There is a chap on my
Facebook list (I have absolutely no idea
who he is) who had posted a link to Facebook this morning. Having paid out
good money to find out if he was descended from Vikings, it turns out the
people who took his money were
making it all up.
Surely it doesn’t take
a genius to realise that anyone alive today is descended from someone who was
alive in Viking times. And surely it doesn’t take a genius to realise that the
historical record is so sketchy that your ancestors of a thousand years ago
could have been farmers, blacksmiths, the local tribe leader or the village
idiot. At this remove in time pretty much no one except the Royal Family knows
which of their antecedents were what back in the day. I can trace my family
name back to 1760. That is *far* more
than most people can do, but not even a quarter of the distance in time needed
to see who was a rampaging Viking and who was cowering in the mire.
Mind you all the time
people are daft enough to pay to find out if they are descended from Vikings,
other people will take their money.
I took the dogs round
the park for a walk. Again we went clockwise (unlike our usual route) as I had a plan that going this way would
be easier to divert Treacle away from the foul mire she wallowed in yesterday.
It was a plan which worked. Instead of rolling in stagnant muck she was fussed
by allotment-keepers; not that she accepted the fuss. She ran in terror as she
so often does.
The local allotments always
amaze me. Judging by the smell of the place I would assume you have to be a fan
of the “herbal cigarettes” to be
allowed in to the place. And for all that I have heard (from several sources) that there is a waiting list of years to get
an allotment, there seems to be a *lot*
of pitches there which are seriously neglected with weeds three feet high.
Presumably because the keepers of those plots are ripped to the tits on
whatever drugs it is that they are so blatantly smoking?
We walked on through
the park and back through Bowen’s Field. As we walked a young mother asked if
her toddler could stroke the dogs. The toddler seemed happy dabbing at the
pups, but was totally confused when both dogs started licking his chops. As was
the mother. I explained that was how dogs kiss, but I’m not sure she
understood.
Once home I packed my
gear for the weekend. Usually after a walk both dogs go straight to sleep; this
morning they wouldn’t leave me alone. Do they know they are going on a little
holiday of their own?
I watched a couple of
episodes of “Trailer Park Boys” then
got the dogs and their weekend gear together and we went out.
Firstly we went to see "Daddy’s Little Angel TM".
We took the hounds for a little walk; "Stormageddon - Bringer of
Destruction TM" came on his bike. He’s getting good on his
bike; he only crashed into his mother once and only fell off twice. The dogs
had a good spuddle in the river, and once back at the "Daddy’s Little
Angel TM"–arium
we realised she’d lost the keys to her flat. Fortunately a neighbour had found
them, and with the river water washed from the dogs we all had blue raspberry
ice pops.
Treacle seemed settled fighting with her brother Pogo,
so I left her there and took Fudge round to "My Boy TM" where
Lacey took command of him.
I
came home, did the last of the packing, and once "er indoors TM"
was home we awaited the arrival of Nick and Sarah. They soon arrived and we set
off to the docks. We got a few hundred yards down the road, then had to turn
around. There was a rather serious accident by B&Q.
We
were only delayed by minutes, and soon we were at the ferry terminal in Dover.
Have you ever been to the ferry terminal in Dover? I hadn’t before. I don’t
know what I was expecting, but I was expecting more. I’ve seen airport terminals,
and the terminals of the Channel Tunnel. The ferry terminal had a Burger King, a
WH Smiths and a closed bureau de change.
We
had a Burger King dinner whilst waiting for our ferry (which was delayed by an hour). Once aboard the ferry we made ourselves
comfortable and scoffed cake and custard and drank coffee and played pontoon
until the ferry arrived in Dunkirk.
We
drove through the night, singing along to the album “That’s What I Call Dad Rock”; two hundred miles after leaving home
we arrived at our hotel in Charleroi. By the time we’d had a shower and
unpacked I turned the bedside light out at three o’clock…
There’s
photos
of the day here…
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