I’m not sad anymore, I’m just tired of this place
The weight of the world would be okay
If it would pick a shoulder to lean on
So I could stand up straight— The Wonder Years, “My Last Semester”
This post was inspired by an impromptu conversation in a pub. One rainy morning in July I found myself talking at the bar of the Wateredge Inn with a guy called John. You can read about our meeting in One Must Imagine Marty and John Happy: Two Strangers Discuss the Absurd in an Ambleside Pub.
I mentioned it was one of my happy places and that I’ve blogged about it previously. [...] John commented that as I’d written about happy places I could write about miserable places too.
It’s taken me this long to think of anywhere I’d refer to in those terms. I tend not to dwell on things that didn’t work out for me, still less on where I was at the time. I kept coming back to the topic, though. Where’s somewhere I’d never want to revisit? Where do I struggle to talk or even think about? There are places I have no reason to revisit, but that’s not what John meant. That’s just moving on. Where have you been that’s painful to remember?
Finally, one place came to me. I’ve suppressed the memories so well that I don’t remember precisely where it was. Somewhere in Wales. Don’t get me wrong. Wales is a great place. I still have the little booklet of words and photos I put together after a class trip to Conway Castle. Family holidays in Llandudno. A youth club week in Corris, Machynlleth when I was sixteen or seventeen. The decrepid farmhouse my friend’s parents rented, venue for numerous retreat weekends in the eighties and a key character in my unpublished short story “Away From Home.” Two of my favourite books are set in Wales. The Owl Service by Alan Garner, and Susan Cooper’s The Grey King, part of the Dark Is Rising sequence. Good memories of good places.
The place I’m thinking of — and trying not to think about too deeply — wasn’t a good place for me at all. It was, I think, 1987. I’d moved to Newcastle upon Tyne at the start of the year and was settling into my new life in the north of England after three years in London. New places. New people. Two of my closest friends lived in Burnage, on the outskirts of Manchester. Mike, Margaret (Maggie), and their young son David. None of us had much money so when the opportunity arose for a inexpensive week away together in Wales we jumped at the chance. They’d secured the accommodation and I’d arrange the transport. The price for a week’s car rental at one of the mainstream companies I’d used previously seemed prohibitive, but I found a rental company in Gateshead that offered what seemed like a bargain deal.
Our plans in place, I picked up the car and drove the three hours or so to Burnage to collect Mike, Maggie, and David. The car was pretty full with luggage and provisions but before long we set off for Wales in hope of a fun week away. We arrived at the cottage a few hours later. We unloaded the car, put the kettle on, and settled in for the evening. My room had bunk beds, I recall. I chose the lower bunk.
Next day, we drove to the nearest city. I don’t recall where it was or what we did, apart from our visit to a particularly dreadful café. The place was full but we secured a table and waited to be served. David was hungry and Maggie proceeded to feed him. It didn’t take long for a waitress to come over and tell her she couldn’t breastfeed at the table. There was a toilet if she wanted to do so in there. We left immediately and with all the drama such treatment deserved. I wrote to the café after the trip to complain but nothing came of it.
On our way back to the cottage, the car broke down. That was bad enough, but these things happen. The nightmare began when I phoned the car hire company. It turned out one of the reasons the rental had been so cheap was the utter lack of support or rescue provision. I was told to get the car to the nearest garage and arrange for it to be repaired. Other than that, we were on our own. Somehow, we made it back to the cottage using public transport.
And then we got sick. I can’t recall what it was exactly. A stomach bug of some kind. Things were going downhill fast. There we were, at the start of a week away from home. Three adults and one young child, poorly, without transport or much money, in the middle of Wales, with days at least before we’d have the car again. Phone calls were made. Maggie’s father drove down from Manchester to rescue them. I had to stay to pick up the rental car when it had been repaired.
The rest of that week is a blur. I was really poorly. High temperature. Throwing up. A fever, maybe. I spent most of the time in my bunk, feeling alone and very sorry for myself. On the Friday I made the difficult bus journey back to the town where we’d left the car. It took me ages to find the garage. My keynote memory of the entire episode is of walking up and down the main street trying to locate the garage, asking people who seemed determined to prolong my misery by misdirecting me. Eventually, I found the place. The car was parked outside but I was too late. The garage was closed for the weekend. The Bank Holiday weekend. There was nothing to do but to return to the cottage and spend the next three days curled up in my misery.
I was somewhat recovered by the Tuesday morning. I collected the car and drove it home. I tried to secure a discount from the rental company for the lack of breakdown or recovery support, but to no avail. Needless to say, it’s the last time I’ve ever used a cut-price rental company.
Note to self and to you, dear reader: always read the small print.
I’m aware that my week in Wales doesn’t rate particularly high on the trauma scale. My car broke down. I got sick. A holiday was ruined. As another friend might have put it, “No one died and no one caught fire.” It was, nevertheless, one of the most stressful and traumatic experiences of my life to that point. Aside from the stress itself, I felt I’d let my friends down on what was supposed to have been a much-needed and well-deserved holiday. I know they weren’t happy, but it’s a testament to our friendship that they never once held it against me.
Another “miserable place” comes to mind. Another holiday. Another rental car. A single-track country road in Cumbria where, facing an impatient tractor driver coming in the opposite direction, I reversed my car into a stone wall, denting the wheel arch and wrecking the tyre. I spent an hour or more fitting the spare space saver wheel, and the rest of the week driving at or below fifty miles an hour. As awful as that experience was, it pales in comparison to my week in Wales.
I’m grateful to John for suggesting I explore some of my “miserable places” but I doubt I’ll do so again. This was hard enough. Hard mentally, in that it happened a long time ago and I’m vague on the details. But hard emotionally too. I really have pushed these memories down deep. Everything will be recorded in my diary for that year, but I’ve chosen not to refer to it to fill in the gaps or recover more than my reluctant memory will recall. Some chapters are best left unread.
I haven’t heard from Mike and Maggie in a long time. We drifted apart over the years as friends sometimes do. If by any chance they’re reading this, I hope they were less traumatised than I was by that week we — almost — spent together.
Over to You
Do you have “miserable places” you never want to revisit and can scarcely think about? How do you handle the memories if they come up for you, as they do for me from time to time? If you can share about them, I’d love to hear from you, either in the comments below or via our contact page.
Photo by Navid Abedi at Unsplash. The moment I saw Navid’s photograph I knew it was right for this piece. It captures perfectly the isolation, helplessness, and hopelessness I felt that day in Wales as I tried unsuccessfully to collect the rental car after it had been repaired.
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