Today was our youngest daughter, Lowri's, sports day.
It should have been yesterday, but, typically, it was postponed because of the rain.
And although the rain held off, the weather was absolute pony. I turned up in short sleeve order and after five minutes of dithering and watching Lowri, also in short sleeves, dither - I decided to nip home and get our cold weather kit. In my absence of fifteen minutes or so, I missed her first two races. She proudly showed me her two 'silver' medals for her second-place finishes as I gave her coat. She was shivering and grateful that I'd skipped across the track with it.
As the afternoon wore on more and more parents, realising their kids were in danger of going down with hypothermia, did the same thing.
As us parents and grandparents sat there freezing our collective knackers and knockers off, the kids performed admirably and Lowri won two 'golds' in the relay. Go Lowsta!!
Back to the weather. If ever I felt vindicated in making our decision to move to Australia then this afternoon was that moment. Earlier this year, as the meteorological experts predicated a baking hot summer, I predicated a summer of self-doubt, soul-searching and personal anguish over our decision to emigrate.
As it happens, things haven't turned out like that; we had a decent start to the summer with some hot days and balmy nights but for the last three weeks it's been dreadful. Rain has lashed this island in monsoon-like volume, causing flooding and misery to many. But for me, whilst I feel for the victims, the weather has helped me, easing the anguish of taking the kids away from their family and friends, justifying our hair-brained notion to move to the other side of the globe.
I'd estimate that the Australian climate compared to Britain's and the lifestyle that climate encourages is the biggest single factor by a long way in us making this move.
Today the weather sucked. Today was a good day.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
For Queen and Country
Saturday was one of the proudest days of my life.
We went to London to watch our son take part in the Trooping of the Colour, the Queens Official birthday parade.
He's a member of 3 Company, 1st Battalion Welsh Guards, currently based in London.
It was the Colour of the Coldstream Guards that was being 'trooped' but the majority of the soldiers, NCO's and officers on parade were from the Welsh Guards, with the battalion providing almost four hundred men.
I've watched the event since my youth in the seventies, but to actually be there and with Cory taking part, was a truly unforgettable experience.
He's only eighteen, our boy. Yet, already, he's been in the regular army for almost two and a half years, he's been on an operational tour to Bosnia, has done umpteen Royal guards at Windsor and in London, he's passed his driving test, boxed, skied and has made his mum and dad very proud.
We had great seats for the parade, the weather held(just!) and, whilst Cory's little sisters have become a tad blase about seeing him in his tunic and bearskin in the presence of Her Majesty, we thoroughly enjoyed the event.
He's a modest young chap too - while his mates hung around in their uniforms and medals to pose for photos, Cory was out of his as soon as he could, preferring to get into his comfy civvies and have a pint rather than be the centre of attention.
And what does a young guardsman do of an evening after his first 'Troop'?
Our boy took his little sisters to the pictures.
We went to London to watch our son take part in the Trooping of the Colour, the Queens Official birthday parade.
He's a member of 3 Company, 1st Battalion Welsh Guards, currently based in London.
It was the Colour of the Coldstream Guards that was being 'trooped' but the majority of the soldiers, NCO's and officers on parade were from the Welsh Guards, with the battalion providing almost four hundred men.
I've watched the event since my youth in the seventies, but to actually be there and with Cory taking part, was a truly unforgettable experience.
He's only eighteen, our boy. Yet, already, he's been in the regular army for almost two and a half years, he's been on an operational tour to Bosnia, has done umpteen Royal guards at Windsor and in London, he's passed his driving test, boxed, skied and has made his mum and dad very proud.
We had great seats for the parade, the weather held(just!) and, whilst Cory's little sisters have become a tad blase about seeing him in his tunic and bearskin in the presence of Her Majesty, we thoroughly enjoyed the event.
He's a modest young chap too - while his mates hung around in their uniforms and medals to pose for photos, Cory was out of his as soon as he could, preferring to get into his comfy civvies and have a pint rather than be the centre of attention.
And what does a young guardsman do of an evening after his first 'Troop'?
Our boy took his little sisters to the pictures.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Wet Wet Wet
Despite the weather my golfing renaissance continued this week.
I've been playing the game sporadically, without success, for the best part of twenty years.
However, a couple of years back, following my rugby retirement, I decided it was time I made a concerted effort to become a competent player. I didn't want to join the PGA Tour or anything serious like that, I just wanted to be able to smack one off the first tee without being embarrassed because the divot went further than the ball.
I recall being on holiday with the family in Florida - we rented a villa on this lush golf complex just outside of Orlando. I watched the golfers going round every day, chatting, joking and playing. I thought 'I fancy some of this'. The course was a beaut, just like something off the telly. Immaculately presented and painstakingly-well maintained with the greenest grass, the whitest of sand with shimmering water features (I was later to learn these are actually called 'hazards'.)
A couple of days into the holiday I timidly approached the resplendent clubhouse, just to have a mooch round to see what I could learn about this game and its culture. To a working-class lad like me, the game, its players and their facilities, were held in Freemason-like esteem. I'm not sure esteem is the right word actually, nor Freemason for that matter, but it certainly had a foreboding effect on me and those like me. Like we were on the outside and they were on the in. Hence my trepidation as I walked through the doors and exited the brilliant Florida sunshine. To my surprise nobody pounced on me questioning the legitimacy of my presence or, in fact, raised so much as an eyebrow as I approached the bar. On the contrary, I was made to feel most welcome. Perhaps I look like a golfer, I thought to myself. Anyway golfer or not, I spent the best part of an enjoyable afternoon there, just watching the comings and goings, ear-wigging and drinking. I returned the next day with my Dad, I felt quite the local as a few of the people I was spying on the day before extended rather pleasing 'nods' in my direction. Theme parks beckoned though and I was forced to miss the next couple of afternoons.
Whilst the wife,kids and my mum, understandably, revelled in the 'magic' of Disney, to me and, to some extent, my dad, the golf clubhouse had become the focal point of our holiday. We returned as often as possible for our afternoon bevvy and towards the end of our fortnight I had plucked up the courage to have a go on the driving range. A day later, the posh old Scouser in the villa next door beckoned me over to his poolside from ours.
'Saw you and your dad coming out of the golf club yesterday. I'm dying for a game, do you play?' he asked.
'Er, yes' I spluttered out, a lie fuelled by the King of Beers. Even I knew that playing once or twice a summer on pitch and putt did not make me a 'player'.
'Oh great' said Posh Scouse, 'we'll have a round tomorrow then.'
For a moment I thought about accepting, then I had a vision of me spinning around and landing on my arse on the first tee in front of all my new golf friends looking on from the clubhouse. Like the good book says, 'better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt'.
'I can't, er, I think we're off to the Florida Mall, shopping.'
'What about the day after?' Scouse persisted.
'We're doing Epcot' I fired back. The King of Beers was now assisting me to get out of the tangle that it had assisted me to get into in the first place.
'Never mind then,' he said, his disappointment clear. 'We're going home after that.'
'Yeah, I would've loved to have played on a course like this.' I said glancing over my shoulder at the fairway behind me. This time I wasn't lying.
Later that day I decided that on our return home I would fill my sporting void by joining Rhyl Golf Club and perhaps, one day, return to this course and, not only look the part but play the part too.
That was two years ago. I did join Rhyl Golf Club when we got home and I played all summer long. It was hard at first and it didn't get any easier. I already had some friends that were members and I made a few new ones along the way, all of them offering advice, tips and guidance. But, whilst gratefully received, it was to no avail - I was actually getting worse. Not just making little or no progress but actually going backwards. I damaged two passing cars on two separate occasions with slices that defied the laws of physics. I toughed out the year of membership and when it lapsed I didn't renew. Using the 'we're waiting for our visa, it could come at anytime' line when asked by my long-suffering golf buddies why I hadn't re-joined. I think some of them were quite relieved. Local motorists certainly were.
So, that was that. Golf wasn't for me. I wasn't too upset , after all it wasn't like I hadn't tried. The clubs were banished to the shed, fortunately I hadn't invested too heavily on equipment - I got the lot for £60 second-hand, and I thought I might dust the old rugby boots off again. And that's what I did, played another season for the seconds and felt like I'd been involved in an RTA all week following a game.
And that was that until a month ago when I was invited for a game. At the time I was feeling particularly stressed about our upcoming move and felt that it might take my mind off things by playing. And play I did, relatively speaking anyway. Only played the best round of my life! Thinking it was a fluke I returned a week later. Same again, played really well by my standards, albeit low standards.
I played again last night and although I didn't play as well as the previous two rounds, I still enjoyed it and played some good shots, especially off the tee. The weather was absolute pony. It waited until we got as far away from the clubhouse as possible then lashed it down big-time. We played out the nine as it was on the way back but survival became more important than good golf as the monsoon raged. The four of us were like drowned rats on our return. I didn't get that wet the last time I went swimming.
Its going to rain all week they reckon, so the golf will have to wait. I'm eager to see if my form continues or whether I've lost my golf mojo once again. The weather sucks but my golf doesn't, for a change. Funny old game innit?
I've been playing the game sporadically, without success, for the best part of twenty years.
However, a couple of years back, following my rugby retirement, I decided it was time I made a concerted effort to become a competent player. I didn't want to join the PGA Tour or anything serious like that, I just wanted to be able to smack one off the first tee without being embarrassed because the divot went further than the ball.
I recall being on holiday with the family in Florida - we rented a villa on this lush golf complex just outside of Orlando. I watched the golfers going round every day, chatting, joking and playing. I thought 'I fancy some of this'. The course was a beaut, just like something off the telly. Immaculately presented and painstakingly-well maintained with the greenest grass, the whitest of sand with shimmering water features (I was later to learn these are actually called 'hazards'.)
A couple of days into the holiday I timidly approached the resplendent clubhouse, just to have a mooch round to see what I could learn about this game and its culture. To a working-class lad like me, the game, its players and their facilities, were held in Freemason-like esteem. I'm not sure esteem is the right word actually, nor Freemason for that matter, but it certainly had a foreboding effect on me and those like me. Like we were on the outside and they were on the in. Hence my trepidation as I walked through the doors and exited the brilliant Florida sunshine. To my surprise nobody pounced on me questioning the legitimacy of my presence or, in fact, raised so much as an eyebrow as I approached the bar. On the contrary, I was made to feel most welcome. Perhaps I look like a golfer, I thought to myself. Anyway golfer or not, I spent the best part of an enjoyable afternoon there, just watching the comings and goings, ear-wigging and drinking. I returned the next day with my Dad, I felt quite the local as a few of the people I was spying on the day before extended rather pleasing 'nods' in my direction. Theme parks beckoned though and I was forced to miss the next couple of afternoons.
Whilst the wife,kids and my mum, understandably, revelled in the 'magic' of Disney, to me and, to some extent, my dad, the golf clubhouse had become the focal point of our holiday. We returned as often as possible for our afternoon bevvy and towards the end of our fortnight I had plucked up the courage to have a go on the driving range. A day later, the posh old Scouser in the villa next door beckoned me over to his poolside from ours.
'Saw you and your dad coming out of the golf club yesterday. I'm dying for a game, do you play?' he asked.
'Er, yes' I spluttered out, a lie fuelled by the King of Beers. Even I knew that playing once or twice a summer on pitch and putt did not make me a 'player'.
'Oh great' said Posh Scouse, 'we'll have a round tomorrow then.'
For a moment I thought about accepting, then I had a vision of me spinning around and landing on my arse on the first tee in front of all my new golf friends looking on from the clubhouse. Like the good book says, 'better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt'.
'I can't, er, I think we're off to the Florida Mall, shopping.'
'What about the day after?' Scouse persisted.
'We're doing Epcot' I fired back. The King of Beers was now assisting me to get out of the tangle that it had assisted me to get into in the first place.
'Never mind then,' he said, his disappointment clear. 'We're going home after that.'
'Yeah, I would've loved to have played on a course like this.' I said glancing over my shoulder at the fairway behind me. This time I wasn't lying.
Later that day I decided that on our return home I would fill my sporting void by joining Rhyl Golf Club and perhaps, one day, return to this course and, not only look the part but play the part too.
That was two years ago. I did join Rhyl Golf Club when we got home and I played all summer long. It was hard at first and it didn't get any easier. I already had some friends that were members and I made a few new ones along the way, all of them offering advice, tips and guidance. But, whilst gratefully received, it was to no avail - I was actually getting worse. Not just making little or no progress but actually going backwards. I damaged two passing cars on two separate occasions with slices that defied the laws of physics. I toughed out the year of membership and when it lapsed I didn't renew. Using the 'we're waiting for our visa, it could come at anytime' line when asked by my long-suffering golf buddies why I hadn't re-joined. I think some of them were quite relieved. Local motorists certainly were.
So, that was that. Golf wasn't for me. I wasn't too upset , after all it wasn't like I hadn't tried. The clubs were banished to the shed, fortunately I hadn't invested too heavily on equipment - I got the lot for £60 second-hand, and I thought I might dust the old rugby boots off again. And that's what I did, played another season for the seconds and felt like I'd been involved in an RTA all week following a game.
And that was that until a month ago when I was invited for a game. At the time I was feeling particularly stressed about our upcoming move and felt that it might take my mind off things by playing. And play I did, relatively speaking anyway. Only played the best round of my life! Thinking it was a fluke I returned a week later. Same again, played really well by my standards, albeit low standards.
I played again last night and although I didn't play as well as the previous two rounds, I still enjoyed it and played some good shots, especially off the tee. The weather was absolute pony. It waited until we got as far away from the clubhouse as possible then lashed it down big-time. We played out the nine as it was on the way back but survival became more important than good golf as the monsoon raged. The four of us were like drowned rats on our return. I didn't get that wet the last time I went swimming.
Its going to rain all week they reckon, so the golf will have to wait. I'm eager to see if my form continues or whether I've lost my golf mojo once again. The weather sucks but my golf doesn't, for a change. Funny old game innit?
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
The Longest Day
Seven weeks to go.
Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary. Nine years ago on June 6th we got hitched. Despite the weather (it lashed down all day), we had a ball.
As any military historian will tell you we share our anniversary with that of Operation Overlord.
Our celebrations this year will take the form of a visit to the wife's favourite eatery, Subway, for a tasty sandwich, followed by a trip to my favourite drinkery, The Swan, for a refreshing beverage or two. We may even take in the England/Estonia game while we're at it.
Sounds idyllic doesn't it?
Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary. Nine years ago on June 6th we got hitched. Despite the weather (it lashed down all day), we had a ball.
As any military historian will tell you we share our anniversary with that of Operation Overlord.
Our celebrations this year will take the form of a visit to the wife's favourite eatery, Subway, for a tasty sandwich, followed by a trip to my favourite drinkery, The Swan, for a refreshing beverage or two. We may even take in the England/Estonia game while we're at it.
Sounds idyllic doesn't it?
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