The Lundiary: L’un deux Trois

With mere seconds to spare, our hero remembers that today is Sunday and the world is owed its next fix of the Lundiary.  So, without further ado, here goes…

L’un deux Trois

In which our hero shows off in front of a bunch of strangers, a roaring fire is finally achieved and a formal dinner is enjoyed…

I wake to once again find everyone in full possession of their mortal coils.  I am anticipating a blood bath tonight…

[At this point, shrew damage to the manuscript is severe and only the following cryptic phrase can be made out: Ed]… coffee dipstick…

After breakfast, and a final larder re-stock from the shop (cornering their last remaining bottles of Lundy Single Hop Pale Ale), A, H and I set off on an organised walk led by the traumatised warden from Lunday evening’s talk.  This helped to fill in some more of the island’s fascinating and turbulent (even before I arrived) history. We were assailed by ponies (having abandoned their hospital grazing), finally got to see the very limited remains of one of the downed He 111s (the last 75+ years have not been kind, as my father will attest) and I had my first good look at the west coast of the island (sadly no sign of any IPA: maybe it comes from the ale-equivalent of aquifers deep beneath the ground?).

It was whilst walking along the greensward covered clifftops of the west coast, perhaps inspired by the climbing skills of the local goats, that conversation with the warden turned to my life in hand-balancing.  For some reason, I then decided to demonstrate both a QDR and a Grasscutter to the party – almost all of whom were complete strangers. My performance was somewhat compromised by the uneven terrain and my overly restrictive clothing (we can all be grateful I did not decide to disrobe to a more practical level but remained in “hiking casual”) but I suspect it was the first time that Lundy has seen such an outdoor display.  I was forced to recognise that I am a terrible show-off given even the slightest pretext. So far as I know, the only photographic evidence of this particular foolishness is held in the cameras and clouds of the aforementioned strangers: though either A or H may have captured the scene in the furtherance of some future blackmail scheme (though frankly, the expedition probably holds more fertile grounds than me balancing on one hand).

On the walk back to the pub for lunch, I took the opportunity to score my third lighthouse: a hattrick!  The Old Lighthouse is no longer operational: it was built at the highest point on the island – which is good – but in a location frequently hidden by fog – not ideal for a lighthouse and so was replaced by the lower, but less fog-prone, North and South Lights.  This meant that I could ascend the rather steep spiral stairs to enjoy the views from the lantern – and the island looked glorious drenched in November sunshine. Surrounded by all that glass, it was positively toasty up there, and so with my stomach crying out for lunch I did not tarry but hurried on back to the Marisco Tavern for a much needed repast.

It is perhaps at this point that I should mention the urinals at the Marisco Tavern.  They are not part of the tavern itself but lie adjacent to an outbuilding. They are roofless (as I am in pursuit of a pun) though are mostly surrounded by a chest-high wall (depending on the height of your chest and which side of the wall you are standing: it is effectively rather lower for the voyeur than it is for the active player) and, during the daylight, afford glorious views to the east as a chap divests himself of surplus fluid (and also views, glorious for a certain audience, to the west if you are standing to the east).  In many ways, quite the finest experience of its kind I’ve had, though, should it be raining and blowing a hoolie, the micturator will be exposed to the full fury of the weather – which I would imagine can teach a degree of bladder control in the Lundian drinker… I’m afraid that while the ladies’ equivalent is also outside, it is fully contained in the outbuilding which the urinals flank.

Returning home, and with fresh – if sub-optimal – kindling purchased from the shop, A once again set about his stove-based attempts at arson.  After much endeavour, and using our remaining large chunk of purloined wood, our larceny and his endeavours were rewarded with a proper blaze. So much had been sacrificed for this exothermic reaction but, in that moment, it all seemed worthwhile!

The afternoon was also a chance for me to actually attempt to play some of the various, small musical devices I had brought with me to the island.  The bones provided rather too much of a challenge and the fetish eggs rather too easy – and thus lacking in satisfaction. Against this background, I turned to the woodwind in the hope that it would represent the baby bear’s porridge of the musical scenario.  With H cracking the rawhide whip of sarcasm at my faltering efforts and A providing a consistent rhythmic base, I managed to produce a half-decent stab at the folk tune Four Up (penned by our old friend Anon, transcribed by D) on the descant recorder.  Clearly, my music-making has been lacking this stricter approach to teaching: though I’m not sure I’m ready to book music lessons with a dominatrix just yet…

Before dinner, the company came together to consider what we should write in the Millcombe House Visitors Book (or Log, as it was rather nautically named).  To maintain the theme of the weekend, I hurriedly composed a limerick on the cheery topic of mass murder (reproduced below) and we added to this a (N)YTMG sticker: you always have to be thinking about the brand!

Seven friends once came to Lundy

Only one of them went home on Monday

The lack of axes or saw

Made disposal a chore

Dismembered; might they be found one day?

For our formal dinner, aided by my willing commis chefs, I prepared a mushroom and leek risotto followed by a luxurious bread-and-butter pudding with a marmalade twist.  The latter was a bit of a worry as (a) I was using a half-remembered recipe serving two which I had lost more than a decade earlier and (b) H had revealed her anathema for the conjoining of bread and butter in unholy matrimony (though was fine when either partnered with other foodstuffs or in an open relationship).  Lit by flickering candlelight and seated in the formal dining room, the group’s last supper was a huge success: perhaps aided by none of the guests banging on about some form of highly personal, if metaphorical, anthropophagy.  Everyone claimed to enjoy the food – even the bread-and-butter pud – and, had I made more, I reckon it too would have been willingly consumed.

Following dinner, C, N, D and J returned to the Marisco Tavern to play their second gig.  I found myself too tired after the day’s excitement, and opportunities to show off, and decided to stay home in front of the fire.  A and H joined me for a little beer and conversation. It was during this rather languorous evening that H was afflicted with her own prolonged sequence of out-gassing incidents.  Shortly thereafter, she and A repaired to bed and I remained to finish my beer and yet more loose leaf Assam tea. It was also now that I enjoyed my own brief encounter with our pygmy shrew housemate: who I have named Scamper (in honour of an earlier Secret Seven).

I think we must at this point address my own growing addiction to loose-leaf Assam tea.  I do consume this at home, but limit myself to two cups per day and never partake after 6pm.  In both cases, these restrictions are not purely budgetary but relate to my chronic insomnia and concerns about the impact of caffeine on my, already compromised, ability to sleep.  On Lundy, I was approaching 10 cups a day (with consumption still rising) and was drinking it all evening – with no obvious adverse effect on my sleep. I fear for my beverage budget going forward, freed as my consumption now is from all restraint…

Once again, I found myself laying me down to rest with Aunt Agatha: inertia is a powerful force!  As I prepared myself to be encircled by the comforting arms of Morpheus, I found myself reflecting (oh, the irony!) that there is a real danger of me becoming some kind of vampire, sucking the youthful vigour from those many years my junior.  Despite my antiquity, I realised that I had spent most of the weekend not with my housemates of roughly similar age but with the much more youthful (chronologically at least) A and H. Am I in denial of my middle age (and not even its early stages)?  Or is it just that sharing a sense of humour and mischief is a bigger signifier than age? The improv attitude that when presented with a stupid idea saying “yes, and…” is gloriously, and foolishly, empowering! At a time of inter-generational warfare (which I suspect does not distinguish it from any other time), I shall try and view my hanging out with the young as important missionary (or ambassadorial) work and not as desperately creepy.  I like to imagine that further adventures, worthy of serialisation, await our cabal of three (assuming we survive the night)…

Feel free to continue the lunacy...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s