By Lillian Bradbury
The Coach Holiday Disaster
‘Well she’s not our age. Do you know her?’
‘Nope, never seen ‘er ‘afore.’
‘By, look at them ills.’
‘Aye. Ow do you suppose they built them dry stone walls right up there?’
‘Well graft lad. Ard bloomin graft.’
‘I expect they used ‘elicopters?’
‘Nay lad, them walls are 300 years old.’
I had been sat on the coach for only a few minutes when I heard this conversation from the two seats behind me.
The two elderly gentlemen fell silent. I was too overwhelmed by the scenery to pay much attention to the warning signs. I was to enjoy five days of peaceful writing and strolling the promenade. Bliss.
We arrived late afternoon. The coach spluttered and groaned up the steep winding road, the driver changing down a gear and then another, as we were battered from all sides by over-hanging branches. Reaching the top of the cliff, I realised that my idyllic walks were never to be. I had my single room overlooking the sea to look forward to, where I could sit and write, and be inspired by the views.
My room was on the first floor. I walked the long corridor across a heavily stained red carpet, passing vases and urns of faded plastic flowers. Their age and dusty appearance were in keeping with the Victorian décor.
My room was 139, at the end of a corridor. A dead end! It was dark and musty and looked out into dense woodland, the branches brushing my small, cell-like window.
A single bed was pushed up against the outer wall. Thank goodness I’d packed a flannelette sheet and my hot water bottle. In the bathroom, the plasterboard had been cut out from beneath the wash basin, the underdrawings on full display.
Marching back to reception, I reported the unsatisfactory state of my room; not bothering to mention my lack of a sea view as requested on booking. I was promised that the duty manager would attend.
Back in my room, I was sure that I could smell mice… I am terrified of mice.
The Dining Room Experience
In the dining room, we—the twenty-five-coach party—had to queue at the carvery counter with strict instructions that “wherever we sat was to be our table for the next five days.”
I ran to the aid of an elderly gentleman, carrying his pint of beer from the bar while walking with his zimmer frame. He was gasping for breath, nasal tubes in situ, supplying him with oxygen.
“I’m a diabetic, you know,” he spluttered. “The nurse is coming after dinner.”
I helped him to sit down opposite a couple who looked sniffy-nosed at their table companion. Feeling sorry for him, I sat at the vacant seat beside him.
Big mistake!
I could never have imagined that for the rest of the holiday, I would be dishing up all his meals at the counter and serving them to him. Not to mention sitting through all the meals—while he coughed and wretched, inspecting his dentures at regular intervals.
Although I did take sadistic pleasure in seeing the sniffy couple squirming in their seats. They didn’t speak to the poor man at all, not even a “Good morning.”
They did address me one morning after he had left the dining room. It was the sniffy woman who spoke.
“Are you his carer, dear?”
“No,” I smiled, “I just noticed he needed help.”
The Unforgettable Coach Trip
I was the youngest person in the party. The average age of the other twenty-four was between 78 and 95. There were:
- Eight zimmer frame users
- Three wheelchair users
- Five on continuous oxygen
- One minus a pancreas
- Seven diabetics
- An amputee
The following morning, as the heater warmed up the coach, my sense of smell was severely challenged.
All I will say is, old people’s clothes drying over radiators is not pleasant.
The topic of conversation was Bingo the night before (when I was tucked up in bed with my book).
The day’s tour was to the small nearby town. When we reached the car park, we were directed to the nearby public convenience.
I made my escape, dawdling toward the café, then breaking into a run to find the sea.
It was still. Not a ripple.
A sign by the railing read:
QUICKSAND. THIS BEACH IS DANGEROUS.
No promenade to stroll along, only desolation as far as the eye could see.
The Midnight “Incident”
Whispers began going around the coach about one old lady who had an “accident” in the lift at midnight.
Our attendant was woken up by the night porter, demanding that she deal with it. Apparently, she ignored the request and turned over.
What was the old woman doing up at that time? I was in bed at nine.
An Increasingly Demanding Companion
My elderly gentleman was now getting more demanding.
This morning, he waited until I sat down with my cooked breakfast.
“Do you know, I think I’d like one of them,” he drooled, eyeing my bacon and eggs. “Will you get me one?”
By the time I had rejoined the long queue and served him his breakfast, mine was stone cold.
As one of my unofficial duties, I had to fetch his zimmer frame after meals, which the waiters had removed from the dining room for health and safety.
I always made sure that I had with me two napkins with which to use on the handles of the frame!
The Final Evening
On our last evening, queueing for my dinner, I’m afraid I showed my true colours.
A deliciously gorgeous chef came out from the kitchens to oversee the food.
He caught my eye and smiled, his chocolate brown eyes crinkling.
“Are you with the Yorkshire coach party?” he asked … with a sexy Italian accent.
I leant over the steaming carrot and swede mash and heard myself whispering:
“Yes, I’m medical support…”
© 2024 Lillian Bradbury
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“The Coach Holiday Disaster” by Lillian Bradbury is a witty and humorous firsthand account of an unforgettable coach trip. Packed with eccentric characters, unexpected responsibilities, and a dash of flirtation, this short memoir highlights the trials and tribulations of traveling with an elderly group while keeping a sense of humor intact.
