Meandering Along

I'm not really a great one for discipline. I'm not a great fan of meticulous detail. I'm good at starting things and not very good at finishing them. I can play the piano but my sight-reading lets me down. The treble clef is fine; the bass clef starts OK but once the notes fall off the bottom of the stave and there are too many little lines added to their stems I get lost.  I love to express colour on the page but never really applied myself to drawing. "Could do better" found its way onto too many of my school reports. I don't know why. I guess I discovered motivation a little late in life.
 

I am trying to reform. It may be too late now to alter the habits of a lifetime but I try. When the motivation is there it makes all the difference. I have a small keyboard in the living room of our tiny cottage. It tucks in against the wall at the foot of the stairs and threatens to trip me up when I go downstairs to the bathroom in the middle of the night. But I am determined; I will make good. No longer am I guilty of neglecting my practice times as in my youth. I am trying painstakingly to master my sight-reading. Over the years I have come to love jazz; it has an endearing propensity to disobey the rules, although perhaps it is merely that it is directed by an unseen sense of order that I am unfamiliar with. Do I play jazz? No. Jazz is another world for me. My ear is classically trained and I do not understand the rhythms and melody lines of jazz, although I love them. I cannot predict it so I am forced to rely solely on my sight-reading ability. Now I have a book of elementary jazz pieces and I am stumbling through it, but it's tricksy. I am on a steep learning curve. Nevertheless, I am trying to re-educate myself.

As I said, I am not a lover of discipline. Straight, practical lines of thought, the most efficient way to progress from A to B, are not for me. I love to meander. Sitting here on this beautiful April afternoon, on the terrace of the Plas Tan y Bwlch, I am entranced by the wide, exaggerated meanders of the river below me in the Vale of Maentwrog. The view is enhanced by a magnificent spread of crimson Himalayan tree rhododendrons, somewhat curtailed by recent damage, but nevertheless spectacular. Sheep are grazing in the water meadows, the first swallows are pursuing their bat-like flight in the blue heavens and a hawk is mewing persistently overhead. Only the constant stream of traffic on the main road below disturbs the sense of tranquillity and idleness, but it is thankfully hidden from sight behind the terrace parapet. The scene before me is arresting but it is the river's course which touches a chord deep within and with which I feel a deep empathy.

The river, like me, has been subject to discipline in its time. The information leaflet tells me that William Oakeley, whose family owned the Plas and most of the landscape stretched out before me, was responsible in Victorian times for taming this errant river, curbing its indolent spread across the agricultural land of its flood plains and building small embankments on either side to wall it in. The embankments are still in place today. Oakeley, it seems, was an innovative and ambitious landowner. Not content with his early achievements, he is also credited with changing the river Dwyryd's course and creating, as a result, these attractive and deliberate curves as the river ambles across the Vale at a gentle pace. Perhaps all discipline is not so odious after all, but still I feel myself strangely drawn to the unrushed and lackadaisical meanderings of this pretty river; we are two of a kind.

  

Plas Tan y Bwlch, Maentwrog, N. Wales

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

I believe very strongly in the principle of carpe diem or seize the day! My daughter and grandson have just been to visit and we had a great time. Not much domestic got done in those ten days. Oscar was having too much fun, playing on his first ever roundabout, putting Mr. Zebedee back to bed in his jack-in-a-box and letting the sand slip between his fingers on his first ever beach. Now the ironing is threatening to escape from the cupboard where I keep it imprisoned; there is a thick layer of dust over everything which is shown up right now by the glorious sunshine that keeps streaming in through the windows; the freezer is quite empty; I have writing to do; there are vegetables to plant out in the garden and ...

 

However! That glorious sunshine keeps on streaming in and spring has arrived! The local caravan parks are full of people ready for the Easter weekend that is approaching fast and the birds are singing in the treetops. A few lines of a much-loved poem keep turning over and over in my mind and I'm lost! Who cares about the housework? Who cares about the vegetables?

 

'Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough

And stands about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide'.

 

That got me thinking. All the cherry trees round here are pink, not white! Is this another variety? A.E. Houseman* seemed quite sure his were white, but he lived in Shropshire - perhaps that's different.

 

'And since to look at things in bloom

Fifty springs are little room,

About the woodlands I will go

To see the cherry hung with snow.'

 

There he goes again - ours are hung with 'cherry pink', not snow. And Houseman seems to think he has fifty springs left to go out and see them; I'm not too sure I have that many left, so all the more reason to go.

 

All in all, I seemed to have plenty of excuse to leave the housework behind today and saunter out up a country lane in search of the cherry trees, which is just what I did this morning, not that I found a white cherry tree anywhere, but plenty of other compensations! Imagine a country lane, with neat green hedges, covered in fresh, new, bright spring growth, lambs bleating beside their mothers in the fields, chaffinches and robins singing in the trees and all along the hedgerows a procession of yellow celandine, pale yellow primroses, white, starry stitchwort, golden dandelions and a scattering of bluebells and red campion - too early really, but there nevertheless! Bliss! So, yet again, I'm leaving this achievement-orientated world behind in favour of the natural world which somehow calls to me time and time again and tempts me outside to revel in it. It's now the cherry tree is hung with bloom - next week won't do. Carpe Diem!

 

 

*A.E. Houseman, A Shropshire Lad

 

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.

 

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

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?

The Mixed Border

What could be better than a glorious summer’s day in June? This year you have to make full use of them when they turn up! Add in birdsong, a freshly mown, green velvet croquet lawn in a walled garden of mellow, red brick and a mixed border. That’s even better! I am a lover of mixed borders.

 

Over in the corner a man in a striped T shirt is bent over one of the tall plants, doing what he knows needs doing. He is healthy-looking, wiry and tanned. He is accustomed to the outdoor life and he just knows what to do. He is an expert. You can see it by the results. Now he kneels on the grass, gently pruning off the dead leaves of a magnificent yellow lupin. At this stage in the summer the carefully spaced array of yellow lupins are the most striking plants on display. I love lupins. These are the colour of natural sea lupins but they are prolific, their tall stems overflowing in a profusion of pale yellow blooms, their graceful green fronds shimmering slightly in the tiniest of breezes.

 

I am fascinated by mixed borders and the skill and patience of the wise old gardeners who design them, poring over seed catalogues in winter, researching, planning, propagating, ordering, planting seeds, thinning seedlings, protecting from frost, planting out, watering, feeding, nurturing and just waiting, full of wisdom and patience. Then, somehow, right on schedule, old plants are rejuvenated, clumps of last year’s dead wood yield bright new shoots, new seedlings appear and everything grows, develops, reaches up for the light, blossoms and then, hey presto, as if by magic, a garden appears. The tallest plants are at the back, tiniest plants at the front – all in order: bright, eye-catching daisies, tall clumps of delphiniums, bluer than blue, countless varieties of delicate species of geranium, miniature irises, purple-headed aquilegias, drifts of yellow, nodding poppies and pansies in tiny clumps. My garden does not look like this.

 

How do they do that? The roses, clinging to the wall, spread their graceful foliage along the warm, red brickwork and shower yellow rose petals on the earth beneath them. The gardener advances down the row of lupins, slips a pair of well-worn secateurs into his back pocket and stands back to admire his work. A lucky man! Thrice-blessed with wisdom, patience and this glorious garden! I am grateful for his gifts and happy on this wonderful June day to share with him the magnificent outcome of his superior talents.

 

Powys Castle, Wales

A landscape unspoilt by human intervention...

 

 

 

A sedge warbler chatters in the reeds, hard to spot but distinctive, insistent, bringing me to attention. Beyond the river bank a hawk glides over the water meadows, swooping, gliding, alighting on an old fence post, just out of reach. A ewe baas in the distant fields, calling to her lamb, drawing it back closer to her. I sit, back against the river dyke, sheltered from the wind, in the warm embrace of mountains that enfold me on three sides, their circle broken only where the river meanders down to the sea, past sheep. cattle and reedbeds with their tall, white stems held erect over the flat landscape.

 

Below me, on the bank, a butterfly lands, spreads its wings for an instant, moves on, joined by a second - orange, black, delicately outlined. A tortoiseshell, red admiral, painted lady? No, none of these. Just another of the countless varieties, defying labels, confusing to identify but delighting me with its vibrant colour and intricate patterns. All around me, it is colour that lights up this magical landscape: turquoise sky, pale green hills, golden yellow furze bushes, brown tufts of meadow grass, blending together in a rich harmony, a natural symphony of light and shade. The hillsides are illuminated or darkened by a succession of shapes, patterns traced across them by the steady onward march of the clouds above, always changing, never still.

 

In the distance I hear the sound of the steam train, its gentle 'choo ooo', as if in a far off dream, carrying yet another load of contented passengers down, down from the green mountain to the glistening, blue sea.

 

Far away, on the other side of the fields, a solitary white car glitters in the sunshine as it makes its way slowly along the road that is now visible, now hidden, behind the screen of hedging towards  a cluster of houses and farm buildings - the only clear sign in this whole panorama of the existence of the human species. Apart from the chattering of the birds, the sound of distant sheep and the sighing of the wind, it is a silent world, a far cry from the city that I am used to. No concrete, no glass, no metal, only earth, water and vegetable matter, soft, green and natural, the way Mother Earth intended. No human intervention, nothing to spoil it - except me...

 

Beam me up, Scottie

11.30 a.m. Sunday morning. I am sitting in a big, brown leather armchair in a hotel lounge with my husband and a pot of rich dark coffee by my side. It's raining, I'm tired and this is the best morning's relaxation I can think of. The Sunday papers were not delivered to the hotel this morning, I heard. It's a remote spot. But the view from the hotel lounge is a panorama of green and brown, a soft, moist, misty, majestic landscape - mountains and lake - Snowdonia's best.

 

This is home now. It's hard to make that sink in. I've never lived in the mountains before. But this is my home. I've been transported, I think - beamed up! I've gone boldly, where I at least have never gone before. From the flatlands of northern Europe I have travelled, been moved on flawlessly, seamlessly, from my old life to this new one - a magic conjuring trick, performed while I was sleeping. In fact, it has been nearly five months since I slept in my big pine bed in my Netherlands home. Such a lot has been accomplished since then: cleaning, packing up, searching for a new home, arriving, cleaning once again and unpacking... But it seems like only yesterday and now the transformation is complete. I am back, like  before, sleeping in my own bed, cooking in my own kitchen, eating off red and while tulip crockery at my big, old, antique pine dining table with the same familiar bumps and scratches etched into the wood, and sleeping once again in my comfy old bed. It's all just the same as before and yet all so totally different.

 

Can this really be me? Can I really be here? Soft, green, misty, moisty mountains - you are my home now.

A Moving Experience

How many people get to write a blog post on the day they are moving house? I have to confess I wasn't expecting to!  But it's a nail-biting time, especially when your removal company have just rung to say they got delayed through traffic in London, drove over night, tried to park outside your new cottage in a tiny village in rural Wales at 1 a.m., got moved on by the police and now have to spend three hours resting until they are legally allowed to drive again! So there will be a small delay in the proceedings...

 

Time enough to write my blog. It's always a moving experience relocating, of course, but this time it has been particularly moving. We arrived here a few days ago, booked into a holiday cottage in the village and wondered what on earth it would be like moving into a small Welsh community as English newcomers. The first thing we noticed is that when people here talk to you they mostly listen to the answers. People look you in the eye, engage you in conversation and seem to really want to communicate. I like that. Life is slower here. I like that too - mostly. So how does the community work? Well, we got the keys to our new home on Tuesday and turned them in the lock full of excitement to see what our tiny cottage would be like without the previous owner's furniture. We're downsizing to come here, so a bit of a squash with all our furniture, but we'll make it work somehow. We're just delighted to be able to call a tiny piece of this beautiful area of the Snowdonia National Park our own. So we'll fit in somehow.

 

First mistake. When we opened the living room door there was a large pine Welsh dresser to greet us. Now, I know this is Wales but I didn't expect a free gift Welsh dresser with every house purchased. We bought a couple of items of furniture and a couple of kitchen appliances from the previous owner but this dresser was definitely not on the list. He offered to sell it to us and we turned him down. He didn't want it - but neither did we. Now what? Furniture arriving in a few days' time. No room for it. How does this sort of thing work here? Should we ring the council to take it away? They'd charge us and it might take weeks. Should we chop it up for firewood? What with? And what would we do with the wood? OK, a secondhand furniture shop then... Only one in the next village. Try that. One visit to the shop, one visit from the owner, a nice white van turns up, no dresser, twenty five quid in the pocket!

 

Time to clean up. Not too bad in the kitchen, but not too good either. Anyway, it's nice to do your own cleaning and know it's really clean and hygienic. So we set to with buckets of nice hot, soapy water. The only problem was that when we emptied out the dirty water down our nice clean sink it ended up in the cupboard below. Whoops! Now what? We fiddled with it and failed to fix it. Where do we find a plumber? Looked for some handy plumber's phone numbers and failed again. Ask the neighbours! Right answer! Next door neighbour told us one of the other neighbours had done a plumbing course. Ask him... So we did. A few hours and ten quid later we were fixed. Could we pay him for his time? No way. Thank you, neighbour! Is this how community works?

 

Our next door neighbour looked at our shed. "The floor's not too good", he pointed out. We knew that. "Needs a new bit of floor and a new joist underneath. I could help with that." Wow! He also let slip that his summer house needed a new roof and the guys were getting together on Sunday to put it on. Sounds like an Amish community project, we thought. So that's how it works... Sunday might be a bit busy for us, having just moved in, but we'll certainly be there to lend a hand if we can. I could get used to this new way of life.

 

Well, that's all for now. I guess our furniture will be here again soon. At least they found us!

Forward Planning

Today I am schizophrenic. It is almost too much. The present... the future... which shall I choose? I am bombarded by sensations. A pleasant cooing draws my attention. My new grandson is gurgling at me. He is learning to reproduce some of the sounds he has been hearing around him for so long. He 'chats' to me - at least I like to think so. I talk to him, just a sentence and then he coos in reply. I smile exaggeratedly and he giggles. His mother loves his giggles so much that she is tempted, against her better judgment, to continue the game until his giggles are overtaken by a hiccup, and then another one. Suddenly he is overcome by a succession of loud hiccuping, his little frame shuddering with the force of those unsolicited little eruptions in his tiny body. It is a shame to make him hiccup, but such fun to hear him giggle!

 

My grandson clutces at my finger. He has a tenacious grip. I gently rub bunny's ears against his soft skin and he responds, leaving go of my finger and reaching for bunny's ears, enjoyin the sensation of softness, much nicer than grandma's crinkly fingers.

 

He is a treasure - a very present treasure. But, all at once, I am fast forwarded, my attention slipping from baby's grasp, my thoughts wandering down country lanes, my ears catching the birdsong and my nose scenting the sea breezes. My new home! Suddenly it is present with me. Only ten days to go until we are catapaulted into the new life we have chosen. My inner eyes rove around my new home, planning colour schemes, placing furniture, mentally unpacking boxes of forgotten things from the store and stowing them neatly in cupboards.

 

Our pictures will be the fnishing touch - the icing on the cake - remining us of former dwelling places, documenting the passage of our lives. Now a third dimension enters - that of the past. We will choose carefully from the boxes, gently unwrapping and matching each one to its own surroundings, its colour scheme and mood. Past, present and future. Multi-tasking. Life is a schizophrenic kaleidoscope - so many memories, sensations, hopes and dreams. It is a rich, heady mix that takes a lifetime to process. I am a wealthy woman - I have a past, a present and a future and the capacity to enjoy them all at once.

Head over Heels

Such a nice expression for being in love, being full of joy, being passionate about something or someone! It was Valentine´s Day the other day and a good time for being head over heels. However, in addition to all that, right now I´m verging on being heart over head - that´s something different. House hunting is a serious business. When you´ve at least semi-retired (isn´t that all any of us do these days?), sold up your house abroad, left your expat life behind and come home, finding a new home is all important. Serious stuff which requires a lot of thought and careful planning and all the wisdom of age...

So what are we doing? Well, it´s a long story. Years of planning went into this. Months of sitting at the computer screen researching locations, researching houses for sale, canvassing family and friends for their valued opinions... and dreaming. Ah, that´s where the plan breaks down. Dreaming gets you into a load of trouble! It´s good to dream. One should never lose that capacity, for idle day-dreaming, passionate longing, pleasant, lingering thoughts of ideal locations, romantic pastimes...

Until the dream threatens to become reality! Maybe not the whole dream - that´s probably more than anyone can ask for in these days of recession, tough love and doing the right thing. But at least a part of the dream - something which touches the heart whilst not wholly satisfying the head´s stringent list of requirements - might be possible!

So that´s how a sweet little bungalow on the west coast of Wales, close to the beach and set admidst green hills (made green by rather too much rain, it´s true), slipped through the practical net and landed there in the middle of all our planning and refused to go away. Unlike all our other favourite internet properties which we saved on the computer for later when our house had been sold, this one stayed there, tantalisingly real, as a tiny possibility for one day fulfilling those dreams. Naughty really, but nice. It´s a bungalow, after all, and within easy walking distance of shops, health centre and train station. There´s a pharmacy nearby and a library (at the moment) and a flat walk along the seafront to keep us healthy and fit, with a tennis court for gentle exercise, so what could be wrong with that? Well, that´s what we tell ourselves. We´re being careful. Well, that´s it for now. I´m wearing my heart on my sleeve, telling you all this, but it´s uppermost in my mind at the moment...

Except for my other dream come true which is already tugging at my heartstrings (what a lot of wonderful expressions the English language has!). My new grandson! I´m no longer a grandma in waiting (see previous blog!) but a hands-on grandma with  four whole days of experience (almost an expert). So I have one dream in the bag now (and it´s a good one) and another one in process. 2013 has been quite a year so far.
 

Perspective

It was blue. It was sparkling blue and idyllically pretty when I sat transfixed, watching it, from my wooden bench beside the water’s edge. I saw the sun reflecting in the shallow waters as they trickled slowly across the yellow beach down to the shining blue expanse of the estuary. I saw it and it was blue like the sea, as it glittered between the brown rocks and the fronds of seaweed and reflected a perfect blue summer’s sky.

I watched the children, playing by the water, perching on the smooth, flat, grey slate that formed a bridge where the water emerged from the hill and out onto the sand. They tramped about in the stream, their sandals wet and muddy, and gathered round the slate bridge for a moment’s rendezvous to decide what to do next.

I got up. I wandered aimlessly along the grassy bank and peered more closely at the stream bed. To my amazement, the blue vanished. Green mossy pebbles mingled with bronzed iron-tinged rocks. Rivulets of gold glistened between the rocks and over the muddy surface beneath. The scene had changed and with it the mood, from summer to autumn, from brisk, bubbling joy to calm serenity. Gone were the dancing, sparkling lights, gleaming on the bluest of blue water. Instead, as I looked down into the stream, I saw mossy green banks and the golden glow of the bronzed stones beneath the calm, unruffled surface. I marvelled at this instantaneous change – not a real change, but a change in perspective, brought about simply by the change in angle, from sitting to walking, from one direction to another. I began to wonder how much of life and our changing mood is a matter of perspective.

Multi-tasking again!

I am sitting beside the Deben estuary. At last summer has arrived and the sun beats down. It is almost too hot, but it would be churlish to say so. The tide is low and the little ribbon of water meanders gently between the mudflats, sparkling in the warm sunshine. Everything in this peaceful, sunwashed landscape is blue-brown, except for the soft green meadows that flank the river on one side and the marshland beneath the dyke on the other. Vision predominates. It is a powerful image and a view I am fond of.

But I have five senses. What of the rest? I lean back against the wooden bench and shut my eyes. A soft, cool breeze is blowing, wafting past me the scents of clover and cow parsley, the salty tang of the sea and the pungent smells of seaweed and mud, exposed by the receding tide. There are the sounds of silence: that special kind of silence that is composed of the absence of unwelcome noise – traffic noise, loud, intrusive conversations, mobile phones, dogs yapping… An aura of calm rests upon the place and I am at peace. As I listen to the ‘silence’, I am arrested by a plethora of sounds: peaceful sounds. An oyster-catcher flies overhead. I hear his soft, but piercing, ‘peep-peep’ in the distance. A lark is soaring, high above me, singing for joy – or so it seems. It is a beautiful, beautiful morning, so I can understand why. There is aeroplane noise in the far distance and somewhere, far across the estuary, a dog barks. There are footsteps along the dyke behind me and snatches of quiet, leisurely conversation. But nothing to disturb the peace.

The breeze caresses my skin. It is pleasantly cooling, perfectly matched with the comforting warmth of the hot sun. Now I am the ideal temperature and when I return home at the end of the day I know that I shall be pleasantly aware of a healthy glow, a sense of well-being and a soft tan to my skin. The weather is kind to me and I appreciate its gentle touch. I lick my lips and enjoy the salty tang. But I am thirsty. I pick up my water bottle and let the cool, refreshing liquid trickle slowly down my parched throat. It feels good.

Sight, sound, touch, taste and smell. Even on my day off, I am doing it again – multi-tasking!

On Location

I have always been the kind of person who falls in love - with places as well as people. To me, places have personalities. They evoke atmospheres. They get under my skin. Places are individuals, with their own peculiar characters, idiosyncracies and lovable qualities. Some places are unforgettable and they make me homesick. At a certain time of year which, in my thoughts, is connected with a particular location, a vision of that place will drift into my mind and I hear it calling to me, tempting me to return, to savour it again at just that season, when the almond blossom is out or the roses are in bloom.

On holiday I love to visit local art galleries. There are so many ways of depicting a place that you love. Local artists excel at this. Not all paintings are pictorial representations. Some artists select images or motifs from a well-known place and group them together, realistically or maybe with a dreamlike quality - a lighthouse, a clock tower, a Martello tower, a shop front or pavement cafe or a church spire. A kind of artist's shorthand, expressing the essence of that special place or favourite beauty spot in a way that is often more evocative of atmosphere and mood than can ever be captured in a detailed drawing or photographic image.

Painting 'en plein air', as they say, was all the rage once, catching that special quality of light, the sun glinting on the sea, the wind rustling the leaves. All captured on canvas, preserved for posterity. So with writing: a sense of place, a love affair - painting pictures in words. I came, I saw, I captured... and then again, much later, the best part of all: I remembered. This piece was 'shot on location'!

Holiday Romance

During the summer holiday I fell in love! I got it bad and now, a month later, I am still showing all the danger signs. I can’t stop thinking back to the events of those few short weeks and running it all through my mind. I picture myself walking along the narrow road behind the boatyards, with glimpses of the harbour, on the day it all began and continuing on, never dreaming of what was about to unfold and the happy memories it would leave in its wake.

Before you wonder, I am talking about a place, not a person. My holiday romance occurred during my holiday in Wales this summer. I am still happily married and have not been engaging in flights of fancy or a mid-life crisis! The romantic interlude to which I am referring was indeed a holiday romance and an unexpected one, but it was not what you think.

The road in question led from Porthmadog harbour where we had parked the car, up a steep hill, past cottages and gardens. On the brow of the hill we stopped, wondering if we were wasting our time. There was still no real view of the sea or mountains, as we had been hoping. Maybe we had wasted our efforts and should have tried a different path. On impulse, we stopped a passerby walking her dog and asked her where the road led. It turned out to be one of her favourite walks, leading down to the pretty bay of Borth-y-Gest, only minutes away.

Sure enough, from the top of the hill an idyllic little bay awaited us, complete with wooded hillsides, an array of coloured boats on the sand, a stone harbour wall and, oh joy, a tearoom! I fell in love! The cove opened out onto an enormous vista of sandy estuary and a breathtaking backdrop of misty mountains. All around the cove seaside cottages nestled against the hillside, each of them with a stunning view out over the bay. What a place to live – a small slice of seaside heaven! The smell of seaweed, the scream of gulls and a view to die for right outside your front door.

There is an old Donovan song which I occasionally find myself humming during times of extreme, carefree happiness. It is a simple song, with a gentle melody, and it embedded itself firmly in my mind and heart on the day, back in the ‘70s, when I first heard it. “Happy I am” it begins. “All on the new day… People and flowers, Are one and the same” (a burst of subtle ‘flower power’ lyrics!)…”All in a chain, At the beginning of a new world.“ “Someone’s singing and I think it’s me” it goes on, “Someone’s singing and, oh gosh, it’s me!” There are many times in life when you anticipate happiness in the future: ‘I am so looking forward to our night out – I shall be very happy’ or reminisce about happy times in the past: ‘It was so wonderful being there’. But the times when we are conscious of being happy in the present are few and far between. We are less adept at stopping the clock in a moment of happiness and reflecting on it, it seems. But it happens. For me, our time in Borth-y-Gest was one of those rare times when I found myself humming Donovan’s tune and only a song of the heart, Donovan style, can record it:


Song for Borth-y-Gest

Smooth as can be
Slatey-grey rock,
Green-browney-green
Velvety moss.

Yellow bright flowers,
Hummocky hill,
Clover and plantain
Grow where they will.

Shoreline below
A vista of mud,
Gold-coloured lichen
And rock pools in flood.

Wait for the tide
Like the boats on the sand.
Tide’s in no hurry,
Got nothing planned.

Find myself humming;
A song’s in the air.
Find myself whisper
A thankfulness prayer.


The best thing about a holiday romance is the way it stays with you, lighting up those dark corners and turning up unexpectedly in your thoughts, allowing a smile to form on your lips, a lightness in your step and a moment of joy to brighten up your day before it fades away into the mists of time. Love is like that.

Retreat!

It’s been a while since I blogged! If you want to know why, read my profile! It says I’m a “quiet, reflective thinker and writer… lover of sunshine, colour, flowers, countryside, the sea, holidays, family and friends, beautiful things, the great outdoors...”

It’s in my genes – I’m an escape artist! Every now and then I have to get away and escape to my natural habitat. What’s that? Well, look closely at my profile photo! Everyone has a natural habitat and for me it’s the big outdoors – the sea, with rocks to clamber on, the cliffs and the sound of screeching gulls, winding country lanes and bubbling streams… I found a lot of those things these last few weeks.

When I escape I revert to type! I’m a peace-loving person. I’m slow; I can’t be hurried. I’m a meandering stream; I never go anywhere without making detours. And I’m not contactable except in emergencies. Infuriating! But if you want to escape you have to do it properly. We have Wi-Fi at home. It’s very useful, both for us and for our guests. We have a cordless phone too. But when I escape the range is far too small to reach either of them where I left them – at home!

I wrote a lot on my holiday – a way of maximising my enjoyment of what I observe. I live it and I relive it and I take it home with me along with my photos. I love nature and I love people-watching. I hate crowds but my ideal habitat is never totally deserted. I need company. ‘Holiday Snippets’ records my enjoyment of that habitat and my appreciation (mostly) of that company:


A couple of Holiday Snippets!

1. When you just have to get away!

One of the things I crave more than anything else on holiday is peace and quiet. A beach, a few fishing boats or a view of he mountains plus a quiet spot to sit is bliss. Add to that a peaceful tea room with a terrace overlooking it all and I’m in heaven! Today we found all of that! We were just settling down contentedly to choose what we wanted from the menu and congratulating ourselves on our find when the trouble started…

We were on a tiny terrace with only a few tables and in the front row with nothing to block our view. What could possibly go wrong? And then she started! “I’m just down by the beach” she yelled. “I just had to get away” she said. “You know how it is when you just have to get away – I just had to be by the sea.” Not for the peace and quiet, I thought. I knew instinctively that she was on the phone. No-one yells that loud at the person sitting next to them. What is it about mobile phones that make people shout? Perhaps it would only be a quick call and peace would be restored soon, I thought. No chance! “I just had to be by the sea” she said again. Me too, I thought. “I just had to get away.”

By this time getting away was looking like the only solution. We shifted restlessly and discussed our options. Finally, we got to our feet, gathered our belongings and decided to admit defeat. “I’m just going” said the voice behind us. “Really – don’t go. I’m very sorry.” Now I was really embarrassed. Had she heard us? “I’m sorry” I said. “It’s our fault. We’re just a bit hyped at the moment and needed some peace.” She brushed my apology away and repeated her own. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be so loud.” In the end we decided between us to blame mobile phones and parted on amicable terms, she to her seaside quest (with mobile phone) and we to our peace and quiet (without one).


2. Dietary delicacies

Eavesdropping again – I just can’t help it! Sat in the same picturesque little café overlooking an idyllic seaside cove and munching my tuna melt baguette, I overheard the order on the neighbouring table. A large woman sat close by, perusing the menu, whilst the waitress waited patiently, notepad at the ready. She chose with care: “scones, jam, cream, hot chocolate with whipped cream, no, maybe with the marshmallows, no cream… well, alright then, with both… and” (as an afterthought) “oh, and a diet coke.”

We looked at each other silently, smirking, and looked away again quickly in case the helpless giggles that were developing should break out and embarrass us all. A diet coke after all that? Why bother?!

Garden of the Senses

Nine o’clock. I sit in my garden, sipping a cup of tea (so English!) and savouring the results of the past weekend’s gardening achievements. The bushes and shrubs we have shaped and trimmed wave softly in the breeze. The sun shines through them, making delightful patterns of sun and shade on the freshly swept stones of the patio. A soft breeze moves through the branches of the lilac, setting up a gentle motion across the garden, not restless but a calming influence, a restful movement, beckoning me on to contemplation and enjoyment of this moment before work begins.

Fronds of honeysuckle break free from the archway where we have tried to entwine them, defying our attempts at neatness. A blackbird flies low across the garden, settles in the bird bath and flutters in the shallow water, preening itself and splashing until, satisfied with its ablutions, it flies up into the lilac tree and perches there, shaking the glistening drops of water from its wings. A painted lady drifts across the foliage and busy bees dart here and there, their work already begun.

Soft pink petals quiver and fall to the ground as the gentle breeze moves softly through them. I watch the star-shaped patterns of the oleander leaves, dark on white, against the sunlit, painted wooden shed, subtly rearranging themselves as the wind ripples the leaves. The jasmine shifts in the breeze and releases a waft of its heady perfume. And I realise that this movement: sometimes fierce, sometimes gentle like today, is an integral part of the garden, scattering showers of leaves and petals, spoiling the tidying we have done, but a part of the garden’s glory. It’s alive.

All my life I’ve had a love affair with colour. The rich red and soft pink of the roses; the bright spurs of purple lavender, standing up straight and reaching for the warm sunshine; the bright pinks and oranges of the nemesias and the creamy white of the pyracanthus blossom. As the wind blows, the hydrangea scatters clouds of yellow pollen everywhere. All these things have delighted me. After the grey Dutch winter, the world comes alive for me when the sun shines, the temperature rises and the landscape is suddenly drenched with colour.

But today it is the movement that touches me. The stirrings of the leaves in response to this gentle wind, which one is rarely without in this land of wind. Even here, in my sheltered garden, the wind creeps in, over the wall, over the fences, through the gaps in the foliage and it creates this green well of life – not static or stagnant, but alive, acting and reacting, changing, impressing itself on me, catching my attention.

I get up and wander slowly through the garden, stopping to admire the beauty. I run my fingers through the leaves of the thyme, sage and rosemary, so that each releases its own special aroma, and turn to identify the source of the sudden blasts of perfume from honeysuckle and jasmine. I reach up and bury my nose in roses climbing high on the pergola, inhaling their gorgeous scent, and I gaze up into the clear blue sky.

In the background, I hear other noises. A neighbour is vacuuming, with the back door open to enjoy this lovely morning. A murmuring of voices in the distance seeps into my consciousness and a school party, maybe on a trip out, herded along the pavement by watchful teachers; then sounds of traffic from afar. They disturb me, these sounds, here in my peaceful garden, but they remind me that the rest of the world is alive too. Without them I would be alone. Their noises mingle with the garden sounds – the cheeping of baby birds from next door’s fir tree, the buzzing of insects, the rustle of leaves. The world is alive in so many, many ways and I am here, with all my senses, to taste and enjoy it.


*title inspired by a visit to the ‘Jardin des Cinq Sens’ in Yvoire, France.

April in Majorca

The door bangs. I wake with a jolt. I lie still in the darkness, rigid between the faintly damp sheets, staring at the pattern of light filtering through the wooden shutters and disturbed by the gleam of light under the door from the hotel landing. Noisy neighbours; an ill-fitting door – typical hotel stuff! Each time they shut the door there is a loud scraping noise. The whole floor must be able to hear it. They seem to need to open and shut it a lot. It seems to go on for hours. In between I drift off to sleep, only to be rudely awakened by the next bang. In the end, too stressed for further sleep, I lie there, miserable, stomach tensed, fists clenched, waiting for the next one. These things always loom so large during the night hours. Later my habitual anxiety problems escalate into full-blown gastritis, spoiling the holiday and requiring a Spanish doctor to be called out on her bank holiday weekend. But for the moment it is just one of those holiday hazards.

In the morning, after our eventful night, the hotel receptionist promises to send a ‘technician’ to look at the offending door. He looks, but it cannot be fixed! However, we set about planning our day. Our holiday weather started well. We enjoyed two whole days of sunshine – almost as warm as the heat wave we left behind in northern Europe (!), but with a chill wind that leaves you never sure what to wear, what to take, and staggering out each morning with a bag packed with alternatives to cover all eventualities. Just like home!

After two days of sunshine, the hotel desk admits, after persistent questioning, that the weather doesn’t look good today. That can’t be fixed either. We pile on layers of the thin summer clothes we brought with us and shiver in the wind and misty rain. As usual, Spain is ill-prepared for bad weather and so are we. There are heating controls in the hotel bedroom and we eagerly fiddle with them, hoping to gain some temporary relief from the damp and cold. But however many knobs and levers we press the temperature remains the same. In summer it works fine as air conditioning but apparently there is no need for heating the rest of the year.

At breakfast the hotel’s beachside terrace, with breathtaking views, is again available to us. In the warm sunshine it is magical. But now? Inside the hotel the tables are also laid up for breakfast but the doors onto the terrace are wide open as usual and a gale blows in. In the evening it is the same: scantily clad diners attempt to enjoy the romantic setting in this stunning waterfront restaurant in temperatures that at home would call for winter clothes and central heating! Viva España!

Majorca does not disappoint. The island never does – only the weather and the broken infrastructure of this magical isle are sometimes frustrating. “Es roto! Es España!” one defeated restaurant owner in Southern Spain once told me, in a rather sad display of national shame (“it’s broken – this is Spain!”). I had simply politely mentioned that the toilet seat was broken and the door didn’t lock.

But the sea is still sparkling in a variety of shades of turquoise, the palest of greens, aqua-marine and indigo – all of them so totally unbelievable and yet so totally true! The olive groves are such a wonderful shade of grey-green, so twisted and gnarled, so ancient and so gloriously restful! The orange and lemon trees are still laden with both fruit and blossom! The air is filled with a hundred-and-one exquisite aromas and the mountains are alive with the sound of twittering birdsong. Who could ask for more?

‘Un Hiver à Majorque’ (A Winter in Majorca), the famous volume that is now a by-word in tourist Majorca – on sale in all the best bookshops, tells the story, not of a tourist paradise, but of a winter of discontent. In 1838-39 French novelist, George Sand, spent a miserable season in the Carthusian monastery of Valldemossa in the mountains of northern Majorca, together with her then lover, the composer, Chopin, and her children. Although the book describes the scenery, flora and fauna and customs of the island at that time, it centres on the discomfort and deprivations, the cold and the rain, of their disastrous stay there, which exacerbated Chopin’s pre-existing condition of tuberculosis. Ironically, the book has helped to make the island the famous and much-loved tourist destination that it is today.

After repeated visits, frustrating weather, sleepless nights in draughty, damp hotels and broken toilet seats, I understand where they were coming from. But just wait till the sun comes out! Wait till the orange blossom appears. Wait till the swifts start to wheel in the vivid blue sky overhead, high above the bell tower of the monastery of Valldemossa and a soft warm breeze wafts the aroma of the blossom down through the whole valley. A deep sense of joy and well-being floods through even the most discontented traveller, wiping out, almost without trace, all thoughts of sleepless nights and winter chills. Nothing matters any more. ‘Summer in Majorca’! What a different book that might have been!

'Interlude '- time for a bit of romantic nonsense...

Do you ever get to the stage where life is just a bit too much? Time to escape, to recharge: time for indulging in a bit of relaxation and for hiding yourself away from the busy, busy world where no-one can find you! 'Interlude' was written about one of my favourite places...


Dapple soft sunshine
Filter through the leaves,
Glisten on the water
Where the fishes weave.

Willow fronds cascading,
Gentle in the breeze,
Hide me where I lay
So quiet beneath the trees.

Bubbles in the water,
Fishes in the deep,
Glide between the lily pads
Where the bullfrogs leap.

Where the water ripples
On a summer’s day,
By its soft reflections
I will gladly stay.

Watching, waiting, dreaming
Where the willows weep,
By the sparkling river
Let me softly sleep.

Solitude, sweet peace at last,
Here I take my place,
Where the willows hide me
In their fond embrace.

Rest awhile and ponder,
Find new strength to face
All that life demands once more
In the human race.