The only real criteria to ‘Family Day’, are treats and getting along, one being dependent on the other.  We’ve walked in the mountains, visited graveyards, bounced on castles in various town fairs and always with ice cream.

Our last adventure will be hard to beat, I fear.   There was ice cream, charging bulls, lots of mud and a castle window escape, although I did lose my ice cream during the escape.

I thought that we had gotten lazy in choices for our days out, so decided to make our destination a ruined castle, mentioned in a book written by a local historian.  Very off the beaten path., but near a shop that sold ice-cream, also mentioned in the book. An added bonus was that it was a 20 minute drive from our house.

We arrived first at the ice-cream which meant that according to the book,  we were a few kilometers past our destination.

We decided to eat the ice creams when we got to the castle, but ended up eating them then and there, in front of the shop.  Even a few seconds of the unsyncronised, cacaphonous  jumping and pleading of two little girls triggers a feeling in me similar to a panic attack,  which only stops when they get their own way. And children don’t do deferred gratification very well. To prove I was better than them, I saved mine.

We spent the next 45 minutes driving up and down the same one kilometer stretch of road, looking for an impossibly small lane.

On what we decided would be our last pass along this tiny country road, we found it and the adventure was on.

The lane was just wide enough for a tractor and moving at a crawl, we were able to avoid holes and puddles for a few hundred meters, but were forced to stop.  From here on it would be on foot.  In front of us was a closed farm gate and a sea of mud about half a kilometer long that I would have to navigate in running shoes.  Past that, no sign of a castle.  Thinking about it, I did recall Paedar the ice cream man saying,

“Now, you wouldn’t make it without wellies.”   Before I got a chance to query him further on this however, I was interrupted by jumping and begging.  Since I was the driving force behind our day out and because there was no castle visible on the horizon, I was selected to do a reconnaissance  mission.  As gingerly as I could, I jumped the fence and hopped between dried patches of mud and the odd stone.  It was a slow process, but I managed to make it out of yelling distance with Hannah, so that when I shouted the news that I still couldn’t see a castle, she took it as a cue to advance with the children.

As I had now unintentionally committed my family to continue on this questionable quest, I decided I had better find a castle.  Thankfully, a few minutes later I did.  Through a small gap in the hedgerow I spotted our prize; a 60 foot tall crumbling beauty.

I carefully picked my way back and met up with with the girls, who weren’t having such an easy time of it.  I grabbed Lucy’s hand, Hannah took Amelie’s and we squelched our way forward, stopping every few feet to rescue a small wellie, sucked into the mud.  After an eternity, we were only half way there.  And caked in mud.  I think it was then that I promised Hannah she could pick the itinerary for our next day out.

But we struggled on and eventually made it to the castle.  It was magnificent, just as it was described in the book.  We walked around it’s front, gazing up at it’s battlements and were met around the corner by what looked like four young bulls, staring at us from a distance.  These weren’t mentioned in the book.  As they didn’t seem to be moving, we carried on exploring the marvelous ruins until we realized that our dog had decided to introduce herself.  I think the bulls may have taken this as a threat, or an insult, as they began charging towards us, Roccoco the dog leading the charge.

As panic took hold, my first thought was, “I’m a bad parent.”  To make up for that fact, I suggested we hide in the castle.  After all, that was what they were designed for.  Once safely inside and with nowhere else to go, we tried to imagine what it would have been like when it was still intact, while at the same time trying to figure out an escape route, should the bulls decide to enter the enclosed space.  A castle isn’t much good for protection without a door.

More contagious than laughter, fear began spreading through the ranks, so to show the girls that there was nothing to be afraid of, Hannah took them to see the bulls surrounding the entrance.  To counter her point and prove to the girls that there was something to be afraid of, the bulls began entering.

Our earlier survey had discovered the window which the was safest to climb through and jump from, which we promptly did.  But not before the wrapper containing my now liquified ice cream bar fell into the mud.  The fear my girls were feeling quickly turned to tears of bitter disappointment for the lost treat.

Outside again, the bull threat contained, we regained our composure and looked around to make sure there wasn’t a farmer laughing his ass off in the next field.

There wasn’t, so we headed back for the car, this time Hannah leading the way, hoping for and then succeeding in finding a less mucky return.

“We’ll laugh about this some day.”, I said to Hannah as we approached the car.

“I’ll laugh, if you clean all our clothes”, was her answer.

It’s days like these that will stand out from all the other days that we just let pass by.  When we grab ahold of time and use it to explore and experience the world around us.  If we hadn’t gone out to discover the castle in our backyard, it would have remained in the company of bulls, and another Sunday would have elapsed, without much to report.  Equipped with a little local knowledge and a sense of adventure, the options are limitless for ‘Family Days’ worth remembering.  The important thing is to make the time; you’ve got to seize the moments and make them memories, because the time flies.

I still haven’t cleaned my shoes.  She still hasn’t laughed.

The Yellow Hammer was buried on Saturday.  That wasn’t his real name.  His real name was Ivor and no-one can explain why he became known as The Yellow Hammer, nor had it ever seemed to raise any questions.

I knew him better as the part-feral old man who ‘s way of getting around was to stand in front of oncoming cars, forcing them to stop and give him a lift.  He was never going far, just to town or back, so he became a familiar, if slightly unexpected moving landmark on the short stretch of road that passed by our house.  He had reached a ripe old age, so there was no surprise to hear of his passing.   If there was any surprise, it was that it wasn’t as a result of being run over on his way to get milk.

There are many stories about him, as you might expect about a man with such a bizarre name and such lethal road etiquette.  A favourite of mine involves his interaction with a fellow Canadian named Bunny.  Stopping to avoid hitting him, she offered him a lift, as was expected in accordance with the local custom.  He strangely refused and she carried on, rightfully confused.  The next passing car was driven by another local, who’s offer was accepted.

“You won’t believe it!”, said The Yellow Hammer before he had even taken his seat.

“That Canadian woman just stopped and asked me if I wanted a ride!  And there I was just minding my own business.”