What an unexpected delight to be invited on someone else’s honeymoon at our age! Amanda and Terry, fresh from their Eastbourne nuptials and family partying, and now here with us and the rest of the Anzere gang at the swish Suffolk resort of Corton (on-sea).
But I’m jumping ahead.
Arriving by train at Lowestoft, the easternmost town in the United Kingdom, we have arranged for Maggie and Richard to collect us from the station. I suspect they had been secretly pleased when we asked them to meet us there because it gives them an opportunity to see the famous town at first hand. And a short circular tour confirms – the town fully lives up to their pre-judged expectations.
Margaret and I are new to the Warner hotel format and we are looking forward to the weekend. I was attracted and intrigued by the ‘Adults Only’ strapline, and we had heard the reports of previous romantic escapes in castles and country houses. But the word ‘escape’ takes on a whole different meaning when we arrive at Corton and see our 1970’s Butlins-style chalets, and I realise that my earlier description of the ‘swish resort’ is probably a little over-spun.
And our neighbours are generally well-behaved and not too loud – even the ones on honeymoon.
There are exciting adventures awaiting us. We start with a determined walk along the ‘front’. We dress in our most protective garb and head for the cliff, stopping only for a brief photo opportunity where a sign assures us that this is a lovely spot. Then it’s down the heavy-duty stairway to the sea far below. This is challenging for all of us, but we take confidence from John John, leading us steadily from the rear.
The beach at the foot of the stairs is less than idyllic. In fact there’s no beach at all. I blame the Dutch, taking more of our sand onto their side even though they already have more than their share. We just have a locked gate preventing any foolhardy access to the sea, industrial ramparts preventing the holiday camp from sliding down the cliff, and a sea-drenched concrete walkway (or should I say ‘slipway’) that we launch ourselves along. It’s a relief when we find the next stairway to land above, and an even greater relief when we count everyone back – remarkably the same number that we counted out.
Then it’s back through Corton village, passing the White Horse pub that doubles as the village shop selling just about everything. We make a mental note that this must be the place where we can get our newspaper the following day, but we discover later that – no reflection on the local population – Sunday papers can’t be bought around here.
The exciting options for the afternoon include target shooting, and this seems to be the choice favoured by the men. But when I see the gales going on outside I’m pleased that I chose the softer option – stripping off and joining the women in the cosy pool. Margaret tells me later that, despite the unfriendly weather, there was over-subscription for the shooting and a bit of a barney ensued. This backs up my smart decision to go for the indoor pool – I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of an argument with the guy who looks after the guns.
Anyway, the pool is nice and, to my surprise, I even enjoy the aqua-aerobics where the blokes are outnumbered seven to two. I don’t know if it’s just me, but amongst all the muscles that the aerobics works on, the vesica seems to be taking the most punishment and I’m bursting to go before the end of the session.
The singer booked for the evening entertainment is ill and the stand-in, unexpectedly, is an opera singer. So, with the help of a bottle or three of Grey Rock our classical appreciation is unleashed and we raise our glasses to a lovely rendition of Puccini’s ‘O mio babbino caro’ , and many more such greats.
In the morning our team gets an opportunity to shine in The Warner Quiz. You would think that between the eight of us we ought to know everything by now. But it seems not, and annoyingly we are beaten by other smaller, and possibly younger, teams. But at least we now know what is black when clean and white when dirty, and what you can hold in your left hand but not in your right hand. At this point we are in danger of John John, speaking a little too openly, giving away our answer. But we soon realise that it is in fact a subtle ploy, a deliberately false clue, designed – successfully I think – to send the opposing teams down the wrong track.
A (very small) number of us also take part enthusiastically in the Line Dancing and the Modern Jive. We haven’t done line dancing for years but it seems it’s one of the very few things in life that have forever stayed the same. In these days of turmoil and change I could see ourselves, when we’re a bit older, taking up line dancing professionally to bring that yearned-for stability to our lives.
And we are pleased to be able to encourage and commiserate with the ‘teacher’ for the Modern Jive class who cannot stop apologising for drawing the short straw and being thrown to the wolves as the supposed resident Warner Jive Expert. Mr and Mrs Ballroom (the first dancers on the floor each evening, eager to show off their evening class skills) withdraw from the jiving early – ostensibly due to the lack of serious teaching. Personally I conclude that it must simply have been too challenging for them.
But the blockbusting entertainment of the weekend has to be the Saturday night with ‘Dusty and Friends’. Dusty Springfield and her husband – a terrific Ray Charles and a Little Richard – set the place alight. Little Corton on the wild Suffolk coast has found huge talent and we all love it.
Roughly half of us are dressed for the occasion, glimmering, shimmering, and glowing on the dance floor. The other half of us are dressed more discreetly, bringing some gravitas and decorum to the party.
It’s an absolutely brilliant evening’s entertainment. We can’t claim to have done a verified survey, but there is clear anecdotal evidence from both old and very old around us that they are having a whale of a time. And for us, it is the best evening we’ve had for a very long time.
Before we know it, it’s Monday morning and we are packing our bags, saying our goodbyes, and heading off to the station. We are pleased to be giving Maggie and Richard another chance to see Lowestoft before they head north, and presumably they’ll be heading back there again soon to discover more of the town’s hidden gems.