If Balloons Were Memories
A Life Told Through A Balloon Fiesta
Bristol International Balloon Fiesta is the largest annual hot air balloon event in Europe and normally attracts more than 500,000 visitors.
Various striped balloons
I am young. I do not know how young. I must be less than seven, both parents are present and smiling. We are a complete family, possibly for the last time.
Simple coloured stripes embrace the silk and nylon, as the old rug embraces me. Scents of wet dog and stale sand tangled in the fibres, turning this memory into a patchwork of silk and nylon happenings.
Someone wins a stuffed gorilla. It is too large to carry so is given a piggyback all the way to the car, being passed from parent to son and back again. I am too small to carry it but take great delight in the image from where I walk by my mother’s side.
I have a memory of travelling in the boot of the car, snuggled in the lap of the stuffed gorilla. This may or may not be real. All I recall is I am isolated, curled up small behind everyone else.
Bertie Bassett
Growing up, Liquorice Allsorts were my mum’s favourite sweet. She would always have a box at Christmas, at the end of term, on birthdays and other special events. I never like the taste, but I adored the bright colours and different shapes.
The Bassett balloon is slow to inflate. For the longest time, it is slumped on the edge of the arena. Occasionally an arm extends and then retreats, Bertie’s frozen smile appears and disappears without warning. The wind is high and the announcement comes that the balloons will not fly today.
We don’t mind, continuing to sit and watch. The more regular balloons are packed away while the novelty shapes inflate and dance in the high winds, safely tethered to the heavy metal rings in the ground. The arena will be scarred for several weeks this year until they recover from the trauma of the tethered exhibition.
Darth Vadar
I was eleven when I watched Star Wars for the first time. It was a weekend at my Nan and Grandad’s house, and my cousin was shocked I had never seen the films. He demanded answers from my brother as to why I was so uneducated.
‘She thinks they’re boring,’ was his passionless defense. That wasn’t good enough.
‘Sit there,’ I was told. I sat placidly on the smaller sofa, close to the tv. My cousin got the newly released VHS and put it in the machine. ‘Just watch it.’
And I did. It was ok. I liked Liam Neeson’s soft Irish lilt and Ewan McGregor’s impatient desire to change the world now. I told my cousin it was good. I meant it.
The next day we watched the old movies. All three. They were ok. I said as much. My education was complete — until the next instalment came out. By that time I had embraced my inner sci-fi geek and went willingly to the cinema to watch it.
I finally understood the importance of the big black balloon, Darth Vader’s mask. A symbol of terror and dictatorship across the galaxy.
It always got one of the biggest rounds of applause when it took off.
A Scottish Piper
We tried to always have some shortbread on us for when the Scottish Piper was inflated. He was one of our favourites (my Mum and I) and it wasn’t right to salute him with some form of food or drink. It was one of Grampy’s favourites as well.
My grampy used to call my granny Mac, a tender shortening of her maiden name. We descend from the great clan MacGregor in the Scottish Highlands, descended from Rob Roy himself. I used to love hearing the story growing up.
Rob Roy, a cattleman and respected farmer, lost his money and cattle, defaulted on his loans and was branded an outlaw. He was romanticised in a novel, becoming a Scottish Robin Hood, robbing from the rich to feed the poor. In reality, he was little more than a highwayman and a thief. Either way, I was proud of my famous heritage and keen to shout about it.
Gran died when I was seventeen. Mum spent a good chuck of her inheritance on a girls holiday for the two of us. We visited the cocktail bar every night and worked our way through all of the cocktails that reminded us of Gran.
Sidecar, for when Gran was younger and used to ride beside Grampy.
Screwdriver, for the DIY we did for her.
Aviation, for the scale model of Concorde in the attic.
Rum Old Fashioned.
Penicillin.
Whisky Sour.
And of course, a Rob Roy.
Minion
As I got older and started to attend the festival without my mum — with boyfriends, or university housemates — the balloons changed and more popular and recent shapes began to appear.
The year I saw the Minion balloon was the worst balloon fiesta I visited.
I went with my boyfriend at the time, and we took his foster sister. He was already becoming bitter and cold towards me, and probably I towards him also. He began to complain as soon as we arrived.
‘Ten pounds just to park? What the-’ I tried to explain how the entry would be free, so it was only about £3 for each of us. He didn’t like that.
As we followed the crowd over the crest of the hill something was said, some joke I didn’t find funny or that was mean-spirited. I jokingly hit him in the arm and told him to shut up.
He punched my arm in return.
That punch is still with me. It was the one and only time he ever struck me, but ten years later I remember the numbness he left behind. It scared me for a second.
Sarah wasn’t near enough to see. I was glad. She had seen enough of that already. But there was a coldness between me and him for the rest of the day.
Sarah had the best day. I paid for her to win cuddly toys, to eat over-priced hotdogs and slide down enormous inflatables. That was the first fiesta the Minion balloon appeared at, which made her day more than anything else.
We drove home in silence, Sarah asleep on the back seat.
The Churchill Dog
‘Is it nearly over?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And we’re going home after?’
‘Oh yes.”
‘Are you going to keep doing that stupid impression?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Mum, will you shut her up?’
‘Oh no no no no no no.’
‘Christ, you’re as bad as her. I’m going to get a drink.’
Kawasaki Motorbike
The Kawasaki motorbike was always my brother’s favourite balloon. As soon as it began to rise from the arena floor he would sit up straight and begin reciting numbers and statistics for my mother to nod and murmur awe at.
The same light that appeared in his 12-year-old eyes appeared again the day I rode home on my first bike.
“A Yamaha FS1,” he murmured in awe. This time it was my turn to spout numbers. He was a proud big brother that day, and a new parent.
“Have you got a decent jacket? Where did you get your helmet? Does it fit right? Show me your gloves.”
I passed his military inspection with flying colours. My reward was a twenty-pound note and a business card for when it needed an MOT.
