Snapshot: The Ark, Nana and Grandpa’s camper
The Ark, as she was affectionately known thanks to the number plate, belonged to my grandparents during my early childhood. I was too young to have anything more than sketchy memories of her secret compartments, hiding places and gleaming red paint. Memories of the Ark are always relayed with fondness but her enduring place in Rossner family lore was secured in January 1972 when my cousin was born in the back, delivered by Nana en route to the hospital.
I’m not sure many photographs of the Ark exist and I had never seen one until this surfaced recently. The date on the back is 1965. Armed with that small detail and her registration I realised my grandparents must have bought the Ark brand new. This was a revelation and led to all sorts of questions … how did they afford it, what adventurous road trips did they hope to have, were they secret bohemians? Suddenly, I have a different view of the thrifty pensioners I recall.
But no, as previously suspected, Nana and Grandpa were never part of that 60s zeitgeist. My uncle remembers his parents buying the Ark in retirement, largely for practical reasons; Nana’s love of tea and the opportunity to rest her bad back on local trips were key factors, less so the lure of the hippy trail. However, that doesn’t diminish the pleasure they got from their years with the Ark. Here they are, proudly showing off their new purchase to the older generation: Nana’s parents, her older brother and his wife. My great-grandpa in the passenger seat looks distinctly bewildered by this new-age extravagance. Grandpa is checking the tyres (avoiding the camera?) while Nana makes tea for her mum from a freshly boiled kettle. Being able to make tea wherever you went must surely have been the biggest selling point for Nana.
Fifty years on, I wonder what my grandparents would make of the iconic status of the camper van. These days it seems everyone wants one, including me. At campsites I look longingly from my flimsy tent at the VW campers and know that if I am ever lucky enough to own one I would be proudly showing it off the way my grandparents did. This time round I’d like to think the older generation would be looking on approvingly, as family history turns full circle. Nana would have been 53 when this photo was taken so I’ll take that as a sign that there’s time for me yet to join the “vee-dub” club.
Marielle Rossner
Playlist: Waiting for our own miracles
Toca’s Miracle by Fragma
“Let me tell you, you know, I need a miracle”
This dance classic takes me right back to 2000 and the strangest of summers. Toca’s Miracle had been No 1 in the charts and it provided the soundtrack to the nervous, sweltering few months I spent waiting for my GCSE results.
I found myself on the brink of leaving the relative comfort of what was then the largest secondary school in the country. When I look back it all feels innocently Dickensian, perhaps because I have a sister five years younger and I didn’t really grow up until I was in my 20s.
While my school friends spent the summer shagging in the old quarry, my sister and I were strangely paralysed with fear. Me of (I hoped) making the bold move across the school lawn to sixth form, she of starting big school. We’d lie in our parents’ bedroom for hours, watching The Box music channel – it felt like this song was always on.
It’s frightening how much school forms you and, in many respects, dictates your path ahead. The bullying, the death-trap 479 bus journey, the chips. But the exams? When the news came in, it was good. I was able to do the A-levels I’d wanted to and, when September came, I held my sister’s hand as we crossed the threshold into our respective new worlds.
What value do those GCSEs, so hard earned, have in my life now? Zero. The fact is, I didn’t need a miracle. I was boringly efficient at passing exams.
What I need is a miracle now – I find myself unemployed for the first time in 10 years and it’s frightening out there, still. My sister finds it is now her turn to hold my hand, as I cross over into the unknown once again.
Gemma Corden
We love to eat: Auntie Eileen’s puff pastry triangles
Ingredients
Packet of puff pastry
Melted butter
Grated cheese
Salt, mixed herbs
Preheat oven to 200C. Roll out puff pastry sheets and brush with butter, then sprinkle evenly with grated cheese. Season with a pinch of salt and dried mixed herbs. Line two baking trays with greaseproof paper and place pastries on prepared tray. Place in oven and cook for 15 minutes or until slightly puffed and golden brown.
In Edinburgh, in the 1980s, from when my sister and I were about five and seven, once a month Auntie Eileen would babysit us overnight.
She’d take us to the huge Wester Hailes shopping centre and let us run off round the shops to buy dinner for the three of us, while she sat and had a cup of tea.
We would get £5 to spend on two courses, and we could spend any change on sweets or the rides. We usually chose frozen chicken kievs, puff pastry and a can of mushy peas, and followed these exotic delicacies with a rectangle of sliceable Neapolitan ice cream and nougat wafers.
When we returned to her house, Auntie Eileen would help us to jazz up the puff pastry, so that it became a side dish to serve with our meal, rather than playing the traditional role of pie topping.
Sadly, Auntie Eileen died when I was 11, and my most distinct memories of our time with her are of making rose-petal perfume in jam jars (something our parents would never have let us do to their “prize” flowers), not being allowed to touch light switches at her house due to the faulty wiring (they all had a Christmas card sellotaped over them to remind us) and her puff pastry triangles, which we baked together as we first learned to budget for a “well-balanced” family meal.
Sarah Neary
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