The Holly and the Ivy

Crime is hereditary, you know. It propagates itself down through the generations and, before you know it, you're tangled in its creeping tendrils up to your ears. So, look before you leap and beware what you start. Spare a thought for your descendants when you stray from the straight and narrow. 'Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive' my mother used to say. How right she was!

She was a country girl, my mum: born and bred in a Somerset village and daughter of the village grocer. I have photos of her as a young girl, on horseback, riding jauntily through the heather with her sisters, high up in the Quantock Hills. It was a far cry from the London suburbs where my sister and I spent our childhood days. We were city dwellers and we never saw the country girl hidden deep in her heart until much later. In our teenage years we moved, with our parents, to a nicer part of London, close to the edge of the urban sprawl. We would make forays into the countryside at weekends and, there in the Kent countryside, it seemed, a part of Mum's old self was reborn. They would stop the car in a quaint Kentish village, full of tile-hung cottages and gardens full of old-fashioned flowers, and Mum would be off, strolling nonchalantly down muddy footpaths, bag in hand and a pair of secateurs hidden in her pocket, happy as a sandboy.

Secateurs? You should have seen her at Christmas! Dressed in 'slacks' and a moth-eaten old sheepskin jacket, with a headscarf knotted under her chin, she would drag our reluctant father down country lanes, armed with a walking stick and a pair of secateurs. Dad would be cajoled into doing battle with prickly holly bushes, yanking down tough branches with the walking stick whilst she snipped them off for her flower arrangements. No Christmas was complete in our house without jugs full of greenery and, behind the pictures, a sprinkling of holly and ivy that gradually shed leaves and berries all through the holiday. Country habits die hard.

Moving back to the country myself, after many years in the city, I am aware that aspects of my past are coming back to haunt me. Having spent summer and autumn days exploring river banks and country lanes in my new rural home, admiring the countless varieties of wild flowers in the hedgerows (and not picking them!) and helping myself to nature's handouts in the form of sweet, juicy blackberries and windfallen apples to fill the freezer, I am ready to enjoy nature's bounty at Christmastime too. All of a sudden, I am finding myself whistling merrily '..the holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown, of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown...' and a little urge comes upon me to supplement tree and tinsel, angels and baubles, with a little rustic charm of a traditional nature. Out come the secateurs, the bag, the jacket - no, not the headscarf! - and I am off down the country lanes to seek out Christmas past and follow in my family's footsteps.

It is a different kind of Christmas, rooted in the soil, in the country traditions, in folk carols and wassailing, figgy pudding and mulled mead and I am loving it! A Merry Christmas one and all!

Flat Spin?

 

My mind is in a state of confusion, it seems. I am imagining, in my mind's eye, a little Mexican in a sombrero, spinning like a top, round and round, almost hidden from view by his enormous hat and gradually disappearing further and further into the ground, soon to be flattened completely beneath his oversized headgear. Once, whilst we lived in the Netherlands, we went to see a wonderful concert by an international youth orchestra in a concert hall in Rotterdam. This must be what I am thinking of. Their party piece, performed with every ounce of their skill and application to the task, was a marvellous rendering of one of my favourite pieces of music: Bolero. Accompanied by a dervish gentleman dressed in a multi-coloured poncho, who twisted and twirled in time to the music until we expected to see him fall, dizzy and exhausted, to the ground, the music was intoxicating. We listened and watched, spellbound, as he whirled on and on, apparently caught up in the music, like we were, and totally oblivious of his audience.

 

Caught up in a frenzy of speculation, my mind moves on to an altogether different image: some kind of revolving apartment, maybe on London's Post Office Tower? Living in London as a child, I remember the excitement when the Post Office Tower Restaurant was first opened and one could spend an enchanting evening up there, revolving slowly over dinner and seeing the lights of London laid out below. Is it this I should be thinking of?

There again, I seem to see, this time from the distant recesses of my childhood memory, a game of cat and mouse, a cat and mouse chase, and a giant hammer wielded by the desperate little mouse, swinging round and round above his head and finally making contact with an annoying and troublesome pussy cat, knocking him clean off his paws, high up into the sky, round and round, spinning down and down until he hits the deck, in an elongated, flattened pussy cat shape on the floor - again. Poor old Tom cat!

It's Christmas! Most of us are rushed off our feet. This probably explains my unstable, confused mental state and the hallucinations which crowd into my overburdened consciousness. Presents to buy, menus to plan, visits to make to meet up with long lost relatives and a Christmas tree to decorate! Each of those fascinating activities we have grown to love since our move here: the art clubs, writers groups, choir, theatre group, ladies groups - the list is growing all the time - each of them has its own festivities for the season and its own pressures. Caught up in a whirl of last minute choir practices, performances in the local churches and nursing homes, buffet lunches where we all 'bring and share', writers groups where we bring not only our scribblings but an offering of food and wine, Christmas dinners, Secret Santa pressies to buy, we scuttle from one to the other in ever-decreasing circles - in a flat spin, in fact! I revel in it all but, as usual, there is too much of it. Flat spin - what on earth does that mean? I paused to wonder the other day and that set off a whole lot of thinking. These phrases do that to me - I just can't help wondering where they originate. Why do we talk of being in a flat spin?

Does anyone want to know? Well, here it is anyway! My faithful copy of Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable reliably informs me that a flat spin is 'when the longitudinal axis of an aircraft inclines downwards at an angle of less than 45 degrees. In the early days this inevitably involved loss of control.' Nowadays, apparently, it is used in air combat as an evasive action. There, mystery solved and a clue to a possible means of escape from all this Christmas razzmatazz, should this be required!

 

Early one Winter's Morning

Not so early, really; it's getting on for 10 o'clock in fact, but there's a cold, fresh, silvery light in the sky, a mistiness over the hills and a fresh layer of white on the top. Maybe not snow this time, just a dousing of big white hailstones, but an indicator that winter is coming. No-one much about yet, adding to the feeling I have that I got up early. It's a beautiful day.

A woman wanders nonchalantly along the bay, smiling at no-one in particular, the jauntiness of her step bearing witness to her love of the outdoors and her obvious enjoyment of this pretty, silvery morning. She disappears into the distance, gaily swinging her arms, as the hailstones return and soak her brightly coloured coat and cosy ankle boots. We're used to weather here. No use trying to avoid it. Winter is coming and there will be rain, there will be gales and, especially on the hills, there will be thick, white snow.

So, get ready for it! Order in the groceries from Asda, with gratitude for the brave efforts of their delivery men, fill the freezer, turn up the heating if you dare. Batten down the hatches. It's time to do what we came for - time to write, time to paint, time to fill the house with the tantalising aroma of freshly baked bread and to relax by the fire with the latest knitting project. Knitting is 'in' this year; more and more young people are taking it up and experimenting with all the new designer yarns now on offer. That's good - I'd be doing it anyway, but it's a bonus to be in fashion.

Winter in Wales; a new experience for me: one step at a time, exploring this new season. Fifty-nine winters already under my belt, but never before in Wales. People make their own entertainment here. It's like living in a former era, when families and friends got together to make music, to eat and drink together on winter nights and to enjoy each other's company. Before the days of TV and computer technology, when families would gather round the glowing embers of the fire, with books, with sewing, around the piano, or with clarinet, flute or recorder, amusing themselves and each other till nightfall. There's a sense of creativity in the air here that seems to encourage such behaviour, that makes us sit contentedly with a favourite book, forgetting to turn on the telly. Everyone seems to have a hobby; arts and crafts of all kinds thrive in these tiny Welsh villages; choirs and amateur theatre groups abound; the art of making merry still lives on in the time-honoured fashion.

Is this a rose-tinted view? Is the reality a good deal harsher than this? Am I simply romanticising? Well, time will tell. There are two sides to every coin and I have yet to discover the flip side. No doubt the Asda delivery man will have tales to tell as he brings my groceries over the mountains through sleet and snow. For the moment, though, I will focus on the positive. It's the best way and I'm still in love with this newly discovered way of life, even though winter is on its way.

 

A Birth or a Death?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Did T.S. Eliot guess, when he penned those now famous lines that he would be striking a note that resounded down through the years and remains poignant and memorable a century later?

'All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different'.

The Coming of the Magi still has the power to charm us each time we hear it read in a seasonal repetition of the Nine Lessons and Carols. It leaves us pondering the depths of age old questions. Is there maybe less of a chasm between these two realities: birth and death than one might think?

Time after time, a soul departs from this earthly life into what, if we are honest, none of us really know - what or how or where or, least possible to contemplate of all, into nowhere. Simultaneously, as if to fill the gap, somewhere another new life is born. An old friend, recently bereaved, wrote us a touching letter, saying that he was strangely comforted, after the sad death of his wife, to hear of the birth of our first grandson, born to the 'little girl' who had been bridesmaid at their wedding, as if somehow nature was compensating for its losses and providing a measure of joy in the scales of life that at least equalled the sorrow on the opposite side of the equation.

Eliot recorded the joy of a new birth, the birth of a King, a Saviour, a Redeemer of the human race, but at the same time the death of an epoch, of an old way of life and the anguish of a journey under impossible conditions. He set down the dissatisfaction that ensued after experiencing a wonder, with the Magi returning home to the old dispensation which had now lost forever the power to satisfy. Was it a birth or a death?

My grandparents, Ida Lucy and Albert, lay side by side, buried in a little churchyard in the village where they lived for most of their lives. The grass grows around their graves, the moss covers their headstone and they rest, together in death as they were in life. It's a peaceful place. My parents, both cremated, have no such lasting memorial and I am forced to wonder whether the old ways were best.

 

Today I am sitting gazing at another churchyard. Behind it the old parish church of Dolgellau stands square-towered and solid, built of local grey stone with the golden, autumnal trees as a backdrop. It nestles in the hollow of the hills, close to the banks of the river Mawddach. It is a place of considerable charm, despite its crop of grey tombstones, a quiet and safe resting place for a host of former inhabitants of this small, friendly Welsh town. A place of death, but also, for its visitors today, a place of warmth, vibrancy and restoration. There is time in this grey churchyard to rest, to contemplate and to be recharged: it is a place of life. The lines, it seems, have been partly erased between those ultimate questions of death and life and the quiet spirit that lives on in this churchyard is both a death and a rebirth.

Have you seen the little piggies?

What is it with pigs? Have you noticed how they worm their way into everything? "Have you seen the little piggies?" wrote John Lennon (a reputed reference to the law and order brigade - the policeman or 'pig'). Less controversially, we hear of pig-sick and pig-headed! What does this say about the little porkers? Do we malign them? What have they done to deserve all this negativity?

If pigs had wings... pigs might fly! Always said with an air of suspicion. Poor piggies. Probably they would enjoy having wings, floating over the pigsty, zooming over the clover fields and soaring into the blue, dreaming their little piggy dreams and landing headfirst in the mud for a quick wallow. Why not?

One may not be able to fashion a silken purse from a pig's ear, one may not be able to buy a pig in a poke or even a sou'wester, but a pig may roll in the mud after a morning's flying and pamper himself... like a pig in clover, as they say. And at the end of the day, one may buy a fat pig and jiggety jig all the way home again. 'This little piggie went to market, this little piggie stayed at home, this little piggie ate roast beef...' What nonsense we all talk about pigs!

Finally, unless anyone else can think of other piggy references, we may finish by gazing in wonder as red-hot molten iron is poured into moulds and ask ourselves why - why pigs? Did they really resemble pigs? Or piglets? Why pig iron? Or are we just pig-ignorant? No doubt someone will put me straight...

Second Childhood?

 

 

 

We crept sheepishly past the ticket office,  trailing fronds of coloured leaves at our sides, hoping the nice lady who had greeted us on our way into the grounds of Powis Castle and wished us 'happy wandering' would fail to notice the spoils we carried with us on our way out. The rucksack overflowed with leaves of all shapes and sizes, twigs, tantalising pieces of bark, mossed over in soft green and sporting growths of lichens in pale sea-green, reminding me of a beautifully fashioned piece of coral reef. Do you remember those primary school collages: coloured leaves stuck with PVC glue to limp pieces of coloured sugar paper, bright and vibrant for a day, then curling up at the edges and all the precious leaves dried and crumbling on the paper?

 

We strolled nonchalantly back to the car, relieved to have passed the guard without being asked to put it all back and accused of denuding the forest floor to the detriment of other garden visitors' enjoyment. Glancing around us, we expected to be encouraged in our theft by seeing children  spilling out of the gardens carrying armfuls of leaves like us, competing with each other to pick up the brightest and best. Families there were, in abundance, obviously enjoying to the full this last of the autumn days before the cold of winter set in for good, but no leaf-waving children. Don't they do it anymore?

 

We had plans for grown-up pursuits of artistry at home in our dual purpose guest room/hobbies room, using our collection of nature's best but what about those children? Had they never had the joy of sticking and glueing, choosing colours and shapes to delight their own innate sense of creativity at this time of year? Was there no time any more for such innocent pleasures? Maybe David Hockney will spark them into action again with his inspired use of I-pad painting apps. Perhaps today's generation will find it preferable to record their own experiences of the season's exploits on screen and text it to their friends. Whatever the chosen medium, the creativity remains dormant in each of us and will hopefully burst out in response to nature's prodding. I hope so. 

Luminosity

I love these writing exercises! Sit me down, surrounded by familiar writing companions, give me a word and start me off. One, two, three, go! Write for ten minutes, spontaneously, carelessly, with abandon and see what happens... 'Luminosity!'

 

Already the word is drawing me in. Fascinated by colour, light, things that glow, I am in my element. I will follow this word, this thought and see where it leads me.

Luminous. It conjures up ideas of pulsating light. It is larger than life, conspicuous and illuminated, standing out from the shadows and very high profile.

This is not where I like to be. I am a shy, reserved person who does not like to be in the limelight (limelight? is this a special kind of greenish glow?). I prefer to sit a little at the edge, listening to what is said, watching what is occurring and only venturing a comment now and then when I have something to say. I do not like to be luminous. However, please do not misunderstand... I am not invisible. I like you to listen when I speak to you. I just like to glow a little - quietly.

But I love luminous people. I love their fire, their spark, their inspiration. So please feel free to glow noisily in my presence. Be exuberant, be passionate, be luminous! The world is a dark place and luminosity can rescue us from the shadows. For me it also carries the idea of transparency - of something that is clear, honest, true and open to view. I like that. I need more transparency in my life - maybe more luminosity. My natural reserve can be an obstacle in this respect.

And so I write. I live sometimes in the shadows. Verbally I can only glow a little, but in the medium of the written word sometimes I dare a little luminosity.

It's raining, it's pouring...

It's raining! Why am I surprised? They told us that there would be rain - lots of it. This is Wales! We are in prime position for all those warm, wet westerlies which traverse the Atlantic and land up right here on the Welsh coast. Living a few miles inland it would be even worse, as those moisture-laden winds rise to ascend our Welsh mountains and drop their load on the hills. So not as bad as it could be! But bad enough.

 

I knew in my head it would rain a lot. I'm not stupid. It wasn't that I didn't believe them. After all, I've never lived in Wales before - how would I know? It's just that I am coming to the conclusion that I don't have a very good knack for visualisation. The summer was gorgeous when it finally arrived (better late than never) - hot and sunny day after day. But if it isn't in front of my eyes I can't see it. In summer I can never imagine, however often it happens, that in winter I will ever feel cold enough to wear my fur coat or cumbersome boots. In winter the reverse happens and I look in horror at all those strappy tops, thin, sleeveless dresses and sandals and think I must have been crazy to buy them. The climate has changed for sure and it will never ever again be warm enough to wear them. Wrong!

 

We drove to Aberystwyth the other day to look for walking boots. Knowing (in our heads at least) that the weather here is not that great in winter (and maybe at other times too?), we determined to be well prepared for outdoor pursuits and get ourselves geared up with sturdy boots, waterproof trousers, etc.  After all, we love the outdoors and don't want to get stuck indoors all winter simply because we don't have the right equipment to stride out along muddy footpaths. We trudged round the shops. The financial aspect was off-putting. Getting prepared is prohibitively expensive. Questioning the staff of various outdoor shops proved even more off-putting. When did 'waterproof' really mean waterproof? For how long would it be waterproof? Under what conditions would this magic word apply? We slunk out of a number of shops, discouraged. For this reason and for the simple fact that neither of us have first hand experience of muddy footpaths in Wales we failed to buy anything. Surely the tracks we had walked along all summer would be OK really? Surely the heavy duty boots we saw other walkers equipped with were not strictly necessary - just a fad probably. Anyway, after paying all that money for brand new boots how could you bear to get them dirty? (We both admitted after the event to having had that thought!) We were only talking about footpaths. We weren't intending any mountain climbing, wading through streams or slithering down scree slopes. No, just a few simple strolls in the beautiful countryside.

 

Yesterday the rain stopped. We had other plans for the day but abandoned them immediately and grabbed the chance. We put on our trainers and went for a walk. November. Autumn leaves. Glorious colourful landscapes and leafy lanes. And mud. Paths that were level, gritty and well made up in summer turned out to be covered in layers of leaf mould, twigs brought down by the recent gales, puddles across the width of the paths and a layer of rich, thick mud! Now why didn't we visualise that beforehand? Maybe there is a part of my brain missing. Maybe my brain only lives in the present moment and cannot adapt itself to thoughts of the future. Maybe the meditation experts would applaud me - after all, these days, living in the moment is much advocated and I seem to be well adapted to the task. However, much as this technique for living is a godsend for relaxing the mind and calming the most frenetic temperament in weekly pilates classes, it doesn't seem to equip us well for the cut and thrust of everyday life. Taking the odd peek at the future and what it is likely to hold and imagining ourselves into the situation so that we can make plans and avoid disasters seems to be a good idea now and then.

 

Never mind, the round trip to Aberystwyth is a mere 80 miles from our village. Perhaps we should make another trip now we are more clued up to the realities round here! After all, in Wales it can be very wet...

Storm Surprise

Tapped the barometer without thinking,

A habitual act, expecting nothing.

Pressure dropped like a stone.
 

Unannounced, it came, at 2 a.m.,

Hurling itself against the bedroom window,

Startling us with its ferocity,
 

Leering through the misted glass,

Baring its sharp yellow teeth

In the early hours of the morning,

 

A lion unleashed, untamed, it roared

Down our valley, heading for the sea,

Terrorising its prey.

Mighty waves lashing the shoreline,

It swept onwards and outwards,

Lost in the dark night.

 

Nature, exposing its terrifying splendour ,

Captures us in its wake, mere mortals,

Surprised by a storm.

 

Like a Breath of Fresh Air

Inspiration! Such a fragile commodity. Where does it come from and where does it go? As a trainee writer (for when is a writer not in training?) I find the question intriguing, frustrating, fascinating and impossible. That age-old affliction of writer's block infests my foggy mind, paralysing my best intentions. No matter how hard or long my pen wanders over the page it produces nothing I can be truly proud of. I write, yes, I form the words in my mind and transfer them laboriously to the page and at the end - I find nothing original, nothing really worth the label of creativity or freshness. Where has it all gone?

A breath of fresh air! A visit to old friends. Bliss! The familiarity, the camaraderie, the knowledge that I belong (even though I have gone away), that I am appreciated and in some measure understood brings a breakthrough. 'Luminosity' - the word hangs in the air. Ten minutes of 'speedwriting', unpremeditated, unpolished, careless but gloriously free! 'Luminosity' I write. 'Already I am captivated by the thought and I will write and see where the word leads me.' And so I put my pen fearlessly to the paper and write, serene, confident, poised, knowing that this time the words will come, they will arrange themselves oh so gracefully on the page and at the end I shall read them out, not falteringly but proudly, knowing that once again the writers' circle has worked its magic. Inspiration! The muse that had left me has taken me gently by the hand and led me back into its sweet influence. I wonder, will it last?

Inspiration. Maybe this is a mis-spelling. Maybe all the time we should have spelled it 'friendship'. Is this the missing key? To know I am loved. To be secure in the knowledge that I am approved, whether I write well or badly, whether my brain is foggy or clear as a bell. We all need this kind of inspiration and I am resolved to go where I can find it. We must leave behind the stagnant pools and head for fresh, sweet water that wells up out of new springs, wherever we may find them. My visit was temporary - a rich but narrow slice of my old life which cannot be sustained - but it has inspired me to redouble my efforts to search for fresh wells of life which encourage and sustain personal growth. They have dangled the prize in front of me again and I will press on in search of that glow, that luminescence that transforms life from frustration to success. Thank you old friends. The world needs people like you.

 

The World May Have Slipped On Its Axis

In my garden there are blue delphiniums. There are fresh batches of roses, white, pink and a gorgeous variegated red and white two-for-the-price-of-one rose. Their blooms enhance the tiny garden and their petals shower the dark earth beneath and drift across the newly-mown grass. The vivid pink penstemmon are in full flower, their rows of brightly coloured bell-shaped flowers standing erect on tall stems in the sunshine. To one side of them, profuse multi-coloured sweet-peas climb up the shed; to the other the dahlias are in full bloom. The poppies continue to surprise us with their multi-coloured blooms; we are never quite sure which colour or variety will pop up next as they never stay where you plant them.

 

 

Nothing too strange in this. Just another ordinary, but picturesque cottage garden. But today is the 7th October. In the country lanes the blackberries are almost over; hawthorn berries and rosehips adorn the hedges in bright profusion. Summer and autumn run side by side in my garden and it is hard to tell the difference.

Earlier in the year we saw a similar phenomenon. Spring came so late and the bitter winter cold lingered on into June until we wondered if summer would ever come. Spring flowers were late. Daffodils, when they eventually came, dallied in our gardens until the summer roses had caught them up and bloomed side by side with the spring flowers. In June I battled with bitter, icy winds, wearing my winter coat, scarf, hat and gloves and complaining just as bitterly. Now in October my summer wardrobe has been given a reprieve and I can stroll along country lanes in summer dress and sandals. The seasons have slipped. The world is tilted on its axis.

How does this make me feel - as my counsellor might phrase the question? Should I be happy? Should I be distressed? Should I be alarmed? Is the climate of our world out of control or is this just a 'blip', a tiny, unexplained hiccup in the world's steady onward march, according to prescribed patterns and default settings?

The truth is that none of us know. The subject is ripe for discussion around dinner tables and at politicians' summits, scientific forums and academic battlegrounds. But none of us really know. We have not lived long enough. Are we heading for another Ice Age? Are we heading for meltdown? Will the polar ice caps re-freeze when someone turns the power back on or are we on a long-term, irreversible defrost programme?

At a recent family occasion we shared the celebrations of a member of the family who has just turned 100! One hundred years old! Who can imagine that? In former years, the phenomenon was unthinkable, although in Biblical times we understand that the patriarchs achieved unbelievable scores of seven hundred plus years! Perhaps it's a good thing that in those days  pensions had not been invented. Still Auntie Mabel is to be congratulated on her achievement. No-one else in her family has achieved such a thing. Imagine living for that long! Imagine having lived through both the first and second world wars! Imagine dating from the time of the earliest motor cars and before anyone had dared to dream of even the possibility of walking on the moon!

But these spectacular achievements are by no means so rare as once they were. Perhaps Auntie Mabel and the growing number of centegenarians like her might be able to pass judgement on the climate question at least with a few more years of experience than the rest of us. It's an interesting thought. Perhaps at the next G8 summit a selection of them should be invited to submit their views and share their accumulated wisdom on such tricksy questions that have the rest of us defeated.

When Life Stands Still

I'm reading a fascinating novel at present. It must be written by an expat like me! Actually, I'm not really an expat any more. After 15 years in the Netherlands, separated from family and family home by a strip of grey water that makes everything surprisingly different, I have been repatriated - well, almost. On the way home, like Ulysses, I got slightly diverted and ended up too far west, on the Welsh coastal strip, instead of home in the south of England where I belong.

It's hard to go home. There always seems to be one more adventure waiting to be lived out just round the corner so I suppose it is no surprise that I ended up here. I am still a distance from family and roots but strangely reassured by the sense of having reached British shores and a language and culture that are at least partly familiar: a 'halfway house', as a friend described it. Whether, like Ulysses, I ever finally return home fully is a chapter in the book I have not yet had the chance to read. However, in my current novel, the storyteller is a traveller who is temporarily home for a visit from the other side of the world. She is constantly tormented by the feeling that everyone at home has moved on and she has somehow got stuck in the time frame that existed when she left home all those years ago. When she returns everything has changed. Shops have closed. New ones have opened. Land has been sold and developed. Old feuds have been swept under the carpet. Relationships have moved on.

For me too, it sometimes seems as if life has stood still for me. Going to the local health centre for a regular screening test I was confronted by a puzzled nurse who asked why I had my last test in 2004. I explained as patiently as I could that I had lived abroad and had had numerous tests whilst there, but under a different health system. She accepted what I said but continued to look unconvinced. Did life really continue to happen when once you crossed the border?

Financially, I am only just coming up to speed again. Having moved from the pound to the Dutch guilder, then on to the transformation to life (and prices!) that was brought about by conversion to the euro, and back again to the index-linked pound, I have suffered utter confusion. Currency has lost all sense of value and left me floundering so for a long while I had no innate sense of its worth and what things should cost at all. After a year 'back home' a sense of proportion is beginning to creep in and I no longer feel indignant every time I have to pay for a cup of coffee, expecting it to be served to me at its 1990s price. The sense of disorientation is receding and my feet are back on solid ground.

As for my family, they have moved on without me, growing up, marrying, changing jobs, giving birth and even dying without my permission. Whilst my daughter still regularly attends weddings, I have taken to considering whether I should include a set of black funereal clothing in my luggage every time I leave home - just in case. Yes, life moves on.

So I am left with a question. Did life happen to me too? Did I really see all those exotic places, make all those friends, see my daughter's graduation, wedding and subsequent move to another country too, receive news of my first grandson's birth, experience working life in the Netherlands, buy and sell houses and go for bracing seaside walks on the 'wrong side' of the great divide, that grey, forbidding North Sea? Or was it all a dream? Did I have a life too? Back here it sometimes seems as if there is no space left for it all - it is a black hole in the constellations of my life. New friends are initially fascinated, then puzzled by my expat stories and quickly tire of listening before dragging conversation back on to more familiar ground. But I had a life too! I know it. It is just a little buried in my subconscious and in my photo albums these days. Am I maybe not only a traveller to foreign shores but a time traveller too from the land that time forgot?

 

Like A Pig in Clover

Do you remember? Can you recall all those trips to ballet classes, violin lessons, tap dancing and  aerobics for kids? "Just try it, darling and see how you like it". We watched, waited, transported and paid the bill as they tried it out. Eventually all the experiments ceased in favour of the remaining few hobbies that had really passed the test and subsequently became a part of their ongoing lives. As a child I craved ballet lessons. I still don't know where the craving came from but it was there. Maybe I wanted to twirl and pirouette; maybe I just wanted a pair of pink ballet shoes, a frothy net tutu and a fluffy bolero. I don't know. I nagged, pestered, cajoled and persuaded until my mother gave in. Thereafter the craving grew, rather than diminished, until the weekly ballet lesson turned into ballet twice a week, stage dancing once, tap dance another day and finally, 'advanced ballet' too. Our trips (on the bus) to North Chingford where I attended Eileen Langman's School of Dancing became a regular part of the after-school routine. My mother sat with the other mothers in the draughty entrance hall of the big house where we practised, night after night, knitting endless jumpers and fluffy pink boleros. Her long-suffering deserved recognition with a medal or probably a knighthood.

My daughter dutifully tried it out too, just to humour her mother ("Just try it, darling.."). The experiment was an unmitigated disaster. She was not a natural dancer. To give her her due, she stuck it out for a while, whilst her proud mother tried to relive her own childhood pleasures. She even participated in the annual dance show - with her very own white, fluffy tutu, pink tights and pink ballet shoes - and went stiffly through the routine - practised to perfection - to please her mother and satisfy her own high standards. But to no avail. The magic just did not work for her like it had for her mother.

No, riding was the thing. Riding was the dream, the aspiration and the goal. So, regretfully, I adjusted my own dreams, checked them out against reality and signed her up for a course of riding lessons at the local, messy, smelly stables. For what seemed like years we dutifully staggered out of bed early on Saturday mornings to clean the ice from the car windscreen and take her to the icy stables for her longed for day of mucking out, grooming, feeding and watering, attacking the ever-growing muck-heap in the yard with great enthusiasm, and the reward - a free riding lesson! We bundled her up in mountains of jumpers, gloves and a black riding hat and watched proudly whilst she walked, trotted and cantered (eventually) round the huge barn and balanced precariously on the top of enormous, bad-tempered nags whilst they leapt - at the very last minute, it seemed - over bars that seemed to have been raised to ridiculous heights. Oh for a pair of pink ballet shoes and a few harmless pirouettes! But our daughters have ideas of their own.

However, the years have passed and my turn has come round again, it seems! Our daughter is grown up and about to sample the delights of taking her own son to football practice on cold winter's days in a few short years. We ourselves have finished the endless journeys to such a variety of activities and settled down to retirement. Ah, retirement! Time again to sample the delights of the world of hobbies. Recently moved to a new location and at the same time released from the obligations and deadlines of the working life, we are ourselves ready for a bit of experimentation. So it's happening all over again - the experiments, the dabbling in this and that, the trying out new things that we never dreamed of doing. He can dabble in oils and gouache to his heart's content. I can join writing groups, write blogs and experiment with new genres. We can stumble down muddy footpaths with rucksacks and picnic lunches. I can join choirs and warble happily with my reedy voice and poor sight-reading and no-one minds. We can sample amateur dramatics and audition for our local Christmas pantomime or daub paint on stage scenery, sell raffle tickets or greet the audience at the theatre door. We can even sign up for a course to learn to be volunteer train drivers at our local steam railway station if the fancy takes us.

 

The world is our oyster! We are like pigs in clover! We can even indulge ourselves in hours of internet research concerning the fascinating origins of such colourful expressions - oyster? clover? But a pink tutu? Maybe not. Perhaps those days are over.

 

My Mountain

We're newcomers in our village here in Wales but it's surprising how soon one takes ownership of a new location. After only a few months I'm beginning to feel at home and to be proud of this tiny community, its glorious scenery, welcoming heart and sturdy, cheerful resilience in the face of adverse weather and economic conditions. The village has quickly become 'my village' and the mountain outside my back window 'my mountain'. It also reminds me of another small 'mountain' which formed an important part of my childhood holidays in Somerset. Apologies to the many longstanding residents who have far greater ownership rights - my presumption is merely a sign of my growing affection for this corner of the British Isles.

 

My mountain is round and green.

The sunlight hovers over it,

Trimming the edges with yellow,

Casting shadows on the green hollows

Where bushes huddle together

And the sheep take shelter.

 

My mountain is hummocky,

Uneven, ridged and knobbly.

I am learning every twist and turn

Of its comforting presence:

Irregular fields at its base,

Enclosed by low green hedges,

And the craggy outline

Of its upper reaches.

 

Once I knew another mountain,

In my childhood long ago,

Rolling down its grassy slopes,

My father looking on, watchful,

Of my progress downwards,

Another comforting presence.

 

“Tomorrow we will climb the Mount” –

A treat for childish holidays –

“Explore its hawthorn bushes,

Berries, wild flowers and secret pathways”.

I stumble falteringly to the top

To tumble down again, laughing,

Never knowing how the memories

Would last us down the years.

 

My mountain is round and green.

It is ever changing as I sit at my window,

Watching for spring to turn to summer,

The autumn colours to tinge the leaves,

The snow to gather along the hedgerows

And the new lambs to be re-born.

 

My mountain is watching over me,

Offers grazing for the livestock,

Shelter from the fierce winds

That howl around our village,

Its yellow gorse brings brightness

On cold, clear days in spring.

My mountain is mine forever,

Living out my time beneath its gaze.

 

 

 

Under the Sun

Is there nothing new? We have existed, one way or another, on this planet, for centuries, for millennia, for countless ages. We have plumbed the depths of our creativity over and over again, it seems. We have drunk the well of our God-given communal heritage dry and, more recently, drained the dregs of our proud, individualistic creative talents. Is there nothing new under the sun?

 

Here we sit, in our shady nook, with a pint of Snowdonia’s best local brew and a half of London Pride. We gaze contentedly at the estuary and its muddy sand flats. Each to his own. We are no longer limited to the restricted menu of a solely local choice. The world is our oyster. A small flotilla of ducks drifts lazily by. The steep sides of the estuary are thickly covered with dark green mixed woodland, traditional oaks that have supported a prosperous ship-building industry in times past and a spread of tall, dark conifers. It is somehow reminiscent of a Canadian lake scene, the high peaks towering above us and the shore lined with trees. All that is lacking is a grizzly bear, teaching its young to go fishing for breakfast. Everywhere reminds us of somewhere else. Everywhere is a little like this, a little like that, a little like ... so many other places I have been, scenes I remember, locations I have cherished and stored away in my memory for posterity.

 

We were discussing copyright the other day. What makes something copyright? Is it just an original idea? Is it a new technical specification? Is it a chunk of written material, crafted yesterday – or so many years ago – and now appearing in some word-hungry student’s course work, plagiarised word for word with total disregard for the author’s moral right? What if I take a chunk of this and add it to a chunk of that, then add a twist, a turn of my own? Is that plagiarism or is it a fresh new piece of original thought – ‘all my own work’? What percentage must be new? Can I take 50%, 70%, 95% of the old, provided I can just find a missing ingredient to transform it? Is this what newness consists of nowadays? Have all the old original thoughts been taken?

If I take the broken fragments of a thousand original utterances and place them together as a freshly crafted mosaic is this newness of thought? Is this a new creation – a mini ‘big bang’ produced with the aid of the ‘god particle’? A favourite quotation of mine seems to cover the case: twentieth century novelist, Virginia Woolf, wrote that: “truth is only to be had by laying together many varieties of error”*. ‘The truth’ – that surely would be a novel discovery! After all our searchings, all our posturing, all our pride and prejudice, if one were to discover the truth in a mosaic of broken fragments of error, how original would that be? No case for plagiarism here. The whole truth has escaped us all thus far and would be singled out by its total originality.

 

In the meantime, in the absence of such an awesome discovery, I will enjoy the last sips of my London Pride and continue to savour this glorious look-alike scene before me. Who cares if it is totally original? Actually, I would love to see a grizzly... Maybe life can be viewed as a kind of collage these days, a fresh compilation of numerous assorted pieces, collated in a variety of new and original ways? After all, my blog, in its turn, is informed by selected fragments of an inaccurately remembered and casually reported radio chat show the other morning, plus a few 'original' thoughts of my own! Nothing new there, except my own thoughts on the subject. Or is there?

 

*Virginal Woolf, A Room of One’s Own, pub. 1929

Solar Paradox

Another Thursday evening and time for my regular Writers Forum session. What will be the theme this time? A while ago we wrote on the topical theme of 'The Sun' . It is always topical - either not enough of it or too much. The summer came late this year, accompanied by justifiable complaints. Then the sunshine arrived in full force. There was possibly too much for some of us.There were people dying this summer, deaths induced by the destructive power of the sun. We were urged to keep cool, drink fluids, use sun cream, wear hats. All very necessary advice. Yet, paradoxically, without the life-giving power of this same sun our planet will expire. We were given keywords and concepts to include in our writing. We let our imaginations run riot...
 

I am encouraged! There is energy, life, a source of life for the whole planet. I need energy. There is a creative process that is ongoing through the year’s cycle. Each part of the cycle is a part of this life-giving productivity. Even the dark, dormant days are a part of that silent, energetic process where life stirs beneath the ground even though it is unseen. When it bursts forth there is colour – golden, yellow, white hot colour. Solar flares blind me. I am dazzled by the exuberance and the life-giving energy of this star.

 

 

The sun is at the centre of all. It is life engendering, heart-warming, encouraging, protective, almost caring. It is generous, outgoing and exuberant. I am comforted by its warmth.

 

 

But wait! It is a fireball. It dazzles, glows, burns and destroys. It is on the move, out of control even. It can be dangerous and I am halted in my tracks, my enthusiasm waning.

 

 

The sun is a moving fire. It turns. It is at the centre of our universe. But I am glad it is a star. It threatens to destroy. It appears out of control, but it is a star, ordered in a scientific universe, a servant of the cosmic cycles of the heavens. In my mind there is a sense of coolness and order induced by that word ‘star’. It comforts my fears. We are under control again. We can breathe again. This burning, radiating, pulsating mass of fireball is not tame, no, not tame, but it is ordered. There is a cycle. There are equinoxes – places of balance, places of harmony. I have respect for this sun. There is benign, warm, yellow sunshine. There is red, there is white hot fire. Shining, dazzling, blinding, destroying. It is written in the stars. I must have respect for this sun.

 

 

And when the sun is gone, marginalised by rain and winter chills, grey skies overhead and crisp whiteness beneath my feet, I will remember this fireball with affection and longing. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. As with the seasons of romance, the seasons of nature are like this. We forget so soon and long for more.

Visiting Time

The living room of our tiny cottage is festooned with washing. The washing machine has been busy and the rain has so far prevented it from drying. A few soft building blocks lie abandoned in the corner. The travel cot upstairs is packed up and waiting to be returned to the kind parent who loaned it to us. The house seems strangely silent.

 

Visiting time is over. It was exciting, intensive, busy and surprisingly short. Now all our visitors are gone and the house returns to its peaceful, but rather predictable routine. Living in one of the U.K.’s best-kept-secret scenic locations, we are used to seeing a few visitors. The village where we live is busy with campers and caravanners, swelling the numbers in the village shop and making the weekend road traffic totals soar. It’s summer and we are no longer alone in our rural paradise. Down the road, the nearby seaside town bustles with life; the fish and chip shop is doing a good trade and the car parks are almost full. This is not a place for peak tourism but there’s quite an increase in numbers here even so and a sense of excitement in the air.

 

As for us, our duty is done. Our guests have been fed and watered. The new bed settee has been pronounced a comfortable success (thank goodness for that!) and has justified the not inconsiderable expenditure to acquire it. The baby has slept at least for part of the long nights in its colourful travel cot. Dozens of meals have been consumed and the freezer needs a refill. Alone at home, we are experiencing a mix of emotions: a sense of achievement because our organising skills have been sufficient to ensure the happiness of our holidaymaking family, a certain amount of pride that we have achieved another successful stint of tour guide activity and  holiday information service, and a sense of relief that we no longer have to tiptoe round the house, avoiding creaky floorboards, using shaver and hairdryer downstairs to avoid waking the baby and spending long car journeys in silence for the benefit of the tiny tot sleeping in the baby carrier on the back seat. No more games now of peek-a-boo; no more ‘changing time at Buckingham Palace; Christopher Robin went down with Alice’ (thank goodness it wasn’t measles!); no more of those silly games and nonsensical rubbish with which we entertain babies.

 

Our ‘duty’ was a pleasant one and now we are left with a feeling of loss and we wonder what we should do next. Strange how all the tasks and hobbies of past weeks suddenly pale into insignificance in comparison to the infinitely more worthwhile pastime of spending valuable time with loved ones. Isn’t that good? It is with a pleasant sense of loss that we realise that our family has once again brought us joy. Can loss be pleasant? Well, yes. In the same way that the permanent loss of a loved family member brings first grief and then mellows eventually into pleasant remembrance, these small temporary losses bring both grief and pleasure.

 

Thank you family for the joy you brought us, for the business, fun and sense of purpose. And thank you too for the pleasant remembrances that will last us hopefully through the winter months until it is visiting time again. Please come again.

 

 

To buy a fat pig

A hot day in August and I'm still enjoying the sights and sounds of my new environment. The weekly market always provides a bit of local colour and plenty to meditate on...

 

A few persistent stallholders remain. The rest of the stalls are packed up on trucks, the last vestiges of another successful market day piled into the back and the doors slammed shut. “Strawberries, 3 for 2 quid” yells the desperate man on the greengrocery stall. The day has turned warm and sultry. The produce has been standing in the hot sun for hours now and nothing left will survive – best to sell it now at any price.

 

A woman walks past me with a laden shopping bag -  bag for life – and a broom. She is hot and dishevelled but her day’s shopping is done and she is ready to go home for a well-deserved pot of tea. A few women in pretty cotton dresses still linger around the remaining stalls, looking for bargains and enjoying the last of a fine day out. Market day! An old-fashioned mid-week treat. Half past two on this warm afternoon. The clock chimes prettily on the old clock tower in market square as it has done for centuries. The town relaxes again after another busy day and the stall holders count their takings, swelled by the crowds of eager tourists at this time of year.

 

The scene is reminiscent of a Hardy novel. Women drag heavy shopping bags; men loiter on the hot, dusty pavement outside the White Lion, trying to quench their thirst after the exertions of the day. Only the livestock are missing from this familiar scene.

 

“To market, to market, to buy a fat pig...” No pigs on offer today except ready sliced and packaged on the butcher’s stall. But the market stall reflects the ongoing commerce which is still at the heart of this noisy market town – the buying and selling of fresh fruit and vegetables, meat, organic produce and household necessities, from new watch straps to garden twine. No fat pigs but plenty to eat. It seems that every alternate establishment along the busy High Street is offering something to eat or drink. Every cafe table is full, the occupants sitting over their beef stew, fanning themselves in the heat or seeking a spot of shade in the garden of the public house.

 

“Home again, home again, jiggety gig” goes the rhyme. The wheels turn and it will soon be Wednesday again: time to relive yet another market day in the life cycle of this friendly, easy-going community. For now, everyone is content to go home, the stallholders to gather up their belongings, stack their trestle tables, empty pallets and leftover stock and the shoppers to take their produce home, fill their larders and gloat over the pennies they saved once again. Everyone is happy. The stallholders know they got a good price and the shoppers are equally certain of their good fortune. Win-win.

 

And the pig? The pig slips greasily through the crowd to escape for another week, unscathed. It was not always so lucky in times past.

 

Home Alone

Retirement has crept up on us, unnoticed in the busy days and months of relocation. We have become used to our strange new rhythm of life, conducted in harmony, together, one smoothly oiled unit again.

Today is different. Parted for once, to follow diverse pursuits – he to explore the new world of outdoor painting with a newly discovered group of kindred spirits and me at home, armed with pastry, a rolling pin and the best of local Welsh ingredients to try my hand at home baking in my new Welsh kitchen.

The hub of the home! That’s what the kitchen has again become in many people’s minds. A 21^st century ‘back to the country’ phenomenon, reinventing what, for centuries past, has been normal, traditional and so ordinary as not to be noticed. Now, however, it is all the rage.

 

The cottage seems empty today. I saunter about, enjoying my new little ‘kingdom’ – queendom, perhaps. I can do what I please today. Hard to get used to after days, weeks, months with a newly retired husband. I can do nothing... or I can do anything I want to. But I have been shopping in readiness for this day, buying fresh peppers, cheese, mushrooms; I have extracted meat from the freezer, prepared my ground well. So my course is set. It is a strange choice, maybe – a day of baking in the kitchen: in traditional ‘women’s territory’! But it’s my choice and I am relishing the luxury of an uninterrupted day with time to ‘get on’. Today I am safe to be left at home alone; next time, maybe, who knows? I may get up to mischief...

The Gannet

The bird falls out of the heavens, gleaming white, down, down, plummeting into the deep blue ocean, free falling, no parachute, white on blue. Smack, it hits the water, takes a moment’s rest, then up, up again. It soars into the clear, blue sky, a lonely gannet, all alone in the forefront of my view.

 

In the distance a misty haze hovers around the hummocky mountain ridge on the other side of this huge, blue bay. The foreground is in sharp focus, the distant hills less certain, an air of mystery and fathomlessness shrouding them and stealing my attention.

 

The clear, blue sea and my gleaming white gannet are fascinating. They arrest me and hold my attention for some time, as I gaze wonderingly at the spectacle in front of me. A vast expanse of endless blue and a plunging speck of white energy – dazzling white and brilliant blue – take up the foreground. But the mountains are something else. Their misty quality is tantalising, intoxicating and atmospheric. They hold my gaze and fill me with a sense of speculation – what are they?

 

What sheep graze on their grassy hillsides and rocky crags? What whitewashed cottages nestle in their folds? Who lives there and how do they exist in such a remote spot? What streams course down these steep hillsides and trickle unceasingly into brown, bubbling waterways in the valleys? What is unknown and unseen is more captivating, then, for me than what is bright, obvious and initially in my vision. Life’s mysteries have a greater power to capture my mind than her more obvious gifts, it seems. What would be left of life without that innate sense of wonder and curiosity?