I may have forgotten to go into loads of detail about the place...
The sun gleamed through the parted curtains, warming my
peacefully slumbering self. Now, you’re probably thinking, “Gee, this sounds
lovely.” And, well, normally you’d be right. But you see, I would much rather
it be a deadly storm with bullets of water denting the side of this caravan creating
a deafening orchestra of noise and have lightning strike much too close to this
tin coffin for comfort. You know why I wish this? Well? Do you?
If not, you don’t own a caravan next to giant hills and have
a mother who just adores walking those leg-breaking, back-killing mountains. And
that’s not even the worst bit – she likes to walk these monstrous creations
before we even have breakfast!
“Come on girls, time to get up! The weather’s lovely so we’re
going for a walk.” And my sister, being the little kiss-butt that she is, jumps
out of her bed like a gazelle on acid. I can’t wait for her to become a
teenager and hate being awake as much as the rest of us.
Now, don’t get me wrong. It is a lovely walk, grass as green
as emeralds and the sea as blue as sapphires, and my mum has her heart in the
right place when she forces us – or rather, forces me – to go for walks. But
exercise on a Sunday morning? No. Name it what you will, but I personally think
Sunday’s are reserved for sleeping, reading and just relaxing before the much
dreaded Monday appears.
So, after much nagging, I finally got up and dressed.
Caravans are cramped, to put it nicely. There are two single beds (At a length
where my feet will hang off the end) in the room I share with my sister, and
there is barely enough room to shuffle down the middle of them to the miniature
bed-side table. This room is half the
size of the master bedroom which is at the back of the caravan, containing a
queen-sized bed and en quite as well as a massive built in wardrobe. Then there’s
the kitchen/living room, with only the worktop to divide the two.
Anyway, I’m going off on a tangent. Let’s go back to having
to go on this trek. Did I mention that the caravan is in Dorset? That means
that it’s cows-galore in the morning on the hills. Another reason to avoid
walking up there; we’re invading their space! I am of course talking about
actual cows and not the people that walk their dogs through the muddiest parts
of England and allow them to jump up onto your favourite jeans, getting them
all muddy. Yes, the real cows that go “moo!” and tend to help global warming. It’s
rather depressing, actually, because whenever we go to the cliffs there’s
always a cow stood on the edge as if contemplating the meaning of life and
questioning its existence. I feel like every time we see that cow – I’m pretty
sure it’s the same one every time – we’ll see it jumping over the edge,
shooting the rest of us the bird and mooing, “No more milk for you!” in its
cow-lingo.
So, I conclude with this. Do not go on morning walks,
particularly in Dorset. You may end up not only needing a therapist but gaining
a phobia of milk – and then what will you dunk your cookies in?
