My Dad Was a Polish Magician…

Well no, he wasn’t really; he was JG, a rather witty journalist, a sub-editor on a broadsheet. The slightly unusual title was coined during one of many family holidays, Gran Canaria on this occasion (definitely not Poland) and has absolutely no connection to conjury….

 How the label came about is irrelevant but it’s a label that will stay with me forever. It was the Polish Magician that led me to have a love for language, for learning about and discovering the world, and why I’ve decided to dedicate my first ever blog post to him……

 So back to the holiday, well travel in general really. You see I love going away – it doesn’t have to be every year, it doesn’t have to be exotic or even abroad, but it’s something I very much enjoy – and in fact what Mr W and I were discussing last night.

 Whilst he very much enjoys our trips, it’s safe to say my husband is just as happy in the comfort of his own home with his wife and dog. This is quite possibly a pre-occupation of his job.

 Travelling has always filled me with excitement and let me tell you for why…

 I suppose I had best firstly tell you about one strange fascination: the joy of the airport during air travel. Yes I really did just say joy. I love them, especially first thing in the morning, the way its City like state stirs to life as the sun slowly rises. The clattering families with Trunkis and teddies in tow. The honeymooners with arms entwined at check-in, their shiny rings and new matching luggage...

 I even remember as a kid recalling in precise, excited detail to my granddad the process of the transition through the airport, the “flat escalators”, “the tunnel type thing” that took you to the plane and your suitcase delivered to you on “the rampy” conveyor belt.

 At this point I expect you’re all wondering why I don’t do as Tom Hanks and set up camp at Gate G for a fortnight…..

 Well it’s not all about flying. Trains, cars… even the service stations – they’re all a part of the holiday to me. As a teenager when my Mum and Dad were separated all our foreign holidays were conducted by coach. Normally 24 hours’ worth of coach travel across the continent to the likes of Italy, Spain or the South of France where we’d spend 10 days with a tin hut as our home. I loved those long journeys; staring out the window watching as one country merged into another, bleary eyed early morning breakfast stops,  drinking Capri Suns (Mum’s travelling drink of choice – lighter weigh apparently!), sifting through my CD wallet choosing the next album for my Walkman.

 Oh and of course there’s train travel. Now completely ruined by sardine style commuting required for work purposes, once upon a time it wasn’t quite so miserable. For this was how all trips to Grannie Vicky’s for the summer holidays were taken. She always made a train picnic – even bringing a tea towel for the table.  Foil wrapped “cobs” (ham and tomato usually) accompanied by a piece of M&S cake, some fruit and a packet of McCoy cheese and onion crisps purchased from the buffet cart.

 Finally though and forgetting about the getting from A to B bit, even the holiday itself – it’s what you bring home that matters. As clichéd as it might sound I’m talking about the memories you forge, because a trip away makes for a perfect deposit to the memory bank. (Thomas Cook you can sign me up now, I’ll happily give those Redknapps a run for their money!)…

 So in a way that’s how I see this blog you see. Not for telling you about my odd transport interests, but as a bank; for storing my thoughts, capturing memories, for blabbering out what my brain is thinking, for sharing my stories.

I look forward to sharing them with you; hopefully you might enjoy reading some of them along the way…..