Baking at Blenheim

It’s a matter of record that the summer’s been a scorcher.  The aircon unit in my workplace office hasn’t done its job properly since we had a move-around and it was rewired.  Neil takes the pragmatic approach and – with his laptop – he disappears off to a spare desk elsewhere.  Linda drops meaningful hints every time I glance in the direction of the window.  She’s tied to her desk by essential paperwork.  I survive, being a tropics veteran: minimum-energy movement and plenty of hydration.

 However, after two full working days’ around 30C, I couldn’t face clearing gutters or building a flat-pack chest of drawers at home.  “Let’s go to Blenheim for the day, tomorrow,” I suggested.  Mary was keen.  Our one-year free entry passes being still in date, meant it would be a guilt-free trip, too.  “I suppose,” I added slowly, “We could think of taking the Leaf.  I bet Ed would.”

So, the evening found Mary sorting out a cool-box and me standing up the Drive above our garage, desperate for a phone signal so I could check available charging points at Blenheim.  Zap-map said there were four Pod-Point units.  User comments said they were out of action.  I rang Ed.  “You’ll need to download the app, first.  Then you have to confirm with the operator once you’re connected up.  The good news is that some points are free.”  He went on to explain the equivalent arrangement with Ecotricity.  Later he texted details of Oxford’s nearest Nissan dealer.  It really wasn’t worth the risk.  I’m not sufficiently far along the learning curve.  

In a new home it’s amazing how many little things you have to learn.  The shower had kept stopping while Mary was using it.  So I had to step in (literally) to give an opinion.  Thus it was late morning by the time we reached Woodstock.  

It was indeed hot.  Last time, with Gav and Georgie and crew, we had Nate’s off-road pushchair.  I realised that my ambition to take two folding chairs, a cool-box and something to read, meant loading up like Donkey Daniel under an unforgiving sky. 

This has been a week of family school reports.  Mine were invariably dreadful and uncomplimentary.  After visiting the English History display, I found that Winston Churchill’s were, too.  

We got lost trying to find the Lakeside walk.  Again, last time, we’d used the restricted-access buggy-friendly path.  But instead we found a lovely (and probably illicit) shaded slope blessed by the breeze coming from the water.  I had a much-needed snooze.  The air-bed had deflated overnight.  I’d been left miserably counting the chimes from St James clock-tower for two hours.

We made it to the Cascade, with measured tread.  Back at the car, blobs of rain fell as I read for an hour and Mary took her turn to doze.  The radio teatime news announced that London was beset with thunderstorms, and the main East Coast rail line and Channel Tunnel were both out of action.  We suffered a mere couple of minutes traffic delay at Banbury Cross.  

At Blenheim we did spot the estate’s tarty zero-emission vans, but I never found the vehicle charging points.