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The classic British summer holiday starts to gain momentum as the weather improves, albeit probably temporarily. A good night’s sleep after yesterday’s coastal path walk, followed by a hearty bacon and egg for breakfast set us up for the day.

The weather was perfect for flying our new kite. It failed to get airborne. We need some professional advice on this subject and there is none to hand. Hmm.

The weather was also perfect for fishing of the end of the quay. We caught no fish, although we were not alone in this predicament. For some of us this is not as disappointing as it may sound. Catching a fish means getting hands cove red in fish bits. For me the pleasure is in standing in a pleasant place in the sunshine periodically casting the lure and reeling it in.

The rest of the family eventually joined us and Tom and John eventually set off to the other end of the prom to play tennis. In the meantime the bridge opened and we saw a steady stream of yachts sailing in and out of the harbour. This is such a relaxing sight. We waved, or at least I did, and had a reasonable response rate. As they got beyond the quay the boats raised their sails and started tacking into the South Westerly, whither bound I know not. Ireland or Wales.

Next we took the fishing net to the rock pools by the castle. There were tiddlers on show but we didn’t catch one. The point of the activity is to stand there looking into the pools to see what we could see. To say we had been “rock pooling”.

Round at the beach we got out the picnic and tucked in to our sandwiches. Paddling was obligatory though the weather was not quite right for lying on the beach all day with the occasional cooling swim. Actually the water is cold.

Setting off for part two we went to Onchan Park where the usual go-karting, motorboating, remote controlled boats, crazy golf, play park and ice creams filled the afternoon and gave us a healthy tan.

As we finished the boat set out from Douglas harbour bound for Heysham by all appearances.

Intrepid, adventurous, brave. All words used to describe the Davies gang on holiday. Today we walked up Peel Hill and carried on along the coastal path to Glen Maye.

An element of subterfuge was involved here. We stopped frequently on the way to the top of the hill. Mainly for me to catch my breath but also ostensibly for the kids. Stops involved the frequent distribution of energy giving sugary sweets, a flashback to my own childhood where my father would find packets of fruit pastilles left by the fairies behind rocks to keep me going on my way up Cader Idris, the mountain that towered over our home in Dolgellau.

The weather deteriorated on the way up Peel Hill,  having lulled us into a false sense of security at lunchtime. We all had decent waterproofs so the rain, only persistent and not lashing, did not really trouble us and having reached the initial objective of Corrin’s folly,  we stopped to assess the situation.

There was an moment where the defeatist faction, naming no names, wanted to return to Peel but the rest galvanized Hannah who led the “let’s keep going” movement and we continued south, assisted by the fact that it was all downhill.

The walk was a lot longer than anyone had bargained for.  We traversed treacherous cliff-tops which, had the wind been stronger, would not have made sense, skirted a field with a bull in it, had our bare legs attacked by nettles, gorse and brambles, climbed stiles and were constantly on the lookout for basking sharks in the sea  below.

In the wilderness beyond Peel we met nobody.  The coastal path itself seemed hardly a regular route. Not a beaten path. On one occasion I heard a cacophony of seagulls. Looking up I saw a flock trying to scare off a kestrel which ignored them and dropped in on an unseen prey.

 The weather turned out to be near perfect. Typically, I had forgotten the map so our destination, Glen Maye, was always around the next bend. Finally we arrived at Glen Maye beach.  Luxuriously empty.

We skimmed flat stones across the waves, leapt from slippery stepping stone to slippery stepping stone and spread ourselves out to dry in the sun.  After an appropriate pause we set off for the pub at the top of the glen where we met Tadcu who had come to take our weary limbs home.

It was a beautiful afternoon when we arrived at the Isle of Man.  Ice cream on the promenade weather. The following morning was a different story entirely.

Joe and I went to the quay immediately after breakfast to try our hand at fishing. The wind was far too strong and the couple of lads already there braving the elements did not stay long.  In fact our own expedition was a non starter because whilst I had packed the rods and the fishing box I had completely forgotten about the reels!

We retreated into Michael Street and found an all purpose outdoor activities shop that sold us a couple of cheap reels at £11.98 the pair. Just down the street a baker sold us a couple of sausage rolls that we had to protect from the rain as we ate them walking back to the car.

As the wet weather persisted the only recourse appeared to be a shopping trip into Douglas. This is somewhat of a recurring theme of our holidays in the Isle of Man. The sea on the front in Douglas was very violent and kept us entertained for five minutes or so, crashing onto the prom.  Good job we had arrived yesterday.

I survived the shopping trip and we retreated to Peel for the usual splendid lunch. The afternoon was a completely  different kettle of fish. We journeyed to Port Erin, ostensibly to find some amusements. In practice there were no amusements. As a breed of entertainment they are completely extinct in the Isle of Man which is a real shame because us kids used to love betting (5p) on the mechanical racehorses and dropping two pences into the “penny” falls. It’s no wonder really that they have all closed.

The afternoon weather in Port Erin was a complete contrast to the morning.  We had tea in our favourite end of the beach “Nook Café” and then player cricket on the sand. returning to Peel, Joe and Tadcu accompanied me for a bit of late afternoon fishing followed by a pint at “The Creek Inn”. Sitting outside the pub the sun was warming though the breeze was challenging. After dinner Anne and I enjoyed a walk down to the prom, over to Fenella Beach and back.  It is the same routine year after year – a winning recipe.

We arrived at Pier Head at almost exactly 10.30, the appointed hour for check in. Whilst not last to arrive we were near the back of the queue and seeing our trailer the attendant waved us into the “white van lane”. We weren’t sure if this was a good thing because being stuck behind a high sided white van we couldn’t see the queue ahead and in consequence had no idea whether the line ahead was moving.

Of course the line wasn’t moving and we stayed there for the usual interminable length of time, waiting. The waiting is a traditional part of getting on a ferry. It’s a bit of a lottery really. When you get into that queue there doesn’t seem to be any logic as to which lane moves first and therefore who gets on first.

Even if you do get on first that often means that you are parked in a dead end on the car deck that pretty much guarantees you are the last off. And nobody wants to get into that position. When the boat hits the jetty in the Isle of Man everyone is chomping at the bit to hit the road.

So this time we were in the white van queue and waiting…

When in the queue the dynamics in the car change. Suddenly everyone gets bored. The box of sandwiches, made by Anne at the crack of dawn for consumption on the boat, is breached and handed round. Anne wants to get out of the car. There is an interesting new building a hundred metres or so away. No no I say. They will all want to follow and what then happens when the lane starts moving?

Anne and Hannah settle for standing next to the car, stretching their legs after the 20 minute journey. Starlings break the boredom by looking for food on the wall next to the car. There is no food. Why don’t they go somewhere there is a bit of grass where there at least might be worms.

The man in the van behind us gets out and sits on the wall.  The cricket has not yet started on the radio. The kids start arguing.

At last we start moving, slowly, although when we get to the front we are waved through without the security checks that apply to white vans and we drive onboard.

The journey is smooth though not entirely uneventful because whilst we are at sea England beat the Aussies in the second test at Lords. The Niarbyl lounge is comfortable and almost empty. When we arrive in Douglas we are indeed one of the first off. Result!

The strong summer breeze cracks the flags on the two flagpoles above the cricket pavilion. It is cold as we wait for the others to turn up. The building is locked and there are few people around. This is real summer weather as opposed to the artist’s impression.

Later the rain comes and the wind drops. A vertical soaking in prospect. A downpour of the sort that characterises the typical British summer. It is still cold but out and about and dressed in shorts and waterproof coats we stand underneath the large umbrella being fairly relaxed. We buy two bunches of asparagus fresh cut this morning before the weather hit.

At 4pm the boys arrive and we head for the Morning Star for a luxurious late afternoon beer. The pub is surprisingly full of refugees from the rain. One rare hour of liquid hedonism.

The noise on the conservatory roof is deafening and we have abandoned our ambitions to have a barbecue. We cook on the stove in the kitchen and move into the conservatory to eat. The children are a credit and impress our visitors. We should have dinner guests more often.

Later still the cacophony of birds in the back garden is loud enough to compete with any of the noises we have heard today. Mostly blackbirds I think and I wonder if I am hearing this year’s brood.

Finally, sometime towards the end of the day, the heavy, random drips of the water from the trees onto the glass roof. I recline on the sofa pondering the days climatics.

It’s one of those idyllic “why would anyone want to be anywhere else” days in May. The back garden is starting to bloom and the sound of birdsong is all around. The lawn has been mown and the hammock is up for the first time this season.

Upstairs the two older offspring are revising for forthcoming examinations, voluntarily and without parental pressure! The other two are in Sunday School with their mother making for a peaceful morning.

Cricket has unfortunately been cancelled as Bracebridge Heath Under 9s have failed to raise a side. It would have been a perfect day for it sat on the boundary sipping a coffee and reading the Sunday papers.

A small plane buzzes across the sky leaving no trail, the sound remaining for a short while after it has disappeared from sight. Leaves flutter in the gentle wind.

The jobs list has been quickly finished and the car retrieved from Burton Road where it was left after a quick post golf drink turned into several. I am now sat in the conservatory with the doors open with a cup of green tea sourced from the shop on Steep Hill. Outside in the garden it is too bright to type. All is well.

I first notice the two motorcycles when they passed me on the M50 a little north of Newport, just after the Celtic Manor junction. I was on my way home from a few days in Cardiff with my sister Sue.

When they passed me I pulled to the left a little to let them by. The rearmost bike was weaving a little side to side, stretching his legs out and riding high on the saddle. It seemed as if he had had a long journey and was flexing his muscles.

They raced on ahead and I thought nothing more. Then a little further north I saw one of them on the hard shoulder of the motorway clearly in difficulty. Looked like some sort of engine trouble. I passed him quickly and again I thought nothing of it.

Then I came across the second bike. He had slowed down and was constantly looking in his rear view mirror for his chum. There was nothing I could do. He had not seen his companion pulling up and could not turn around to go back and look for him. On the motorway I had no way of telling him what had happened.

I quickly pulled ahead of the second bike and my life moved on. I imagine they found each other eventually. It felt to me as if the two bikes were a pair of ducks and one of them had been caught by a fox, the other one flapping around helplessly wondering what had happened to its mate.

Its three games to go and the situation is tight at the top of the table. We travel in convoy to Mablethorpe. It is a beautiful spring day and everyone is in buoyant spirits. What’s more the opposition only has 6 players. Huh, a walkover we think.

Disaster. They score first. No problem. We can recover. After all there are still 55 minutes to go.

Aargh. They score again. These are good little players. Their six are better than our seven who seem to have no idea what to do with the ball today. They just stand there looking at it. Hmm. This ain’t going to be so easy.

Three nil and it isn’t even half time yet! What is going on? This isn’t the team we recognize. We bring on a couple of subs to ring the changes.

Half time and the manager gives the lads a roasting in his team talk. More substitutions.

The second half starts and there seems to be little difference to the quality of our game. I start composing dramatic bits of poetry in my mind. “The season’s hopes dashed. Crashed on the rocks of Mablethorpe sea front. ” Not that there are any rocks in Mablethorpe. It is sand as far as the eye can see.

Fifteen minutes to go. We score. Hooray. A glimmer of hope, a chink of light. Come on lads, you can do it. Nerves are on edge.

Ten minutes to go. The game is picking up. We score number two. Hooray. Come on lads you can do it.

Five minutes to go. Number three. Sighs of relief all round. I begin to feel a little sorry for the opposition who have been by far the best side for most of the game despite being a man down.

Two minutes to go. Amazing. 4 – 3. Now an agonising couple of minutes whilst they pile on the pressure. The defence holds. The final whistle blows. We have all aged five years but the title hopes are still alive.

Well done boys.