demise of the red squirrel here in England. Grey squirrels were introduced from
North America to Britain in the 1870s as fashionable additions to estates and
are now widely distributed across the United Kingdom. These days their
population is estimated to be over two and a half million as compared to
between ten to fifteen thousand red.
The grey squirrels are larger than their red counterparts;
however it is not so much a rivalry factor that has brought about the demise of
the smaller species. Grey squirrels are carriers of the squirrel pox virus,
which the reds have no immunity to. It only needs one grey squirrel to
introduce the virus to a population of red squirrels to take hold and spread
through the entire group with devastating results.
The National Trust is part of the project to save these
British natives, and their coastal property here at Formby Point is one of
those sanctuaries.
The pine woods were planted about one hundred years ago to
provide shelter for crops and help stop sand blowing inland. Although crops are
no-longer grown in the dunes at Formby, the woodland is maintained for the
wildlife and the walking public.
We were delighted to spot one of these delightful little
reds soon after setting off on our walk, but just missed seeing others, sighted
by others ahead of us. It did seem that most folk on the walk were able to spot
at least one before they scampered away up into the pine canopy like wee
monkeys.
It was still raining as we headed back on the road and
toward our camp, however once home, we were pleased to find the rain had become
intermittent, suggesting better conditions for our departure tomorrow.
We sat over our afternoon coffee, with camping directories
and cellphone, re-establishing our travel itinerary. The CL previously booked
near Preston and where we have mail waiting for us, cannot accommodate us.
Fortunately they have a family member in the same “business” who have made
space for us.
Further afield, we were unable to rebook our camp near
Penrith and have instead extended our destination further north, east of
Carlisle. Unfortunately that particular batch of days coincides with the August
Bank Holiday.
So at the end of the day, we have good news; accommodation
booked out for the next nine days, a car that is fixed albeit with a nasty
gouge on the rear, and we have stocked up with provisions and fuel ready at
last to leave the Liverpool area.
In the meantime we will settle down in front of the television
to watch the last of the Olympic activities, this year such a celebration for
the Brits. Given the division and disharmony following the EU Referendum, this
could not have come at a better time. As my dear husband likes to point out,
sport does so much good.
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