Childfree and Footloose
Louise and I have been threatening to go on a vineyard tour for a decade, but it’s never quite materialised. I once bought a voucher for her birthday, but it expired before I booked it so, that year, I effectively got her nothing. She occasionally brings this up. On our honeymoon, we went to Lake Garda intending to spend the week drinking fancy wine in the Italian sunshine. However, our life timeline was slightly skewed (Louise was 12 weeks pregnant) and we visited zero vineyards. She did, at least, have the pleasure of watching me polish off a complimentary bottle of Prosecco at the hotel.
“Will you slow down, Andy? You’re becoming loud and annoying.”
Anyway, third time’s a charm. Having thoroughly scrutinised the terms and conditions, I booked a tour and tasting session at a vineyard in North Yorkshire. Deciding to make a weekend of it, we roped in the in-laws and stayed in Knaresborough overnight. After getting the train through and trying to suppress the nagging guilt that creeps in whenever you leave your children, we arrived at our B&B, a small cottage on the riverside. Louise knocked on the door several times to no response, so I nudged it open, and we wandered into a tiny reception area surrounded by some sinister foxhunting paintings. There was also, curiously, an enormous bowl of Maoam sweets on the desk.
“Hello?” I shouted.
Nothing.
Three Maoams later, we heard footsteps and a man in his fifties arrived. He was wearing a pink t-shirt and, if I’m being honest, a pair of too-short shorts. He looked furious.
“Um, can I help you?”
“Hi, we’re booked in for the night,” I said.
“Shh! Not so loud!” he said (for the record, comfortably louder than me.) “Is it the room for Louise? I wasn’t expecting you so early.”
He’d told us to arrive at 10.30. It was 10.23.
“Can we check-in, please?” Louise asked, shooting me a glance.
“Well, you’ve left me with little choice,” he said, shaking his head. “The room isn’t ready yet, though.”
“Can we leave our bags here?”
“I suppose so,” he said, followed by an audible sigh.
“Ok, we’ll go for a walk,” she said. “Will the room be ready in an hour?”
“I would have thought so. Wouldn’t you, Louise?”
I could almost hear Louise’s internal monologue weighing up the pros and cons of snapping.
“Oh, before you go out, for god’s sake, make a note of the door code,” the man said, pointing to a laminated piece of paper on the wall. “Some guests don’t bother. Idiots.”
“Right. Bye then.”
I was impressed Louise held it together and we laughed it off over a coffee before a scenic walk. Over the summer, I visited Knaresborough with some pals, and I was so appalling at rowing I was asked to hand over the oars to a more capable man. It was extremely undermining. Still, I managed to put past traumas behind me, and we had a lovely morning. At one point, we even managed a solid 10-minute conversation that didn’t involve our children.
Returning to the B&B to get changed, our host was nowhere to be seen but, credit where it’s due, the room was delightful; fluffy pillows, flowers, hot chocolate, and marshmallows, he’d left no stone unturned. We got changed and had a beer while waiting for Louise’s Uber to arrive. I’ve never had the Uber app and remain staunchly loyal to our local taxi company despite the fact a car has failed to show up on two of my last three bookings. Once, when missing kick-off at Elland Road was at stake, I became so stressed that I kicked our wheelie bin.
We passed our host on the way out.
“Oh, I see you two have started drinking early,” he said.
“Well, we are on holiday?” I said, thinking, does he know this?
“Ok, well enjoy your afternoon and, for goodness’ sake, don’t forget the door code.”
Following a nauseating journey on winding roads, we arrived at the vineyard where our Uber driver got out of his car, then stood, hands-on-head, staring into the middle distance for an inordinately long time. He appeared to be pondering some of life’s big questions. I hope he’s okay.
The first part of the tour was a long talk by the owner, a charismatic middle-aged man, in a large tent. We were joined by around thirty other people including a hen do, a group of middle-aged Germans and a pair of long-haired men in tie-dye t-shirts. I hadn’t seen such an eclectic bunch of people in one room since my Speed Awareness Course.
The talk was interesting enough and we were given some taster glasses before a Q&A session. This didn’t go quite so smoothly as a solemn man - smart shirt, expensive glasses - kept raising his hand and asking unnecessarily intense questions.
“Do you ever worry that you and your wife drink too much?”
“Um…”
“Do you ever look back on your life and think: have I made the right decisions?”
“Ok, let’s wrap things up there, then. Who wants to see the gin distillery?”
Louise and I had afternoon tea and, showing our wild side hasn’t deserted us, shared a bottle of sparkling wine, leaving us in good spirits as we upped to leave.
“I can’t seem to get an Uber?” Louise said.
I got out my phone. No signal.
The next part of our romantic weekend getaway? A 3-mile walk to a train station along an A-road in the rain. Lesson learned: pre-book taxis home from vineyards.
We returned to our strange B&B for some downtime (scrolling through our phones in silence) before heading into the bright lights of Knaresborough. The streets were deserted, but we lucked in and found a Tapas restaurant with a heated beer garden. There was a lively atmosphere and being somewhere other than our living room on a Saturday night felt something of a novelty. Due to a backlog in the kitchen, a barman with a ponytail treated us to complimentary drinks so, by the time dinner arrived, we were merry. Post-dinner cocktails, possibly even dancing, had been mooted.
Twenty-five minutes later, we’d eaten our body weight in protein and carbohydrates and slumped spectacularly. Conversation had petered out and Louise looked ready to fall asleep in the remainder of our patatas bravas. It was 8.30 pm.
“Is it acceptable to go back to the B&B now?” she asked.
“Yes.”
I tried to justify our pitifully early night as the result of a busy day, but the fact is, we are in our mid-thirties with young children and will probably never see midnight again.
We arrived back at the B&B to something of a commotion; a Range Rover had pulled up outside, dance music blaring, lights beaming, and an enormous muscular man was pacing around, rattling on the door. He was wearing more wet-look hair gel than I’ve seen on a head since the 90s and, not that I want to cast aspersions, almost definitely on cocaine. In the Range Rover, a young woman, heavily made up, was smoking a vape. It was not a typical Knaresborough scene.
“Are you staying here?” said the man. “We’re booked in but nobody’s answering the door. We’re going to Viper Rooms in Harrogate tonight. It’s her birthday. Is there a hot tub in here?”
It was a lot to process.
“Umm, we’ll go and get the owner…”
I punched in the door code three times. It didn’t work.
Eventually, the owner arrived, still wearing short shorts. Still furious.
“What on earth is going on, Louise? Who are these people?”
Following an awkward few minutes, it transpired that the party couple did not have a luxury hot-tub room booked in the cottage. According to the enormous man they had been victims of a Facebook scam, though he was vague about the finer details. He assured the woman they would still make it to their VIP booth at Viper Rooms, but she appeared unconvinced.
“Idiots!” our host said as the Range Rover drove away.
“Speaking of which,” he said, turning to me, “what did I say about remembering the door code?”
***
