A Very English Weekend

It was a sunny Saturday in the north of England and with an exciting tropical storm making its way to Britain, the temperature was mild enough to shed off an extra layer of clothing. But one doesn't need warm weather to hit the Peak District National Park, especially when it's right next to your doorstep.



Our destination was the Monsal Trail, a cycle path which follows a stretch of railway line which used to be a part of the Midland Railway's route between Manchester and London. It is a very popular track amongst walkers, cyclists, horse riders and even prams who get to enjoy breathtaking views of some of the most picturesque villages in the dales.

There are different ways to get there but we stopped for breakfast at the cafe inside Hassop Station, where you can also find books and souvenirs and hire bicyles.



With a full stomach, we started took on the trail and exchanged happy smiles with other families we met along the way. Isaac, 'the little boy without stabilizers' became quite famous along the route especially when he drew attention by shouting "Full steam ahead!" and "Express coming through" to let everyone know he's on their way.



We didn't finish the trail, there's only too much pedalling a four-year-old ("I'm pretending to be 5 Mummy!")  can endure so before we reached the next station, we turned back and after over an hour of exercise we took out our sandwiches and fruits in a picnic bench next to the station.



And on our way home we made a detour to Ashford-in-the-Water, one of the beautiful villages along the trail.



We have set off just before ten o'clock in the morning and we were heading back home by 2:30pm. It doesn't take much to have a perfect weekend in our part of the world. 

Our Garden is Ready for Summer!

The month of May saw our weekends much taken up by Project Gardening, with father and son bonding over the digging up of the flower beds, planting bushes, herbs and trees and filling up the pots with summer beddings while I went out shopping, finding as many 'vintage' items I could find that would make our tiny patch of green Instagram-worthy. And with the final touches being the laborious patio-laying (thanks to the genius that is Tito David with the help from Isaac) completed, we are now ready to embrace the warm weather, when it finally decides to come and stay. 



And in case anyone wonders our vintage line are all purchased from discount stores B&M and Home Bargains, not that you can tell the difference from high street brands. Outfits are of course bought from Hillsborough charity shops (Top Shop, £1) and Isaac's are hand-me-downs (free). 

Converse Shoes and Happiness

When I was 13, a socially awkward and constantly miserable teenager, I had a girl crush on someone in my class. She was everything I was not – very pretty, tall and slim, and hugely popular amongst the more senior boys in the campus. While most of the girls in our class wore our uniforms – a white cotton long-sleeved polo top and a hideous fuchsia pink midi-skirt – with a pair of boring Mary Janes or unattractive leather loafers, she casually strode across the school halls in a pair of All Star Converse trainers, as though modelling on a catwalk. It was a fashion mismatch of course and very few would be able to pull it off, but in my young impressionable mind, it was those pair of shoes that gave her the air of confidence she carried around.

But even at such a tender age, I have never been deluded about what my family could and couldn’t afford, and a pair of Converse shoes, then worth a sack of rice that would have fed us for a couple of weeks, was not worth the squeeze on my mother’s modest budget. This early propensity for delayed gratification has served me well throughout the years and helped me align my material aspirations with the size of my bank account. So that goes without saying that my smart phones (older models instead of the latest versions) only get replaced every three years, I do not own a must-have iPad and my clothes, mostly bought at charity shops do not cost more than five quid. This did not mean I do not long for nice luxurious things that other people own, it's just that I have learned to wait for the right opportunity to come along.

So no, I never forgot about my longing to own a pair of Converse trainers that would cement my place amongst the ‘cool’ crowd despite my husband’s insistence that at thirty, I am now too old to wear one. It became one of those luxuries we agreed to buy when we can finally afford to splash cash around which doesn’t look likely to happen anytime soon. But for the last four years every time we pass by a shoe store with a window display of these beautiful canvas shoes, I would gently remind him of this yearning. A couple of times, he has in fact told me to just get on with it and pick up a pair but the problem with a shared bank account is that £45 for a pair of shoes can be quite a drain in our limited resources. And the practical side of me always win in the end.

That was until last Sunday, when that perfect chance finally came knocking and I went home with a nearly new pair of classic white Converse All Stars bought for £4 (this is where I hear the cymbals and drumbeats!). I had been doing my weekly rounds at the car boot sale at Hillsborough Arena on our way to the leisure centre for a swim when I found the shoes. Without showing the excitement that was bubbling inside me, I inquired for the price. Five pounds. But because I was already a bit confident in the tricks of this pop up market, I bargained to knock a couple of pounds off and eventually sealed the deal at £4.

A few days later, I'm still beaming. I don’t think I would be wearing these pair of shoes with as much satisfaction had I paid the full price for it. But there you go, true to the philosophy of deferred gratification, a pleasure delayed is indeed a pleasure enhanced!

So now on to the classic question: would you eat a chocolate now or would you hold out for two later?

Middlewood Becomes Middle Class

The suburbs of Hillsborough in Sheffield where we live is traditionally working class. But in the recent years, its face has been slowly metamorphosing, attracting diversity amongst its residents who are drawn here by everything it has to offer: a public park, decent schools, a shopping area, great entertainment and leisure centres, reliable transport links, easy access to the country side and most importantly (for my family at least), the Sheffield Wednesday grounds. This weekend, there was something else on offer: Middlewood Market Party which attracted the middle classes like bees are to pollen.

That is not politically correct of course, the semantics of class in Britain are contradictory and confusing.  But unlike in the United States, social status here has been historically linked less directly to the amount of money we have in the bank and the colour of the collar we wear we but on the diversity of people we socialise with and the types of activities we enjoy during the weekends.

The market party was held on Saturday, the day before Tour de France visits Sheffield and was organised by the local traders to bring party atmosphere on the streets of Hillsborough by celebrating the people, talent and community spirit of our area. Participating shops were marked with Yellow helium balloons. Inside the park, stalls have been set-up showcasing local talent, offering workshops, demonstrations and activities whilst raising money for the locally-based charity 'The Burton Street Foundation'. Children were not in want of activities to choose from, with arts and crafts, face painting, bike decorations and a treasure hunt amongst others. The Burmese community entertained us with their traditional dance. And of course, there are the favourite homemade cakes with a pot of tea, this we enjoyed in a vintage caravan under a shade of trees.

So for one day at least, we felt like we were in S10!

The Comforts of Saturdays

John has a recurring nightmare, one with an effect so disturbing it comes to him while he has his eyes wide open. It involves an unlikely situation that we might find ourselves one day contentedly lounging inside an English conservatory in a quiet suburban neighbourhood with its perfectly trimmed hedges, hosting dinner parties for the same set of friends over the years and heading off to the same holiday destination annually. This is not inverted snobbery, there is nothing wrong with this kind of life of course. At the end of the day, we all seek to find our own comfortable place in this world and the sense of security that comes with it. But his unfounded horrors stem from his fears that we might get too cosy with the happy conventions of middle class Britain and its affluent predictability that we might forget our dreams of the more romantic lifestyle of less wealthy Southern Europe where one day is different from the next, or so it's supposed to be.

Occasionally though I remind him that there is something joyful about the rituals that we impose upon ourselves. Even the simple habit of sipping a cup of tea brewed from the same brand of dried black leaves first thing every morning, taking time to rouse ourselves from an evening's rest, can set the course of the day. Not unlike the way we look forward to our weekends, spent in the easy company of the people we so dearly love, doing the same hardly exciting and yet comforting things that gives us immeasurable pleasure.

Our Saturdays are sacred, whiled away in a pattern that is close to being called a tradition. Having a baby meant we have to some extent become creatures of habit in our attempt to help the little one slowly understand this world that we have borne him into. Not that he was ever allowed to dictate his terms, no it is our fundamental duty as parents to teach our children the right way to do things. Starting for example with the importance of having a good night's sleep, which as adults we require at least eight hours of and for children should not be less than ten hours at night. This is a lesson we have successfully imparted in the last few months although occasionally it does require reinforcement. So our human alarm clock, brought up in customised controlled crying, knows that any time before six o'clock is not a good time to break the silence of the night and that during weekends it is better to let his parents have a lie in for an hour longer.

The early part of the morning is my 'me-time', spent sweating in the treadmill at the nearby Hillsborough Leisure Centre, my mere attempt at maintaining fitness. Two hours later, I emerge from the double sliding doors with a healthier glow on my cheeks, ready to meet my boys at the park just across the double carriageway. I usually find them by the lake, with the little one happily squealing at the sight of his feathered friends, the team of ducks and the flock of geese which were racing each other for the feast of crumbs that his dad is throwing in the water.

This hearty commune with nature is followed by a leisurely stroll in the park, sharing smiles with the now familiar faces of dog walkers, pram pushers, cyclists and runners, turning towards the direction of the shops along Middlewood Road already busy with weekend shoppers who keep the local traders and charity shops in business.

We pick up a copy of the Saturday Times from the news agents and sit ourselves comfortably by the fireplace inside Rawson Springs, a Wetherspoons pub housed inside a Neo-baroque stone building built in 1926 that was once known as Walkley and Hillsborough District Baths. This is a popular retreat amongst the locals, it is always packed and the high roof and wide open space meant that the frustrated whimpering of a child would hardly be noticed. We always order two cups of bean-to-cup Lavazza (100% Rainforest-Alliance-certified) coffee and a plate of toast with preserves to share, all for £2.89, less than what we would normally pay for a small latte in the Costa cafe right across the road.

With my weekly dose of Caitlin Moran satisfied over a warm cup of coffee, we are ready to tackle our weekly shopping which includes a trip to the green grocer's who greets us 'Kumusta ka?' or 'Magandang umaga' (the owner having worked with Filipinos 20 odd years ago in the Middle East), the butchers whose faces light up at the sight of us and the Polish bakers who happily tell us about a new artisan loaf that we should try out, along with piece of delectable cake for our afternoon tea.

By midday we are back home, left to spend the rest of the afternoon on more leisurely endeavours. So yes, sometimes the things that bring us exuberant happiness do not have to be grand or exciting, but they are still enough to make us feel blessed nonetheless.