Military operation scale planning was undertaken by Harmi and Azi - and a great job they did too. I drove up from London on the Friday evening with Bernie and Bianca in tow. Pretty uneventful journey (one small detour, confusion caused by having too many methods of getting there - AA, Multimap, Google Maps on iPhone - too many maps spoil the broth?), but all's well that ends well and we get to Robin Hood's Bay just in time for last orders. Perfect. The main hen and a few others were already well under way...I hadn't had a drink since NYE, so a pint of shandy was all I managed. Lightweight...
Our cottage was very sweet and rather nicely furnished. I'd kind-of expected it to be a bit more ramshackle, but all mod cons were on board. Had a good night's kip and got up the next morning to a huge fry-up in the Old Bakery cafe. The staff looked a bit taken aback to have so many customers so early - it is January after all, and I don't reckon they're awash with tourists at this time of year...
The plan was to don wellies and do a coastal walk. My love of any opportunity to get the wellies on is well known, and the mud lived up to my expectations. At this point, our hen gang numbered about 12, with more hens arriving throughout the day. The weather did us proud; sun shining down, not too windy, not too cold - a perfect, crisp winter's day. Although I knew most of the hens, some of them I hadn't seen for quite a few years. It was great to just amble along, laughing about the past and finding out what people have been up to with their lives.
We reached our objective (the Ravenscar hotel) after a few hours, spattered with mud and very rosy-cheeked. Tea, scones, sandwiches (and a few large red wines) later, we callled for taxis to run us back to RHB (enough exercise for one weekend). Once back at the cottages, a few flaked out. Not me obviously - straight out for a wander with Bernie, and following our noses like a couple of Bisto Kids, we sniffed out the local chip shop and had some of RBH's finest. Hungry work, that walking lark.
At 6.30pm, the Brummie's cottage was the gathering point for the pre-meal soirée. And lordy, don't some of those mud-caked girls brush up very nicely? Lots of chat, few little drinkies, and then there was a Mr & Mrs style quiz to find out how much the Brummie really did know about Screwy. I was the designated Derek Batey styleee quizmaster, ably assisted by my lovely assistant Harmi. It turns out that Brummie knows a lot of stuff about Screw - but not the colour of his eyes, which caused the most hysteria of all. And she also didn't know that he considers "his butt" his best feature, which I don't think he'll ever live down...
One of the Brummie's best friends Liz lives in France, and she couldn't make the weekend. So in her place, she organised a beautiful bound book, which she filled with pictures of Steph, and had shipped via Screwy for me to take to the weekend. From snaps of Brummie as a wee kid right through her life - family hols, university days, messing about with friends, gigs, and a lovely section of her and Paul at the end. I presented it to her after the quiz, and it really took her aback. She was so hugely touched, plenty of blubbing followed. A truly lovely, thoughtful gift to be treasured.
Next on the agenda, we arrived at the Bramblewick restaurant and pretty much took over one whole room (apart from one small table for two...). The booze started flowing (I was very reserved...for once...). The food was superb - I even eyed up Bianca's venison, and not having eaten meat for 20 years, it must have smelled good. And then the Hen's planners Harmi and Azi gave a short speech - not many dry eyes in the house...and the Hen said her piece...more glassy eyes...
A couple entered the restaurant, which was full except for the one corner table...right in our midst. But with good humour, they took it - and became involved with the whole night. Real pair of good sports. Once the rest of the restaurant emptied out, the owners cranked the music up a bit, and the dancing started. Brummie insisted on sitting on a high bar stool like some torch singer in the middle of the room. Hilarious, as she could hardly stand at this point, so perching up high was quite a feat.
Once the bill was settled, the party went to the Laurel Inn...and wreaked havoc in a good-fun-not-too-messy way. Lots of whooping and men getting their bottoms pinched by the more adventurous. The locals were such good fun, and although I'm sure they normally enjoy a more sedate Saturday evening, they welcomed the intrusion with open arms. One local woman said she didn't think the Laurel Inn had ever seen that many women in its entire history - despite being hundreds of years old.
Eventually, the time came to take the party back to the Chief Hen's cottage. Despite careful planning, the only music we had was a CD from an Xbox game, which was played over and over...and over...and over. Ad infinitum. Until a very pissed Brummie said it was driving her mental, in a Groundhog Day kinda way. So the dancing slowed down, the jokes petered out, the yawns became more frequent and it was time to hit the sack.
Sunday brought grey skies, but no rain. I'd heard the heavens open during the night, so hoped we'd seen the last of the rain, making the drive back to London easier. More fry-up at the Old Bakery - the Brummie and her family appeared. Poor Brummie - she looked fine, but she said her insides could tell a different story. Maybe the cocktail of red wine/champagne/Sambucca might have had a hand in it...? Fond farewells later, we loaded up Betty Ford with luggage and hit the road. Top weekend with a bunch of top women. Can't wait for The Big Day...
A couple entered the restaurant, which was full except for the one corner table...right in our midst. But with good humour, they took it - and became involved with the whole night. Real pair of good sports. Once the rest of the restaurant emptied out, the owners cranked the music up a bit, and the dancing started. Brummie insisted on sitting on a high bar stool like some torch singer in the middle of the room. Hilarious, as she could hardly stand at this point, so perching up high was quite a feat.
Once the bill was settled, the party went to the Laurel Inn...and wreaked havoc in a good-fun-not-too-messy way. Lots of whooping and men getting their bottoms pinched by the more adventurous. The locals were such good fun, and although I'm sure they normally enjoy a more sedate Saturday evening, they welcomed the intrusion with open arms. One local woman said she didn't think the Laurel Inn had ever seen that many women in its entire history - despite being hundreds of years old.
Eventually, the time came to take the party back to the Chief Hen's cottage. Despite careful planning, the only music we had was a CD from an Xbox game, which was played over and over...and over...and over. Ad infinitum. Until a very pissed Brummie said it was driving her mental, in a Groundhog Day kinda way. So the dancing slowed down, the jokes petered out, the yawns became more frequent and it was time to hit the sack.
Sunday brought grey skies, but no rain. I'd heard the heavens open during the night, so hoped we'd seen the last of the rain, making the drive back to London easier. More fry-up at the Old Bakery - the Brummie and her family appeared. Poor Brummie - she looked fine, but she said her insides could tell a different story. Maybe the cocktail of red wine/champagne/Sambucca might have had a hand in it...? Fond farewells later, we loaded up Betty Ford with luggage and hit the road. Top weekend with a bunch of top women. Can't wait for The Big Day...
