A Weekend in Kettlewell

For the weekend I got to drift, timeless, between adulthood and youth. I’m among the oldest of my generation of Chappells, and the oldest of the various godfamilies my sisters and I were each given. And I’m among the youngest of the adults, and yet in another way I grew up with them too.

I floated through the lounge room making loom band bracelets with eight-year-old Bessie, passed by a pillow fight and a questionable freestyle rap battle, mixed white wine and lemonade into a champagne-style potion as a big-girl cousin, and laughed at drunken uncles gulping whiskey at 3am. One minute I was the designated adult in charge of a hilltop expedition, the next I was penguining on my belly down a snowdrift, fingers white and snowball-cold.

Getting the whole family together is never easy, and for the last year or so it’s been me missing from the picture. As for joining both families, the godfamilies, and assorted others who I’ve grown up with – that’s something we’ve never had before. But, for a weekend in a Yorkshire hostel with sun and snow and clambering stairs, it didn’t seem unusual at all.

Looking at the village with a loom band knotting my hair

Eight year old child: “I read To Kill A Mockingbird. My favourite character was the Reverend.”

Adult with no memory of Harper Lee: “Ah… yes… the reverend… good character, that…”

“The Chappell bottom. A blessing, a curse. Go on, show me yours.”

“Ooh, this bunk bed is high up, isn’t it! I can see everything from here! I feel like I’m floating!”