I’m sitting thirty six thousand feet above the Atlantic. Yes, you’ve guessed I’m in a plane. A rather cramped one.
You may remember that in my Jemima Calves post I mentioned that we were going away, hence my relief Jemima had calved. So here I am, gone and many thousands of miles away from Locks Park Farm.
Robert enjoys holidays in exotic far flung place. He was born, he always says, in the wrong time and place, the wrong century. He wistfully romances about being an intrepid discoverer and explorer; his dream would be finding new species of flora or fauna in wild untrammeled places, as yet untouched and undamaged by man. I, on the other hand, never feel the urge to move that far away from home; a few days away in a remote part of England or Scotland is tonic enough for me. I could put this down to the fact I travelled extensively during my childhood and teenage years having followed my parents around the world, but then so did Robert. Maybe it’s because I’ve had the responsibility of a farm and children, or it could be something to do with my sense of never having belonged anywhere, but then again Robert has the same feeling; so I’m really not sure. Whatever it is, for the sake of marital harmony and bliss I sometimes have to gird my loins and acquiesce, dutiful wife that I am. I’m also a very spontaneous person, so when Robert began bemoaning the fact we never went away other than a quick snatched week to Scotland, I said
“Right, I’ve a window of a couple of weeks before lambing and calving, meetings, work and a host of other previous commitments.. How are you fixed? You want to go?”
He looked vaguely surprised, knew he had to jump at the carrot, and said “Okay, where?”
“Panama” I retorted. He’s been waxing lyrical about the country since a colleague came back from there and enthused about the extraordinary and diverse wildlife and the unspoiled beauty of the place.
“What, really? You’re willing to go all that way?”
“Why not…we’ll just do it. Okay?”
“No, we’ll never do it. You’ve left it too late. We won’t get a booking. It’s their peak holiday period. There’ll be no flights. Lovely thought, but it won’t happen.”
“Sleep on it. See how you feel in the morning.”
So we did. And for a couple of days nothing too much was said. I sounded Olly out “Go for it mum. Do you good. Think how you’ll feel. It’ll be great. Go on. You both could do with something like this. I’ll be fine, you’ll be back for calving and lambing? Yeah, yeah, ‘course I’ll be fine. It’ll be cool. Bungle and Moley can come and give me a hand. Just do something soon; I need to know either way.”
So last Sunday, guess what, we booked the tickets. We found a bed and breakfast. Organized a trip to the Bocas de Torro where we’ll trek into jungle, find staggeringly colourful birds (Robert), two and three toed sloths and other extraordinary mammals (Paula), frogs of every shape, colour and size, weirdly exotic plants and much, much more. We’ll swim with dolphins and explore the coral reefs. Well, that’s the dream. Though I must say that anything sounds attractive at the moment, squidged and compressed as I am, wiggling toes and clenching bum in an effort to stave off DVT and showing phenomenal camel-like qualities for water drinking!
Watch this space…