Nostalgia Tour

“Daddy, ple...ase don’t mow the daisies!” As a child I loved flowers. I loved nature. I loved anything beautiful. I would get myself up on summer nights after I had been put to bed and climb up on the windowsill, staring out, spellbound at the fiery, crimson and yellow, pollution-induced colours of the sunset above the local reservoir at the bottom of our road. I loved the bright, tall gladioli that grew against the wall in our garden and the tall wigwams of runner beans with their scarlet flowers that my father grew. Looking back, beauty of all kinds was of paramount importance to me, and especially colour.

 

Yesterday we went on a nostalgia tour: on a trip back in time to the country town where my husband was born. He pointed out the stream where he had played as a child, repeated stories of the hop fields through which he had walked on his way to school, pointed out the road where his junior school was and showed me, with a mix of pride and regret, the prestigious school whose entrance examination he had failed years ago. We walked together past black and white half-timbered buildings, a relic of the past still present in the busy modern-day shopping centre, past little rows of Georgian houses, tucked away down side turnings, past the old green, the castle and the river, recalling his childhood. The town nestled amongst green fields, country houses and picturesque oast houses. It was a very different childhood to mine. “You can see why I grew up the way I did, can’t you?” he said. It explained his abiding love for the countryside.

 

It didn’t explain mine. Brought up in a fairly ordinary London suburb, the most beautiful thing I remember in my past was the sunsets and they were probably the product of the dirty smoke belched from factory chimneys, the fumes from the already growing traffic problem and the coal fires that were lit every night by thousands of Londoners, in the days before smokeless fuel. But looking back, I remember the daisies on the lawn and my sorrow each time my father got the lawnmower out of the garage and brought their short, beautiful lives to a premature end. I remember the vivid pink cherry blossom in the front garden and my horror when the tree had to be cut down because its roots were undermining the garden wall. I remember the huge clump of brown daisies growing beside the garage door, permanently surrounded by a cloud of buzzing bees. I remember the tall green poplars that grew on the other side of the railings around the tarmacked playground of our junior school.

 

Despite my urban upbringing, I was an admirer of beauty and a lover of nature. Where did these longings come from? I have no idea. But they are as strong in me today as in my husband. I never played beside a stream as a child. I never walked through hop fields. My early environment was full of city streets, shops, gasometers and blocks of flats. Nowadays I shun most of this and head for countryside and the sea. My mother was a country girl, from a rural Somerset village. Maybe these family memories are buried deep in my genes and I am simply a product of my inheritance, not my upbringing. How do these things work? I don’t know. But I seem to have a peculiar, nostalgic connection with a past existence that never happened to me.

‘Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.’

It isn’t only John Lennon who has this experience. My sweet little bungalow beside the sea was what I was planning for. We had a price agreed. We went window shopping for carpets, wardrobes, kitchen appliances and the rest. It was fun. We planned the rooms, measured up for the furniture, thought about central heating, bathroom fitments and a wood-burning fire for the cosy little sitting room and planned our colour schemes...

 

Then came the survey. Of course we knew there were some issues. We had noticed a number of things that needed refurbishment and improvement. We had budgeted for them and achieved a good price settlement with the vendors. But then came the surveyor’s report: that was what happened to us while we were busy with our plans! Suddenly the price we had agreed seemed like less of a bargain. But we refused to give up. We fought tooth and nail to keep our bungalow. We drove up there, three hours up the motorway, three hours across less easy terrain. We booked into a holiday cottage. We organised tradesmen: builders, central heating engineers, woodworm specialists and electricians and we got estimates. We added up the figures. We spoke to the estate agent. We sent messages back and forth to the vendor. We reached deadlock. Life happened to us and we didn’t like it. No price agreement. No bungalow.

 

And then life happened to us again. It was a roller coaster of a week! Just when we thought it was all over and we had wasted our journey another house appeared on the property market. We lurched from deep depression to euphoria and back again. It was a long shot. We had looked at dozens of houses and most of them turned out to be unsuitable. But the little house seemed to be waiting for us. The owner had just reduced the price because he was desperate to sell. Now the cottage was in our price bracket. We went to look at the outside and were pleasantly surprised: only three miles from the sea and with glorious countryside all round. We rang the agent. Could we visit sometime in the next couple of days? She rang us back. Mr. _____ was in and keen to see us. We could visit right now. So he showed us around the property. It was a bit small – cottages in our price range are. It was on a main road. But the cottage was in good order. He had most of the space we needed. He had a fully fitted kitchen. He had heating. He had good quality fitted carpets in a neutral colour. He had kitchen appliances that we needed which he wanted to sell us – and even a wardrobe of the type we were looking for! Suddenly the plans we had been busy making began to change. We wouldn’t need all those plans here. We wouldn’t need to disrupt our lives for the next six months with building projects, woodworm treatment and starting from scratch. Life seemed to have happened to us and, as it often does, negated all those frantic plans we had been making.

 

Now we’re on target for another house purchase. We’ve had the survey. It’s OK. We’re just hoping that this turns out to be the course life takes for us. Over the years we’ve become pretty pro-active. We like to do our best to make things happen. (‘God helps those who help themselves’, as they used to say). But sometimes, when you’ve done all you can do, it becomes impossible to make life happen and it just takes it into its head to happen to you. I’m hoping this cottage is going to happen to us now because I’m a little tired of making plans!

Red House Encounter

A few years back I was sitting having a drink in a Sussex pub and across the gangway I noticed a group of young women, laughing and chattering. I’m an incurable people-watcher and continued to watch them surreptitiously for a while until it occurred to me that a rather vivacious, dark-haired young lady looked rather familiar. The more I watched the more her face, hairstyle and general manner reminded me strongly of someone I had enjoyed sharing a literature course with whilst studying at Sussex University a few years previously.  Should I continue to sit here and wonder in case she failed to remember who I was or should I approach Rosie and remind her of our shared past? At last my curiosity got the better of me, after all I wanted to know what she had been doing these last few years and whether she had achieved what she had set out to do following her degree. I got up and walked confidently up to her, banishing doubts and embarrassment. I explained who I was to Rosie and then waited. The group chatter subsided and there was a moment of silence. It wasn’t Rosie and she had never been to Sussex University.

 

Yesterday, unbelievably the same thing happened to me. This time I was sitting in a National Trust cafe, drinking tea and eating the inevitable piece of iced sponge. I was on my first visit to the Red House, where William Morris, along with a bunch of friends, had conducted some experiments in interior design. Halfway through our tour of the house another couple came in and examined the icy cold rooms with us, chatting in quiet voices as they went. I scarcely looked at them. Then they joined us in the tea shop and again I embarked on my rather impolite hobby of people watching. The lady had red hair and a manner that reminded me of someone I had once known, a long, long time ago. As she chatted to the man with her I watched and gradually it came to me – Nicola – I had been at school with someone like that. Strangely, at first, it never occurred to me that it could really be the same person. Although I guessed she was around my age and we were both visiting this National Trust property not ten miles from the school, I never entertained the idea that it could be her. No. That would be too much of a coincidence. I sat for a long while, trying to remember Nicola’s surname.

 

Finally, I recalled an incident which still makes me laugh even now when I occasionally think of it and the name resurfaced along with the memory. I was in a coach with a school party on an educational visit to the open air theatre in Regent’s Park, London. I was about 14. We were on our way back to school at the end of the day. Suddenly, someone said “Where’s Nicola?” A minute later, someone else shouted “And where’s Ann?” Ann and Nicola – firm friends all the way through school – they were sure to be together. Unfortunately the coach had left without them. Panic ensued. A teacher’s worst nightmare! The unfortunate teacher eventually stopped the coach, got out and went back in search of the two missing children. We continued on our journey back to school, concocting stories of their probable demise. The next morning we learned the news that our English teacher had discovered them back in the park, standing forlornly by the entrance from which the coach had left, holding hands and telling each other staunchly “Don’t panic!”

 

Now I had a name. I looked again at my companion in the tea room. The more I looked the more I seemed to discern the old Nicola within this rather more mature version in front of me. It would have been more than forty years ago! You would think I had learned my lesson from Rosie – or rather, from the woman who wasn’t Rosie – but not a bit of it! Eventually, my curiosity again getting the better of me, I said boldly “I’ve been looking at you...” (she gave me a curious glance) “...and you really remind me of someone I was at school with...” No response. (Oh dear, had I done it again?) “Are you... or were you...” I said, looking at her possible husband next to her, “Nicola _____?” This time the answer was yes. I was so relieved!

 

A rather stilted conversation followed. Where do you start with someone you lost touch with 40 years ago? We exchanged family histories, careers and children and introduced our husbands. We asked after mutual friends. She had done far better than me at keeping up with them. She still lived in the same area. I did not. I traced some of my various travels since leaving the school. Then the conversation faltered a bit. We sat there, marvelling at the coincidence that had brought us together. It began to sink in. This chance encounter was indeed something of a miracle. What if my sister and brother-in-law had not decided to give us a joint birthday gift of membership to the National Trust this year? What if we had decided to go to Ightam Mote instead of the Red House as our first outing? What if we had chosen Tuesday instead of Wednesday? We would never have met up. Better than that, what if we had decided to move from our old home in the Netherlands, where we had been for the last fifteen years or so, a couple of months later? What if we had stayed somewhere else whilst searching for our new home in the UK? What if my sister had said “no, we can’t put you up”? What if we had found our new home a little quicker? We would no longer be here in my old stamping ground. We were just passing through. What if? Isn’t life strange?

 

Best of all was the joy with which we discovered each other after all this time. Amazement and joy characterised the encounter. We left school 40 years ago, without giving each other too much thought. 40 years later friendships somehow have more value and it is so good to be given a second chance to get acquainted. We will no longer stand side by side on the station platform each afternoon, waiting for the train home from school. We will no longer even live in the same vicinity. But maybe, in these days of internet, better travel links and an enhanced understanding of the value of relationships, we can make something of our second chance.

How far have we travelled?

Just this last week I received an unexpected short course in essential life skills. Who would have thought a tiny baby could teach me so much? How did that tiny scrap of humanity, barely three weeks old, arrive in the world with so much understanding, sensitivity and wisdom to share? Just one week in the presence of purity, simplicity and baby know-how transported me into another world – his world. The world of baby Oscar is a world of delightful innocence, breathtaking naivety and, at the same time,  an awe-inspiring realism. Oscar’s world is about essentials: sleep, feed, bath, love – possibly not in that order. Oscar’s world is alternately full of the most amazing peacefulness and the most heart-rending screams. But a contented baby is one of the most heart-warming sights in this world; the sight of little Oscar, fast asleep, cheek resting on his tiny hand and breathing with deep little sighs of contentment is a wonder to behold. Tiptoe softly around him in case you awaken this blissful repose.

 

Oscar’s needs and wants are simple: the sound of a familiar voice, the smell of his mother’s skin, the ever-ready milk bar, the long awaited touch of Daddy, home at last from work and caressing him with eager fingers...

 

Pure as the driven snow – a cliché in most circumstances but a mysterious truth when applied to babies. Oscar is a January baby and pushing his pram through the piles of freshly swept, pure white snow seems oddly appropriate – a crisp, pristine snowy vista, under skies of perfect blue, as a fitting backdrop for this most perfect new life, soft, white and baby-new. A new, unblemished life, a blank canvas awaiting whatever life may bring, unsullied by the ugliness of life’s disappointments, hardships and imperfections, but sparkling in the sunshine, full of promise. This image will be fixed in my mind forever. In Oscar’s world the closest attention is paid to the tiniest details: a small fleck of yellow sleep is gently brushed from Oscar’s eye; the tiniest of milk spots detected on his little forehead is brooded over anxiously. Pure as the driven snow.

 

Where did we go wrong? How did life get so complicated? How did we stray so far from the basics? We have lost our inner peace. In our adult worlds of street-cred and worldly wisdom we have strayed so far from the contentment we once knew at the touch of a hand, the sense of belonging and being loved, through the simple awareness of the nearness of family and friends and the joy of unashamed eye to eye contact. Oscar gazes into my eyes, unblinking, soaking up the warmth and admiration I give him and returning it willingly, without a hint of distrust or suspicion. This last week has been a week of de-tox, a health farm retreat, whilst a crash course has been delivered in the basic joys and essentials of life itself. Thank you Oscar.  

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.
 

A Brush with Death

House-hunting can be a joy or a frustration, but it certainly provides a fascinating window on the lives of others...

 

 

Dusk was falling in the town

As we entered the hidden back street,
Lit by a dim yellow lamp,
Retracing our steps
To red brick Victorian days.

We hesitated, uncertain,

Puzzled by this back-to-front house,
With its narrow path, leading
Past the outhouse
To the shadowed entrance.

Surely the back way in

But now opening onto the road,
The former front door
Leading nowhere but to the lawn,
A fence and a private car park.

A shadowy figure loomed up

Out of the dusk
Eager, extending his hand
In a friendly gesture –
Sharp, hopeful, ready to do business.

The agent led the way into Tombland.

At once we were trespassing
On the final moments,
The sudden demise, it seemed,
Of the former occupants.

Wandering from room to room,

We witnessed a life
Arrested in its prime,
A kitchen in working order,
A hairbrush lying on the mantelpiece,

Carelessly discarded,

Like the life of its owner,
Still bearing the dead hairs
Or did they still contain
Some residual growth?

Eerie, poignant signs

Of a life once lived
In these four walls,
Amongst spacious,
Well-appointed rooms.

Outside, leaving regretfully,

Coveting the space
But unable to detach ourselves
From this air of sadness
Pervading the house,

We stopped next door, arrested

By a scene from Christmas Future:
Scrooge among the tombstones,
Transfixed by the stone mason’s art,
Would we find their epitaph here?

Writing My Way into Dark Corners

A good friend has advocated writing as a means of therapy – of turning the searchlight on ourselves to light up those hidden corners we are reluctant to think about. It will be a kind of spring cleaning, she implies, that will rid my soul of clutter and cobwebs and enable me to go forward into the future with confidence and clear purpose.

 

There are no cobwebs in my house. I am certain of this. Every inch, every corner, every tile in the bathroom, every corner of the oven is scrubbed, polished, de-cobwebbed to the satisfaction of the new owner who has now taken up residence. My home is in store, cleaned, packed and polished and waiting patiently (and somewhat expensively) to be directed by its owner to a new start.

 

There may, however, be a few cobwebs lurking in the corners of my soul. Which way then shall I direct the searchlight of my writing in order to identify the muddled thinking, secret fears, the self doubt and the inertia that crouch there, unseen and undisturbed, limiting my potential, spoiling my creativity and shackling me to the past when what is needed at this present time is a bold, confident stride into the future?

 

I am playing for time. I am procrastinating. I will begin my probing search into the dark corners, one at a time. A week of house-hunting lies behind me – in a familiar, well-loved setting. I have visited and re-visited; I have scoured the internet properties; I have visited those same houses with a mix of shock, horror and delight! They say the camera never lies – well, I can assure you that in the hands of an estate agent it does! Careful perusal of the details gives you information and, with years of experience behind you (a little of it spent working in an estate agent’s office), it is easy to spot the omissions, the jargon and the deliberate ambiguities. But nothing can prepare you for the insidious deceptions of the wide-angled lens or the glossy images it produces of tiny, cramped kitchens, doors falling off hinges, peeling metal gutters and rising damp. Only a hands-on approach reveals that.

 

So I am harbouring disappointment in the dark corners of my soul. I have been lied to and misled. But what you see is what you get – not what you read on the internet. Not all the news is bad. I have seen some lovely homes, lovingly cared for by responsible owners, tastefully decorated, thoughtfully improved. Only the fatal flaw spoils these dream houses. And there always is one. Have you noticed that? The rooms are light and spacious, the kitchen is just my choice, there is a downstairs loo and an upstairs bathroom... and the flaw? The garden is damp, narrow, overlooked by trees and faces east. There will be no sun in my garden except whilst I am still in bed. Yet another dream house is perfect in every way – small, but perfect – the owners have thought of everything. But there is no garden. The perfect seaside location, a quiet country road – but no garden. The agents forgot to mention that.

 

I am walking a tightrope between adventure and security. I have found some possibilities – not perfect, it is true – but possibilities. Now another secret fear lurks: is it all too familiar? I have lived here before. It is easy to find my way around. I have favourite picnic spots, favourite walks, handy DIY stores, much-loved teashops and cosy inns. It makes me feel secure, safe, ‘at home’. But where is the adventure in that?

 

This week I am standing on new ground. I have driven ‘north’. North is different from south – that’s why it is an adventure. But I am lacking that cosy sense of belonging. The architecture is different; the countryside is hilly, driving is tricky. The beaches are grey and wild; the villages are grey and no-nonsense, no frills, no chocolate box thatched cottages. The differences do not end there – the people are different too. How long will it take to achieve that sense of belonging? Will it ever come? Or will I die a lonely old woman in a tumbledown cottage (amidst stunning countryside) that no-one ever visits? That is my fear speaking – the fear that lurks in these dark corners I am writing my way into. I must confront it and discover what it is and decide if I need to give in to its persistent whining.

 

What kind of person am I and which bits can I change? Do I want to change? I am not a city person; that much I know. Living the urban life for so many years, I have tired of its tarmacked streets, its graffiti, the ugly back streets, rundown shopping streets and jostling crowds. I have wearied of its noise and the feeling of being alone in a crowd, shopping amongst people that I do not recognise. I long for community, neighbours who know my name, green fields and peaceful country lanes with birdsong in the air. But maybe I am not a village dweller either. Deprive me of retail therapy (in modest amounts), visits to local cinema, theatre, art gallery and library and I shall be a dull, unhappy person, especially in winter. The bright lights are not for me, but neither is a constant diet of wet fields and muddy footpaths. So I am balancing on another tightrope, it seems, between city and country. It appears that I am scurrying in the direction of the perfect small market town location, surrounded by peaceful, green countryside and within striking distance of the sea.

 

For the sea has always charmed me: traditional seaside, with wide sandy bays, or small hidden coves, wheeling gulls, ice cream stands and the smell of seaweed. To be separated from my beloved sea would be a fate hard to bear. I am a seaside person. I love to feel the breeze in my face and the sun on my back as I stride out along the prom.

 

But I am deviating from my dark corners. These things I already know; they are clear to me. But there is muddle and self doubt here which refuses to allow these diverse impulses and desires to be resolved into a clear plan of action. I am afraid that what I want cannot be found. It requires a lot of luck to find this complex combination of circumstances at a price I can afford and I am not sure I am a lucky person. I know there are some that are; they live the enviable lives that I am dreaming of. But here’s the darkness in my soul – my doubt that I am one of those lucky people.

 

I have seen something here. My friend was right. The searchlight attached to my pen has illuminated something I did not know before. I am afraid I am not a lucky person. But luck can be made and it is most often achieved by those who have confidence in themselves to go out and look for it. Some of us are going to be lucky in life – why should it not be me? Why not? I will take my courage in both hands and continue my search for a new life that will make me happy and fulfilled, tailor-made to my own rather unusual list of requirements.