The Penguins

One of my fondest memories of being a little girl, amongst so many, was my dad’s return from a weekend away walking up Mount Snowdon. Him and several other dads in the Scout movement used to stay in a rundown white cottage (above) in the remote village of Capel Garmon near Betws-y-Coed, in the stunning region of Snowdonia, North Wales. It was during the 1970s when life was so much simpler, less complicated, less chaotic. Packed inside his rucksack would always be a packet of chocolate Penguin biscuits. There were seven in the packet and each trip away he would eat only five of them.

Upon his return at teatime on the Sunday, my older brother and I would wait at the front-room window, eager to see the ancient converted ambulance that would transport the men to and from home. The ‘bus’ would pull up in the drive, and our dad would climb out, exhausted and weary from his treks through the mountainous peaks of North Wales, hungry for the hearty Sunday roast that my mum would have ready to serve up, and desperate for a hot bath where he would luxuriate in the white iron tub decorated with a black panel, a bar of Imperial Leather soap and a bottle of Vosene.

We would run to the back door and fling it open, waiting patiently as he embraced our mum, before wrapping us in outstretched aching arms, letting our faces nuzzle against him to remind us of his warmth. Then he would put us down and kneel in front of us, grinning as he reached over to his rucksack. We’d stare fixatedly as he unzipped a small compartment at the front. And then, with all the love in the world and our hearts overflowing, he would produce the two remaining chocolate Penguin biscuits that he never failed to save. He could have given us the world, for that is what those Penguins meant.

Mum let us eat them after tea, of course, whilst Dad lay in the bath as she unpacked his rucksack. Then my brother and I would get in the bath and Dad would wash our hair with the Vosene. In our pyjamas we’d snuggle underneath the stripy flannelette sheets and he would tell us a story about mountains and deer and snow and little white cottages in little picturesque villages, and we would lie side by side, snuggled against him before drifting off to the security of our childhood dreams.

Dad passed away very suddenly and unexpectedly on the 25th July 2001. I’ve been to visit the little white cottage at Capel Garmon just the once since that date, and as I looked through the windows into the derelict rooms, my hands cupped around my face as I pressed it against the weathered glass, I saw him sat on the old two-seater sofa, its material worn and tattered, its cushioned seats sunken and dreary. He looked up at me then and smiled, tears glistening in his beautiful blue eyes as he closed the zip on his rucksack after tucking The Penguins inside.