Last Saturday night, Portrush motorhome parking did its level best to defeat us before the evening had even started. I meant to write this up the following morning. That was a week ago. In my defence, we’ve been on baby watch ever since, and Gemma is, as of right now, still very much pregnant. The false alarm contractions that sent us scurrying home that night have not been followed by an actual baby. We’re all still waiting. Reuben is blissfully unaware.

Anyway, Portrush.

Portrush on a Saturday Night

We fancied a night out. Portrush is one of those places we park up regularly enough that we have a loose mental map of where to go, where to eat, and what the nights are usually like. What we didn’t account for was the fact that apparently every single person in the north of Ireland had the same idea.

The town was absolutely heaving.

Every bar we passed was packed to the gills. I don’t fully understand that phrase, if I’m honest. Something to do with fish and ice. But it felt right.

The Parking Situation

We did a few laps. Our usual spots were taken, or near enough taken that other people’s inability to park straight made them unusable. One motorhome in particular could have pulled forward six feet and we’d have slotted right in behind them. No sign of life inside. No note. No consideration for the laws of physics that govern motorhome parking. Cheers for that.

Sandhill Drive Motorhome Park was rammed. Wall to wall. The coach bays had been absorbed entirely, and with the rain coming down and that slight incline at the entrance, there was absolutely no way I was getting the ramps out. I’m not a man who puts ramps down in the pouring rain next to a fully occupied car park just to sleep at a slight angle.

We ended up on the West Strand end of things, which was fine. Not perfect. I had a feeling we’d end up next to a Corsa with the engine running and a bored girlfriend doom scrolling in the passenger seat. Reader, I was right.

The First Bar

The Harbour Bar was packed. I spent 20 minutes at the bar trying to get served, which is 20 minutes of my life I’m not getting back. Navigating back to Kathy with two drinks through a crowd of farmers and two hen parties in full cowboy hat and sash regalia was an experience. Not an unpleasant one, to be fair. Just a busy one.

After that, I wasn’t going back in. I’d have seen more of the back of strangers’ heads than of my wife, so we finished up and moved on.

The Station Bar

Better. More seating, relatively speaking. Kathy got her Strawberry Daiquiri Mocktail. We had a great view of a massive screen showing UFC from what looked like it might have been China. The conversation was good, the night was settling into something enjoyable.

And then, midway through drink number two, my phone went.

Gemma. Contractions. Ten minutes apart.

Wings First, Then Parental Duty

She said they were manageable and ten minutes apart, so there was no immediate sprint required. Which was just as well, because the sum total of what I’d eaten all day was an apple. That’s what Mounjaro does. You’re not hungry. You know you should eat. You exist in a strange limbo state of knowing your body needs fuel while your body insists it doesn’t.

We called into Apache Pizza on the Main Street on the way back. Spicy BBQ Chicken Wings. Shared. Thoroughly demolished.

Back at the van, we let Gemma know we were parked up outside and on standby. Kathy, former midwife, was on hand for anything that required actual knowledge. I was on Reuben duty if everyone needed to head to the hospital.

Morning Update: Nothing to Report

Woke up at 11am. No grandson.

The contractions had apparently eased off, which I’m told is perfectly normal. Bodies are annoying that way. So we’re back in a holding pattern, which is fine. He’ll arrive when he’s ready, and we’ll be here when he does.

In the meantime, I’ve got a backlog of content to edit, a couple of videos to actually start, and an n8n workflow or two that I keep telling myself I’m nearly done with.

The van life continues. Somewhere in Portrush, that Corsa is probably still running.