New Year 2025

New Year. We’ve had more than our share of New Year rip-offs in the past so this time we are going to the Isle of Wight. There’s something innocently comforting about the Isle of Wight – we know all will be well at New Year there, so that’s where we are heading. We are also now Warner-savvy – we know what to expect from a Warner break, and also know where we need to manage our expectations. In any case, the Isle of Wight is about as far south as we can go in the country so the weather is bound to be better there.

Celebrations start when Maggie and Richard arrive in West Chiltington with the prescribed gin and tonics in our flashy new gold-tinted g & t drinking glasses – rejected by the younger generation but finding a fulfilling life here with us. Then it’s tucking in to the Spanish chicken and chorizo followed by today’s special – Margaret’s own tasty ginger pudding. I say Margaret’s own, but she’d had lots of advice from all of us standing watching during the preparation. Despite the number of cooks, the ginger pudding is a great success and we raise our glasses (again) to Margaret’s skill and persistence under duress and critical eyes.

We had prepared a lovely jigsaw with all the boring work done on it, and just at the stage where our guests could get maximum satisfaction from placing further pieces and thereby feeling they had made a contribution. But the jigsaw gets shamelessly ignored in favour of watching a film. The film (Charlie Wilson’s War) is about chucking the Russians out of Afghanistan and we all end up feeling depressed about the state of the country now, entirely as predicted at the end of the film. As an antidote we turn over to ‘Douglas is cancelled’, which is also agonising to watch – but in a very different way.

The following morning we are motoring off to the Isle of Wight ferry. I always thought that our Lexus had a sizeable boot, but Richard and Maggie’s weekend case for two somehow make it seem very small and Margaret and I have to find an unused corner here and there to force our meagre possessions in wherever we can. But we take it all as part of the fun and don’t complain.

Our start is delayed due to a little puzzle that Frankie and Scarlett have thoughtfully set for us – how to lower the rear window blinds. This proves to be a challenge for our age group but we eventually work out their cunning arrangement and we are finally on our way. Must remember to thank them for the challenge when we next see them.

We should have by-passed the Chichester by-pass which, together with the Isle of Wight bound traffic in central Portsmouth, attempts to delay us further beyond our check-in time. But again, we prove, through skill and resilience, that together we can overcome whatever trials are thrown in our way and we arrive on time at the ferry, and forty minutes later at the lovely island of our dreams.

The following day – New Years Eve – starts with rifle shooting. We all seem to do quite well with lots of holes hitting targets. But since one hole looks exactly like any other we can’t claim with any conviction that we have been hitting our own targets. But we assume we have. This is followed with pot shots at small plastic ducks and ice cubes sitting on the shelves. Hitting an ice cube with the tiny lead pellet and exploding it to a water spray is particularly satisfying. The only injury is Margaret’s bruised arm from the rifle kick-back which she suffers in silence.

After that it’s into the pool for the aqua-aerobics. At this point Margaret’s bruise becomes visible to all and I, somewhat unfairly, am accused of wife-beating. The pool, sloping acutely to the deep end, isn’t well-designed for aerobics, especially if both one’s legs are the same length. And the instructor, seemingly humourless and less than motivational, doesn’t seem to recognise that moving to the music is very different in water than where she is – on dry land. But we do all feel better for the exercise and the refreshing dip – and now raring to go with the Archery – new to all of us.

I find the archery theory very interesting. We learn how to calibrate our own bow and arrow bodies so that we develop an absolutely consistent personal style of pulling back the bow to exactly the same place measured against the corner of our mouths. Then, by trial and error, we find our individual ‘correction distance’ from aim to target. Margaret finds that if she aims for the wooden post about two feet to the left of the ‘boss’ (the circular straw-filled target) then she hits the target! (I don’t know what will happen the next time, if there’s no wooden post.) We get a good few practices at this without losing any arrows. Then we have a final competitive round. A couple of guys look like naturals and are favourites to win, but they both come to pieces under pressure of the occasion, and to my amazement I win, including two out of three ‘golds’. (‘Golds’ are what we used to call ‘Bulls Eyes’ but I understand this term is no longer used – probably because it’s demeaning to the bull.)

The entertainment each evening is great – the resident band, singers and performers are very talented and we love it. The only downside is finding decent seating in the ‘Admirals Club’, where the stage and all the action is. It’s the Isle of Wight equivalent of German towels on the sun lounges and we are forced into a far-away alcove with a narrow view of the stage but a better view of the various pillars keeping the roof up. There’s also live music in the bar, tonight with a Scottish guitarist / singer / comedian who’s comic strength is in the way he tells ‘em.  In conversation with him earlier he tells us (can’t remember why) that he’s currently on his third wife. Actually he did tell a joke about a woman who’d had three husbands, but we won’t go into that here.

If I mention a makeshift drum, a tiny, tinny, xylophone, a child’s melodica, and the balding head of the musical director, you wouldn’t immediately identify these as serious musical instruments. Well this talented band shows they can get creative, tuneful, and entertaining melodies out of them. Yes, there’s genuine musical talent here on the Isle of Wight.

The best night is New Years Eve when they really pull out all the stops. As the clock counts down to midnight the whole audience takes to the dance floor and there are what seems like a thousand Union Jacks waving. Auld Lang Syne is followed by Rule Brittania and Land of Hope and Glory and it’s like a National Front Pensioners festival. We’re all determined that Brittania is ruling the waves of The Solent and that Wider Still and Wider will the Isle of Wight bounds be set. The flags are waving madly in the air, walking sticks and zimmer frames are pointed excitedly towards France and mobility scooters are raring to be driven. If any foreigners’ inflatable is blown onto the Bembridge sands tonight they’ll be fighting to be on the first Brittany Ferries boat heading to Bilbao.

New Years day is set aside for a tour of the island. The weather is not as good as expected – in fact it’s awful. Cold, wet, and very high winds. The Bembridge hotel had even had a flood in the lounge. But we depart, expecting to find a cosy little place for lunch and be back in time for the evening entertainment. We drive through Ryde but the coffee shop is closed so we keep going. We get to Cowes, normally a buzzy and attractive town with a ‘stay a while’ feel, but today it’s shut down and deserted so we move on. Same with Yarmouth, where the ferries from Lymington arrive, and so it’s on to see the Needles at Alum Bay – the end of the island. Here’s what seems like a good place to get out for a closer look but as soon as we give the wind the tiniest opportunity, it tries to remove the car door completely. With a determined effort we force it closed again and move on. We drive all the way down the south coast. The white horses have taken over the sea so completely that white is the only colour. Eager for a photo opportunity, we park up on a headland and – carefully and swiftly  – open the door.

Richard positions himself dangerously close to the cliff edge to ensure the best photo of the raging sea. I keep at a safe distance and make sure I get a final photo of Richard in case he is suddenly taken away from us.

Then it’s a final tug of war with the wind over a toilet door, and back into the car. We continue through Ventnor, Shanklin, and Sandown, all with the same depressed out-of-season feel, and back to Bembridge – a few hours early and just in time for lunch. As we pass reception, people are queuing to book for New Year 2026 – Richard wonders how many of them will actually make it.

The evening entertainment, with a big build-up, is the Status Quo tribute band – ‘Counterfeit Quo’. We soon decide however, that the head-banging monotony level is a bit high for us, and they are probably playing to the wrong audience here. So we opt for the more middle of the road, but reliable and entertaining house band playing in the bar. A happy way to finish off our New Year.

The following day it’s over to the ferry and back at West Chiltington by midday. The ox tongue, waiting patiently in our fridge for a week or two, is finally released, sandwiched firmly between two slices of bread, and sent on its way to The North with Maggie and Richard.

I think we can say that New Year 2025 has been a thoroughly good one!