Wacka-waving ’round Weymouth

Another season, another holiday.

Astute readers will note that this is our third holiday in the last 12 months. We’re getting into this idea that taking holiday time doesn’t mean that a flat needs sound-proofing, a bookcase needs building or windows need glazing. Sometimes it actually means not working.

It’s a novel concept and one that we are still trying out.

This time around, a friend of ours had noticed a national paper offering cheap prices to stay in a lodge in a holiday home. After our adventures around the Isle of Wight (this post here) we are very much of the idea that renting rooms with adjoining lounges and kitchens is a good thing.

Rather than a caravan this time, we got a lodge at Warmwell Leisure Park – seeing as how there was to be me, Wife Number One, Mr Ben, the Present Mrs Ben, Mr Best Man, Mrs Mr Best Man and Eric the Dog. Far easier for us to share a lodge than to try finding three hotel rooms somewhere that allowed dogs to stay.

And cheaper.

For Wife Number One and I, the holiday began with a trip through London’s underground system. It was just busy enough to be awkward with large bags, of course. We were staying at Mr Ben’s the first night; with the intention of popping out to a park for an hour or two to enjoy the sun – until packing, buying travel food and a last minute window failure meant arriving a little before dusk.

Still time for a cup of tea and some dinner.

Day one of the holiday proper had us traveling down to meet with Mr and Mrs Best Man. We had to wait a little while at theirs as Mr Best Man had made a little miscalculation a few weeks previously and had mixed up June and July. Thus he was starting the holiday by having a breakfast meeting.

Cup of tea for the rest of us then.

Once he had made it home and de-suited himself, we set off through the New Forest.

The definition of New Forest is ‘not many trees’.

We managed to navigate through it and into the wilds of Dorset, arriving in Bournemouth for a very important visit – the milkshake shop.

In what must have been a flash of genius, this is a shop that exists to serve milkshakes. 200 of the blighters! They have a history page (and for the record, I want to try Eccles Cake flavour!).

While still bathing in the glow of a post Fry’s Peppermint Cream Shake, we wander to the park to see the captive balloon.

Then we get to the serious business – the first round of (mini-)golf starts. Mr Best Man gets his first work related call. And while Wife Number One leads on the out 9, I manage a cheeky win on the return. Mr Ben and Mr Best Man blame sunstroke.

Stopping at the pier (we like Afterburner and Blazing Angels!) to check that it’s still there (it is) we continue onwards to the wooden chalet that Eric the Dog will be calling home for the next few days

Perched on the side of a woody hill just to the side of the dry ski slope, of course.

We decide the first night to eat at the local restaurant – we can’t go too far as we are waiting for a duvet to be delivered. We do check the arcades out – despite an early and lasting lead at the ten-pin bowling, Mr Ben manages to get three strikes on his final go to scrape a first place win. Monopoly pays out for me but Ghost Squad has a dodgy action button and I fail to deactivate the bomb in time. Wife Number One also has Monopoly pay out for her – as she breaks one of the consoles.

Staff begin to take note of our group …

Getting into my (single) bed under the duvet (thin), I am kept awake for a couple of hours by the combination of the DS and somebodies snoring.

Day two dawns brightly (thin curtains). Mr Best Man blames Eric the Dog for the snores. Eric rolls his eyes. We head outwards to Monkey World. This is a rescue and re-homing centre for all primates (excepting humans) – though they don’t have any gorillas. Monkey World works to halt illegal smuggling of primates from Africa and Asia – one of those tasks that you wish someone didn’t have to do.

The primates there are kept in very good conditions and seem to be enjoying themselves – their current fad is to hide under sheets as ghosts and chase each other around.

And they let the staff join in – one of the lemurs escaped while we were there. And while we did suspect Mr Best Man of walking out with one in his pocket, everything was well in short order.

The lure of the sea proved stronger than the tanks passing by on the other side of the road and we headed down to Lulworth cove. Past the duck pond and tree of buckets, we tried to find somewhere to put up the sun shade … fail.

We decided to console ourselves with a cream tea each … definite pass!

And remember, the cream goes on BEFORE the jam.

Mr Best Man takes his third work-related call.

Back at the holiday camp, Wife Number One finds the chef’s lucky plastic bag in her salad and get the meal for free as a bonus! (Many thanks Brian for your help).

Staff definitely have our number – Monopoly machine still broken. The other machine gun on Ghost Squad has a good action button but a sticky trigger – the sniping section doesn’t go well.

Introduce Mr Ben to the card game Whist tonight. He proves annoyingly good.

Less snoring (and less DS) this night means that next mornings trip to the swimming pool isn’t through bleary eyes – hay-fever excepted.

Yes, for some ungodly reason, myself, Wife Number One and the Present Mrs Ben all decided to fore-go the morning tea and sofa to spend half and hour doing as many widths of the pool as we could before all the little kidlets arrived.

We returned to the lodge to find the others in position on the sofa’s, cups of tea in hand, TV on. Both groups kinda looked at the other askance.

Eric gave us all a look.

While Mr and Mrs Best Man decided to continue to test the sofa’s, the rest of us left to boldy carry on with the holiday.

Going by Tesco’s first.

Money, food (and books?!?) stocked up we head onwards to the Tank Museum.

Okay, that’s a little geeky I’ll freely admit. The wives managed to look not bored for nearly minutes and there is only so long that one can look at large rivets before the brain shuts down. Still, I nearly managed to get Marksman ranking on the Squad Automatic Weapon Simulator (let down only because my nice tight grouping at 300 yards was a targets height above the bulls eye – it was on a Bren for the anoraks)

After all that excitement … it was time to be serious again … on the Weymouth Pirate Adventure Mini-Golf. The serious bit was being trapped behind two family groups. We managed to jump ahead of one and separate another but please, if the group behind you is smaller – let them play through!

Then Mr Best Man kindly shock-tested Mr Ben’s kite against the shingle for a bit. And Mr Ben tested aerodynamic ability of a kite immersed in sea water. Neither test was particular effective.

With the light beginning to fade we continue southwards and up to Portland Bill. He wasn’t in.

But the view was nice.

I forget how but Wife Number One managed to get dessert for free tonight (Thanks Brian!). Mr Ben didn’t toy with us at the bowling tonight. Monopoly machine up and running but fails to pay out.

The Present Mrs Ben proves annoyingly good at Whist tonight – both Mr and Mrs Ben prove less good at Shithead.

Resolve not to play Whist again

With a view to doing something seaside-y on the holiday, we head to Lyme Regis on day 4

The Sat Nav reference point for Lyme Regis is the Travis Perkins.

Still we find the sea at the bottom of the hill and have a second cream tea while we wait for Mr Best Man and Mrs Mr Best Man to catch up.

Why don’t cream teas in Dorset have currents in them?

After testing the pebbles for comfort (not much) we head along the front. Then the wives head off shopping (for more food) and Mr Ben and I escalate the competition at Lyme Regis Mini-Golf. I lead on the out nine but decide to play nicely to the man driving the whole week and manage to lose gracefully and without braining the little kid following a little too closely to my up-swing.

It’s nice to see that Lyme Regis provides entertainment for it’s visitors. We spend half an hour watching a modern slapstick comedy featuring two old ladies attempting to sit on the beach. Firstly, on directors chairs. Then, as the wind keeps blowing the chairs away, one scrambles back to the beach hut to grab a traditional windbreak. It’s important when setting up a windbreak to be aware of the direction of the wind.

Oh, hold on love!

It’s important also to ensure that the poles go firmly in.

Pebbles are not good ground for poles.

Apparently, sand isn’t much better once they had moved it.

Then one of the ladies had an idea. Struggling with the windbreak she returned to her beach hut for a moment and returned with a tent style windbreak.

It’s important to not let the wind get into a tent

Oh, hold on love!

The third character to enter the scene was some old boy whose gallantry wouldn’t allow him to sit in his own windbreak any longer.

Nope, he didn’t offer his own but came over to give a hand.

Kinda.

After a few minutes of the tent version of ‘Hot Potato’ both the gentleman and the first lady disentangle themselves and head off. The second lady holds down the wind break by the simple method of putting her directors chair on the tent and sitting down. The first lady returns with the traditional wind break and the gentleman returns with a brick.

We get distracted by a size 20 lady in size 14 pink clothes (my eyes, my eyes!) and when we look back at the beach, lady one is returning to the beach hut again. Lady two is sat on a chair in the tent windbreak which is propping up the lean of the traditional windbreak. The old boy is MIA – we presume they have bashed him on the head with the brick and have his body weighing down the tent.

We head back along the front to stop the wives from dismantling the credit cards and stop shortly at Charmouth to see if the kite weather is any better. In the absence of Mr Best Man, I shock test Mr Ben’s kite for a bit.

Then, guided only by the back of a packet of biscuits we go to a biscuit factory. The factory has moved and it’s closing time but the wives still manage to return to the car with four laden bags of biscuits and cake.

The car is groaning slightly.

The staff back at the leisure camp have had time to prepare for us. No free food this time – though we do remark on the untided glasses on top of the cig machine. No-one does brilliantly at the arcades tonight but Mrs Mr Best Man does manage to get the jackpot at the bingo.

I try out the kids assault course and don’t fall off or damage anything.

We mix up the Shithead (I win) and Whist (I don’t win) with a little Rummy (I sometimes win).

The next morning we remember that we have to leave today and frantically run around attempting to pack before we have to check-out.

Only a few minutes late (it’s all those biscuits!) and it’s down to the final serious business – the gold final at Warmwell mini-golf (all nine holes of it!)

Mr Best Man takes his 8th work related called of the week

Level peggings at the ninth means we turn around and go back the way we came. Mr Ben becomes unstuck at the joint 5th/6th holes. I claim the moral victory. Eric gives me a look.

We are booked in to Go Ape later on and so we have to make sure that we don’t do anything that could affect our ability to use all our limbs.

So we go on the roller rink – Wife Number One has skated before and is fine on the roller boots. The present Mrs Ben has neither skated before and edges around the rink. Mr Ben and I – both of whom have never been roller-skating of any kind – put on roller-blades and go for it.

On the rink, at least, it seems much like ice-skating.

I last went ice-skating before I went to college. That’s in the last century and some.

Once again though, defying the gods of narrative, we all come off the rink in one piece with no damages.

Mostly.

Now, Go Ape

For those who don’t check links, this can be quickly described as an assault course. 30 feet in the air. In a Woodland. They have 17 sites (currently) around the UK working alongside the Forestry Commission and the Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents.

Unless you really can’t stand heights, I thoroughly recommend this.

Of the group of us four (Mrs Mr Best Man suspected she may be pregnant (7 weeks to go!) and Mr Best Man had to hold Eric’s hand …erm paw) I am fine at heights but had broken my leg a year ago and have sensitive skin, Wife Number One doesn’t mind heights but doesn’t really see the point of assault courses, Mr Ben has dodgy joints and a dislike of heights and the present Mrs Ben has no upper body strength.

We are all going to a different course over August because we all enjoyed it that much.

I don’t recommend the extreme routes unless you are confident mind – fitting size 9 shoes into size 8 stirrups hanging from hemp lines over the forest floor isn’t one of my most pleasant memories, to pick one part of the course – however getting to the end of the course without relying on the harness is a good memory to have.

That and the others going splat at the end of the zip lines

We pause at Mr and Mrs Best Man’s for a final cup of tea then take a final deep breath of fresh air and return to the London smog.

God forbid, I should miss next week’s flamenco show …

For the adventurous, there are photo’s to be found on Flickr here