SICILY: A palace worth living in

 

In preparation for our Sicily trip, I read The Leopard by Lampedusa, about he way the Sicilian nobility declines during the unification of Italy in the nineteenth century. I then watched the excellent TV adaptation, and finally the Fellini film. The opulence of that age, even as it passed, was poignant. 

There is a particular sequence in the book where the lovers, Tancredi and Angelica explore the many unused rooms of the palace at Donnafugata using them as a place to kiss. The Prince who owns the house says, ‘A house of which one knows every room isn’t worth living in.’

I hoped to see one or even two of these magnificent palaces at the Baroque town of Noto. But when we got there, not only was it raining, but the famed palaces were inexplicably shut.

We were ourselves staying in a once-palace in Ortygia. We had one of several self-catering apartments. The owner was renovating the palace a bit at a time, as he could afford it. Which meant that there remained a large semi-derelict wing. One evening Nigel and I ventured into it.

There were many vacant rooms containing odd fragments, such as a huge artificial Christmas tree, light fittings made from old chairs hanging from the ceiling. Here a pile of rubble, there a magnificent marble staircase.

I had my Donnafugata after all.

I would like to report that Nigel and I used the empty rooms as a place to kiss, but in fact, the air of neglect spooked me and I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

So I am clearly not cut out to be a member of the nineteenth century Sicilian nobility after all.  I suppose I’ll just have to send back the crinoline I purchased on Vinted.

SICILY: Of Greek Temples and Oranges

Nigel and I had come to Sicily (by train and ferry so as not to contribute to climate change)

I had predicted my favourite trip would be to the row of magnificent Greek temples ranged along a ridge near the town of Agrigento.

Sure enough when we got there, they displayed those graceful architectural proportions, much written about, especially the extraordinarily well preserved Temple of Concordia. The ruins of the less complete temples were picturesque, flickering with lizards, and with many tiny jewel-like flowers bobbing in the breeze from the sea. Incredibly impressive were the vast statues of the telamons, giants who once help up the architrave of the Temple of Zeus.

When we could take in no more, however, we descended to the Garden of Kolymbethra at one end of the Valley of the Temples. Down in a cool river gorge, it recreates a Sicilian small-holding.

We were dried out, and it was good to see frogs floating in a water cistern and to walk beneath fragrant blossom. Serins brightened the air with their song.

Some of the trees were laden with oranges. It was uncertain whether we were allowed to eat them or not, but Nigel and I did, two each. Each orange was an explosion of juice and crowded my mouth with intense flavour.

So although this was the day when I had encountered the remains of six extraordinary Greek temples, what I found myself saying to Nigel was, ‘I shall never forget these oranges.’ 

Of men and logs

 

Nigel went down to a four-day working week. The idea is to find the activities with which he will one day enrich his retirement.

His top pick was volunteering for the Woodland Trust at Heartwood, our local forest. There are hedges to be laid and trees to be planted.  The first time, Nigel took only a spade, but he has now added a camping stool, thermos flask and sandwiches to his accoutrements.

It all sounds like healthy outdoor fun - rather like a camp for superannuated scouts. Meanwhile, at home, I have a lovely quiet day.

On Sunday, we went together for a ramble at Heartwood and Nigel showed me what he’d been doing. 

‘In the woods, folk tend to trample the bluebells which then take a long time to recover. We’re using logs to edge the path and encourage visitors to stay on the straight and narrow.’

Next, at the edge of the woods, we saw an impressive pile of logs.

‘Look! Those are the logs we use to edge the paths.’

Quietly, I imagine the partners of the energetic Heartwood volunteers ringing one another secretly to arrange that there is a great big pile of logs available, enough to keep the working party busy for hours.

While we have another lovely quiet day at home.

One year on

It's a year since Mum died.

I guess, because we lived 300 miles apart, there's a sense in which she remains alive in the same way she always was to me, a presence in my heart rather than in my sitting room.

I have also found more concrete ways for her to continue to be part of my life. 

I brought home some of her calligraphy artwork and have been gradually framing it for myself and the children.

My favourite is an experimental piece which says 'the test of a vocation is the love of the drudgery it involves.'  This was a quote she often repeated, as she enjoyed every aspect of her calligraphy, and even learned how to cut goose quills and to make ink from soot and oak apples.

Amongst the artwork there was also a drawing - a swift chalk portrait of me as a little girl. If it were possible, everyone should have their portrait drawn by someone who really loves them. There can be no likeness as cherished.

And if I want a hug, I can still find her love in the indestructible sweaters she knitted me. 

There are many other ways in which her life still touches mine and I do believe that as time goes by, I think of her more, not less.

Well, well, well

Sometimes we are so busy rushing off on tourism expeditions in other places that we fail to explore our own stamping ground.

For eighteen years, I have walked up and down Holywell Hill in St Albans without showing the proper curiosity.

Last weekend, following a Ver Valley Walk leaflet with Trisha and Duncan, I was gobsmacked to discover that the eponymous holy well still exists.

In the incongruous depths of a housing estate, there it was. Now all neatly block paved, first appearances were disappointing. But peering into its depths, there was a magical glimpse of worn brick clothed in harts-tongue fern and emerald moss. Yes, this was old.

At least three legends are associated with the well.

St Alban, Britain’s first Christian martyr in the 3^rd century AD may have gasped for a drink there on his way to be executed higher up the hill. God miraculously brought the well into being to answer Alban’s prayers.

Or it may be that following his execution, his severed head rolled down the hill and came to rest here, and the spring flowed miraculously from the ground in response.

Later, King Uther Pendragon, (father of King Arthur) had a great battle with the Saxons in the ruins of the Roman city of Verulamium and healed his wounds here by bathing them in water from this well.

Or, as the Ver Valley leaflet pointed out, maybe the well was just a feature of an eighteenth century garden which once covered this spot.

Pah! I choose to believe the myths and miracles.

And I resolve to keep an eye open for what else I have missed while living in this historic city for eighteen years.

Try a new thing

At this time of year, part of me wants to stay in and hibernate, but part of me is ready to greet the new year with new adventures, and that is what happened last weekend.

On Friday, walking near local lakes with Carol and Diane I suggested we take a path that was new to us. We did. We gained views of a sunlit lake and got really close up to watch a goldcrest and redpolls foraging among the alders.  However, the end of the path was so flooded it looked more like a river than the nearby river did, and we had to retreat and go round the long way.

Saturday with Nigel, and again we diverted from our usual route, this time to explore an Iron Age settlement surrounded by a massive earthwork known picturesquely as The Devil's Dyke. We marvelled at the scale of the earthen banks, and read aged (and probably erroneous) signs declaring that Julius Caesar had fought there. Then Nigel managed to create a new circular walk from the settlement.  It ended up being a couple of miles longer than the amble we'd planned and we were both a bit weary and hungry by the time we regained our car.

So there are two alternative learnings I could glean from last weekend:-

• Don't try anything new - it'll cause you inconvenience.
• OR Take a chance on a new adventure and see where you end up.

I would say our experiences support both equally, but what I will say is - it felt GREAT to be trying something new.

Cosy Crime Debacle

 

It was very January today, when I went out for my morning walk - grey and spitting with drizzle.

UNTIL I saw on the pavement a short trail of Scrabble tiles.  

Perhaps I had stumbled into the pages of a cosy crime novel - somebody had left me a clue!

If I were to turn them all rightside up, and anagram them mercilessly, they would tell me what my next move should be.  Or perhaps the name of the murderer. 

This grey day was about to become much more exciting.

I stood looking at them.

On the other hand, lying there on the sludgy grey pavement, the grubby tiles were pretty unappealing.

And did I really want to get my hands dirty?

I sighed and started walking again.

Only another two weeks of January left to go.

Photo at top by Clarissa Watson on Unsplash

Second photo by Clare

insufficiently cutthroat

I've been collecting feedback and reviewing Christmas with a view to improving my festive performance for next year.

 There were many strong points but also some areas for improvement. 

I cleverly arranged for none of the family to have flu or Covid over the Christmas. I booked great weather, so our habitual muddy walks were bathed in sunlight. I managed to display just the right degree of fatigue so that everybody helped with the cooking and produced feasts which were not only low in carbon footprint but also delicious. 

On the other hand, I failed to be sufficiently cutthroat. I dopily omitted to secure a supermarket shopping delivery, meaning that Nigel had to trudge to Morrisons.

I left it too late to buy the Christmas Radio Times, forcing family members to scour a variety of newsagents.

Perhaps at least my failing has a use. It will supply my New Year's resolution. 'Be more cutthroat!' This seems a fitting end to the festive season.

Christmas Do

Whenever a Christmas do comes round, I always want to say, 'Don't be ridiculous. I can't come out. I have far too much to do, preparing for Christmas.'

However, I give myself a talking to, dress up and go out. Last week, I had back-to-back two work do's - mine and Nigel's. There could not have been a greater contrast. One of my adult Latin groups met in the local pub and talked the hind leg off an asinus.

Nigel and his colleagues had three tables in a big top in Bloomsbury offering 'Cirque de Vintage'. Sequinned fire jugglers greeted us, three courses of beautifully presented hot food were served with precision, and acrobats performed breathtaking stunts on the trapeze just above our heads. 

Better than any of that however was the fact that Nigel's colleagues were extremely friendly and went out of their way to include me.

The only drawback from my point of view was that they were strangely unobsessed by matters Classical. 

But in both cases, I'm very glad I left my kitchen and forayed out.

And that is what I shall tell my family when on Christmas day they query the absence of a pudding. 

Always read the waiver

It was Nigel's birthday.  

He had said that he would prefer 'an experience'.

Carenza, Sandy and I took him to The HG Wells War of the Worlds Experience in Leadenhall, London. When we arrived in the foyer cafe, I nipped to the loo. When I came back, each of the others was holding a tablet and adding their signature to it.

'You just need to sign this, Clare. It's the waiver.'

Trustingly, I signed so as not to hold up the show.

There followed two gripping hours, during which the Martians landed, we fled our homes, escaped by sea, attempted to live underground in the sewers, got ingested by an alien pod and spat out, and finally watched the demise of the aliens, felled by bacteria. 

'Some of the virtual reality bits were astonishing,' said Nigel.

'I enjoyed the live scenes where we interacted with actors. They were really good,' said Sandy.

'I liked the steam punk styling of the sets and props,' said Carenza.

'I enjoyed it but I has a bit startled by the bit where we got sprayed with water, and the bit where it was dark and somebody touched my arm, oh, and that big spiral slide we wooshed down! I wasn't expecting that.'

'But it was all flagged up in the waiver, Mum.' 

'Oh wait, you were in the loo.'

So that will be my strategy if ever I am caught in a Martian invasion. Go into the loo and stay there. Clearly it will insulate me from everything that is going on.

Vegetarian Sausage Surprise

Our freezer got congested. It was completely full, yet we had little idea of the contents.

So we've been eating our way through it. 

Nearing the bottom of the top drawer, Nigel was delighted to discover a bag containing three oblongs.

'Look, top quality veg sausages! We can have them for tea.'

'If they're veg sausages, why are they in a plain plastic bag?'

'Maybe it was the end of a pack?'

'Last time you offered me veg sausages in a plain bag they turned out to be venison.'*

'Well I'm eating them.'

'Fine. There are a couple of ancient spring rolls. I'll have them.'

As Nigel fried the sausages, they smelt...unusual.

We sat down to our dinner and Nigel tucked in. However, his knife and fork soon slowed.

'I don't know if I can eat all of these. They're quite large.'

I accepted half a sausage.

The flavour was completely not what I expected, yet also very familiar. 

'Those are bananas!'

'You're right. That's what they are. Umm why did you peel and freeze three bananas?'

'I didn't.  It must have been you.'

The argument continued with no resolution and clearly there is only one explanation. The Freezer Fairy had been at work.

And wherever she is, I hope it gave her a chuckle.

Although we haven't got to the bottom of the freezer yet, so she may very well have more surprises in store. 

*Nigel eats culled venison as being meat with no carbon footprint. 

A real sucker

At the moment, if you visit our house, I will offer (gushingly) to introduce you to the new love of my life. 

Indeed, he might be pottering about in the hallway as you enter.

He is a small robot vacuum cleaner. We did try out some names, but have settled on 'The little chap', said in an affectionate tone.

Hoovering was previously my job. And indeed, I still do the stairs as the robot cleaner has the same limitations as a dalek. 

But thanks to the little robot, I am now freed of the anxiety that my mother-in-law might come calling on a day when I haven't hoovered (most days, in fact).

My friends fear that as a result of this automated home help I may lose muscle tone and become decadent.  I, however, find there is still plenty of housework to be done. The house will now get dusted more often, in theory at least.

No, my only worry is that the robot hoover originates in China. The Chinese now have maps of both my upstairs and my downstairs, information vital to their plan for world domination.

Plus, they now know exactly how much dust there was under our bed, a matter previoisly covered by the official secrets act. 

The Escher car park

Last Friday, we went with Pascoe and Sophie to see Chekov’s The Seagull at the Royal Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh.

Running low on time, we decided to use a disastrously expensive carpark nearby.  For the price we paid we expected the full service – we should be able to:-

1.      Park the car

2.      Find it still there when we returned

3.      Drive away

The play was excellent – strong performances, atmospheric setting.  We didn’t worry about the car - not with the amount that carpark was costing!

We came out and found the carpark had indeed fulfilled the first two of its three functions. We paid at the machine, emitting a communal gasp as we read the tariff.

But the way we had come in was now shut off with a temporary barrier.  ‘Use other exit.’

‘Where is other exit?’

Pascoe set off on a drive round the carpark, only to arrive back again at the temporary barrier.  He set off once more and after following exit signs more attentively, we still arrived there again. 

We began to wonder if the carpark had been designed by Escher.

Or whether Kafka had written the signage.

We must be missing something in the rain and darkness.

Pascoe set off again, with us all chipping in whenever we spotted a sign, and eventually, by a very circuitous route, we reached the barrier.

But it wouldn’t let us out.  It gave the error message ‘No payment possible.’

‘But we already paid.  Oh boy, did we already pay!’

Pascoe backed out and drove towards the other barrier. This one charged us a further £8 before it would let us out, no doubt a charge racked up for the pleasure of driving round and round a dark wet carpark when all we wanted was to get home.

‘I shall never use that carpark again,’ said Pascoe.

And let us hope he never does!

A foraging first

The change in climate means the seasons are less predictable. 

This Autumn is a 'mast year' where beech trees produced a super-crop. Other trees have joined them and nuts, seeds acorns and haws crunch beneath our hiking boots when we are out and about.

There are differing explanations for this abundance. Optimistics say the spring weather was ideal for setting fruit and nuts.

Pessimists say rising temperatures are stressing the trees and they feel themselves to be in danger, so attempt to perpetuate their genes by reproducing. 

Whichever it is, Nigel and I have benefited, at least in the short term. 

We noticed that squirrels, instead of burying merely the usual acorns and conkers in our garden were this year bringing us walnuts.

Then our friend Carys showed us a bowl of beautiful walnuts she had foraged near Oxford. 

We were eager to find some.

Finally, when out on a walk with Pascoe, we came upon a walnut tree and added handfuls of the delicious nuts to our pockets, already bulging with sweet chestnuts.

So for the first time we have a bowl of local walnuts. 

I only wish our pockets had been bigger.

And I hope the trees get a chance to rest and recover over winter.

Ghostly Breathing

A couple of times a year, Nigel and I meet up with our old friends David and Carolyn who live in the North East. We walk, pub and sightsee. 

 This time we tried a new halfway meeting point - the Lincolnshire wolds. 

It would have been great if this had been the only new element of the weekend but there was another novel experience. 

On our first evening Storm Amy cut the electricity and we had a game of hunt the candles in the Airbnb in the dark. We found one set of fake candles which nevertheless looked like someone had set fire to them, and two real ones. But no matches whatsoever. We decided to pass the time by listening to ghost stories on David's phone. 

We were listening to Shirley Henderson reading a spooky tale. Shirley Henderson has a high-pitched uncanny voice and the special effects department had added to the atmosphere with very realistic ghostly breathing in the background. 

Eventually, the tale drew to its chilling climax. However when the story finished, and Shirley Henderson fallen silent, the ghostly breathing continued. 

I raised my phone torch. The rest of us might have been on the edge of our seats, but after a long and exciting day, David was catching forty winks.

A Sliding Doors Moment

 

On Friday, I was out walking with two friends.  It was a five mile country ramble which we know well.

Being women of a certain age, we have noted the most discreet place to visit the bushes should the need arise. On this particular walk, there’s only really one opportunity - where the footpath skirts a wood, there’s a gap in the hedge, and a private path into the wood.  This has provided us with a useful convenience many times in the past. 

On Friday, as we approached the wood, however, there was already something there.  Parked just in front of our gap was a tractor.  Behind the tractor was a substantial trailer. Sitting on hay bales in the trailer were the children of a nursery school, accompanied by an almost equal number of adults.

As we watched, the farmer let down the flap at the back of the trailer and the people climbed down and made their way into the wood, by the very path we would normally take. 

‘They must be doing a nature trail!’

‘Just think though, what if it had happened in the other order?’

‘You mean if we’d got there first?’

‘…and were having a wee when an entire class of children arrived?’

‘Can you imagine? – “Mummy, what’s that lady doing???”’

We concluded that it would have still been an educational experience for them, just in a very different way.

 

 

 

The NO MILK coffee bar

 

We were paying our first visit to Perran in his new residence in Brussels.

He took us to what used to be called a flea market but is now known as a vintage fair and we admired the tables laden with tat and treasures.

A heatwave was boiling up and we were wilting, but it wasn't yet time for lunch.

We spotted a cool-looking coffee bar on a crossroads, a few metal chairs and tables sheltered by parasols on the pavement.

The chalkboard offered espresso, then 'Americano - NO MILK'

'Well,' I thought to myself, 'I won't be having that then.'

Never mind - below was the option of 'a batch brew of filter coffee'.  Apparently it offered 'hints of rose and lemon.' But I was prepared to overlook that and drink some with a slurp of milk.

However, when the man came to take our order, first Nigel (who clearly cannot read chalkboards) asked for an Americano with milk.

The man refused.  Milk would ruin the fragrance. (I'm not saying 'waiter' because his irritation implied he had some skin in the game - perhaps he was the proprietor).

'It's okay, Nigel, we'll have  the filter coffee. That doesn't say 'NO MILK''

'Okay, two of those please.'

But when it arrived, there was no milk.  Nor, despite my best French, was there any milk to be had. In a Fawlty-esque tone of barely-suppressed rage, the man explained the milk would mask the hints of rose and lemon.

'And a good thing too,' I thought.

'We know how it is best for you to drink your coffee!' he finished.

Despite the atmosphere now surrounding our table, we lingered over our small cups of black coffee.  It was too expensive not to.  At least, thankfully, I could detect no rose or lemon.

We never got as far as telling the man that it was oat or soya milk we wanted, not dairy. What would have happened if we had?  Possibly he would have spontaneously combusted in a shower of blue sparks.

Leaving nothing behind except a whiff of rose and lemon.

Golden Birds of Hope

 

When we arrived in Enniskillen, the sun came out and shone throughout our visit. What a pretty place it was, surrounded by lakes and woods and hills, Celtic monasteries and Neolithic megalith tombs nearby, enticing to us holiday makers. 

It did not tally with what we'd heard of Enniskillen in the past - the 1987 Remembrance Day Massacre where a bomb killed eleven and injured sixty-three. However, as we began to explore the area by foot, car and boat, visiting local castles, we found that the long-enduring troubled past had been sprayed with the blood of previous devastating massacres on both sides. 

In the main street of the town itself, the Catholic Church squared up to the Protestant one, each vying to be more massive and taller.

Yet on the front of each, there was the same symbol - a golden silhouette of a swallow, pinned to the wall. And soon, I began to notice these golden birds in other places - war memorials, shops.  

I investigated.

Oscar Wilde, as a boy, had boarded at Enniskillen Grammar School. From his dormitory, he'd looked out on a statue of the first British governor there - Cole.  Like Nelson's Column, it dominated the town. Young Oscar began to imagine what it would be like if the statue would sacrifice his grandeur for the sake of the poor townspeople below. The resulting story was The Happy Prince.

Thus, the gold birds dotted about Enniskillen are a reference to the swallow in the story who acted as messenger for the statue of the prince and delivered his gold and jewels to the people below.

But perching as they do both on Protestant and Catholic walls, it's hard not to see the golden swallows also as emissaries of peace. Nowadays, perhaps instead of gold and jewels, they are bringing hope for the future.

The wrong Rough Fort

We were to drive from Carnlough to Derry/Londonderry. Was there anything we should see on the way?

Indeed there was. On the Limavady to Ballykelly road lay The Rough Fort - one of many donut-shaped earthworks built around a thousand years ago, and still dotting the landscape. Known as raths, they were defensive - farmers and cattle could retreat there when a raid was threatened.

The Limavady rath had been restored by the National Trust and we were eager to see it. The only drawback was that when I entered 'Rough Fort, Limavady' into Google maps, it gave us the route to a housing estate in Moira, many miles away. This happened repeatedly until Nigel grabbed the phone from me and took over.

'That's better,' he said. 

An hour later, we arrived.

Amidst new houses (which had not been visible in the NT publicity shot) nestled a large circular earthwork. We read the plaque, circled rhe earthwork, took a few snaps and got back in the car.

Then we set Google maps to Derry. But it told us that instead of being close to our destination, we were now eighty miles from it.

Despite our best efforts we had still been directed to the housing estate in Moira.

At least there had been a rath there.

But the most remarkable thing of all was that I managed not to say,

'I told you so!'

Until now, that is.

Orange Hair

In Dublin, I was keen to visit bustling Grafton Street because it has so often been mentioned by Irish authors. There we stood, listening to a busker giving an excellent rendition of 'Zombie'.

I became vaguely aware of a bunch of boys, aged maybe twelve to thirteen, and all wearing yellow tee shirts - probably a school trip. They seemed excited about something and were talking animatedly to each other in a foreign language which might have been Dutch. I didn't take much notice until I realised the thing they were excited about was me.

'Excuse me, excuse me.'

'Yes?'

'Our teachers gave us tasks.'

'Yes?'

'They said we must take five pictures of ourselves together with people with orange hair. And you have...'

I opened my mouth to say, 'But I don't have orange hair!'

Yet what was the point? An entire class of Dutch boys thought I did. 

At this point, Nigel stepped in and said, 'Keep looking!'  And ushered me on. 

I kinda regret now not helping the gawky little chaps on their awkward quest.

But even more, I regret not looking in the window of the nearby coffee shop. I would easily have been able to spot the boys' teachers. 

They would have been the ones laughing their socks off.

Beware the cunning of the RSPB

It is clear the RSPB will stop at nothing to gain members. 

But tinkering with the weather?!?

When we arrived at Rathlin Island, off the North East coast of Ulster, it was tee-shirt weather.

We had brought coats only because of the ferry trip. 

The RSPB reserve, with its spectacle of cliff-nesting birds, was 4.5 miles from the Rathlin ferry port but it was so sunny we eschewed the bus  and walked through the peaceful green fields of the island.

Nearing the reserve we stood in the warmth at the top of the cliffs to admire the spectacle. Great skuas patrolled and a pair of peregrines were sky dancing.  This was going to be great.

At the ticket desk, the custodian warned us of the long descent to the viewing platform.

She also said we could claim back our entrance fee if we joined the RSPB today, but we shook our heads. We weren't considering spending so much money today.

 

At the viewing platform however, it was suddenly like midwinter. A sort of wind tunnel was formed by the coast just there. We put on jumpers and coats, zipped them right up to our noses and pulled the toggles tight. 

Despite the icy gale I could not drag myself away from the sight of so many guillemots, puffins, razorbills, kittiwakes and fulmars nesting on the rock stack just in front of us. Nigel, however, retreated into the RSPB cabin.

By the time I was ready to leave, he had been persuaded to take out membership of the RSPB.

Then we returned to the top of the cliffs. Warm sunshine once more.

Is it possible the RSPB  somehow has control of the micro climate there in order to induce hypothermic punters to part with their cash?

I wouldn't put it past them.

Dream boat

On our way to Northern Ireland, our ferry docked at Dublin, so we'd decided to spend a couple of days. 

We last were here over 25 years ago. 

I remember the excellent range of public sculpture, all with nicknames. For instance, a very decollete statue of Molly Malone was known as the dolly with the trolley. 

I remember it rained so much our map dissolved into paper mache.

But most of all, I recall a little golden boat with spindly oars and rudder, glowing in the depths of the Archaeology Museum.

I have retained none of the facts about it. 

Date? Provenance? Function?

Yet every so often, through my dreams has sailed that little golden boat.

Usually when we re-visit a place, I want to see the attractions we missed the first time.  But in Dublin, I wanted most to revisit the little golden boat. 

It was a large museum and I was impatient, so on arrival, I asked a custodian for 'the little golden boat' and she marched me straight there.

'Ohhh. Hello again.'

There it was, luminous in its case.

So now I know it is part of the Broighter horde, dating from the first century BC and that it was found in County Derry. I noticed this time that it is surrounded by other pieces of gold from the horde including a magnificent torc.

But also I know that ten years from now I will have forgotten the name and date and other contents of the horde.

Yet the golden boat will still be meandering through my imagination.

Away Again?

Not long after returning from walking the Pembrokeshire coast and we are off again, this time to Northern Ireland. Nigel had booked travel and hotels.

'Um why are we going away again so soon?'

In fact, Northern Ireland is a trip I've been lobbying for for years. Although in our youth this land was all over our TV screens, torn by violence and civil war, this is a moment of comparative peace, an opportunity to enjoy the beautiful landscape, wildlife and history. 

It turned out Nigel had made the arrangements while I was in grief over the death of my mother as a gift to me.

But why now?

The trip will coincide with our 40th wedding anniversary - a chance to celebrate.

So although I feel a bit sheepish about going way on holiday again, I think I'll just say 'Thank you very much, Nigel.'

Chuffed

Finally we reached Broadhaven where we were to stop our walk and return home. 

We had to admit that our hike had a couple of gaps in it, but one thing that made our happiness complete was the wildlife.

The Pembrokeshire coast didn't disappoint. The flowers were lush, the insects extraordinary and we even saw on the path (at different times ) a fox cub and an adder.  A very fond memory will be standing on the clifftop watching a seal colony including several playful pups. 

However, my favourite is always the birdlife. There was a nesting colony of guillemots, some fulmar, ravens and kestrels, and a peregrine which glided and then stooped on its prey. All around were stone chats, linnets, larks. 

Best of all, we lost count of the number of choughs. We have come to characterise them as 'fun' birds because of their cocky call 'keeaw' and their playful way of flying.  They are generally out and about in pairs and busily probe the short turf on the cliffs with their long red bills. 

All in all, despite my failure to walk the complete path, we were chuffed.

Chough drawn by me

Wet, wet, wet

On a coast path, you are very exposed to the weather. Even worse, you can see it coming from a long way off, the cliffs whiting out as the rain storm approaches.

And Wales can certainly be damp.

On our Pembrokeshire trip, we had been so lucky with the weather.

But on our penultimate day, our luck ran out. 

The forecast said the vigorous rain would clear in the afternoon. It didn't.

It was like walking thirteen miles beneath a power shower. 

My boots were sloshing and Nigel, walking just behind me reports seeing froth coming out each time I took a step. I maintain that it was caused by the fabric conditioner in my socks. 

When we arrived at the Cambrian inn at Solva the concierge was very nice about mopping up the puddle we left in reception and gave us an industrial roll of blue tissue paper so we could sort ourselves out in our room. 

When we walked on the next day, our gear was still decidedly damp, but it didn't matter - there was only one day left of walking and the sun was shining again.

A not-so-well-deserved break

Last year, when Nigel and I walked the South Downs Way, we met another couple who were undertaking the same walk. They said something which stopped us in our tracks:

'We're not walking tomorrow.  It's our rest day.'

So one could take a rest day. It simply had not occurred to us. 

'We're going to have one of those next time.' 

So this year on the Pembrokeshire coast path, the plan had been to walk for five days, then take a break when we hit St David's. But thanks to my dodgy knees, when we reached St David's we had been walking for only three of those days - did we even deserve a rest day?

However, there was no way I was going to miss out on exploring this legendary tiny city.

The cathedral turned out to be a jewel, built improbably in a hidden hollow. Inside, the splendid ancient architecture was enhanced by thought-provoking contemporary art and poetry, adding to the spirituality of the place. 

It got even better when we explored the massive ruins of the bishop's palace. There weren't too many visitors so Stephen, one of the custodians, gave us a tour. He had supplemented his historical knowledge with a detailed study of the building and showed us details we'd never have spotted, like 'the disappointing staircase' which led only to a cramped garderobe.

After that, in generous sunshine, we walked out to St Non's head and perched on the ruins of a Celtic Chapel. While Nigel read, I painted a watercolour of the sea and a linnet sang to us from a nearby fence post.

So no, maybe we didn't deserve a rest day, but we certainly enjoyed it.

Back on the road

I thought the coastpath walk was over for me. My poor old knees were very painful after 16 miles of distance and 1240 metres of ascent. 

We would do tourism instead.

There are amazing things to see in Pembrokeshire - the wildlife and archaeology are right up my street. Yet all was dimmed for me by a pall of failure -  but for my knees we should have been striding along vertiginous cliffs, looking out for gannets and seals.

We visited Henllys Iron Age reconstructed village and Cilgerran Castle. There was a bit of scrambling about in ruins.

The next day we took a boat trip along the coast of Skomer Island, home to thousands of puffins, guillemots and razorbills. Afterwards, we went for a five-mile hike around a nearby rocky promontory.

That night I said to Nigel, 'Funny thing, but the last two days my knees have been perfectly fine.'

So next morning there we were, back on the coast path again, knees very firmly strapped. 

Because we had already booked our lodgings the logic of the trip meant we carried on not from where we stopped before, but from where we should have been. Meaning that one day we may feel compelled to return and fill in a two day gap near Fishguard. 

But as it is, I'm just happy we got back on the path.

Fun puffins

When my knees let me down and we abandoned our coastal walk, I said to Nigel, 'I remember you telling me about labrador dogs who train to be guide dogs for the blind. Some of them prove unsuitable and appear to live with a sense of failure ever after. Having dropped out of our walk I feel like one of those dogs.'

Nigel scratched his head to think what would cheer me up. 

He booked a boat trip to see the puffins nesting on Skomer Island.

There is nothing more cheering than a puffin. 

Like clockwork bath toys they bobbed in the waves with their clown beaks. Even better was when they flew, each flight so lacking in competence that it looked like it must be the first, their bright red feet stuck out at an ungainly angle, as if longing to land. 

So yes, the puffins made me smile, but even more cheering was the fact that they were part of a healthy colony.

The colony at Skomer is very successful as it is sited in a small no-catch zone where fishing is banned, as advocated by David Attenborough in his recent film, Ocean, and there is plenty for them to eat.

If we had more zones like that, my smile would run from ear to ear! 

With thanks to Graeme for his puffin photo. 

Things that go bump in the night

One of the drawbacks of walking a long distance path is it's a new hotel each night. 

You don't get to know the place before you move on again. In particular, you don't get a feel for where the little glass shelf in the en suite is.

So when at 4am I went to the bathroom for some water and thought I was putting my glass down safely, I wasn't.  It crashed to the tiles. 

'Crap.'

I began the painstaking process of picking up fragments. Awake now, Nigel decided to join in the fun and when we had collected all visible shards, he used the bathmat to wipe the area.

Since there were then tiny crumbs of glass in the mat, he opened the window and shook it. A gust took it. 

He dressed to go downstairs and pick the mat off the pavement. But when he got there, no mat. He looked up to see it draped inelegantly over one corner of the hotel's imposing portico, out of reach. 

Yet another corner of Britain where we have left our mark.

Pembrokeshire Coast Path with knees!

In 2022 we walked Hadrian's Wall. Beforehand I was apprehensive - my various arthritic joints wouldn't hold up. But despite ominous twinges, they did. Same story with the South Downs Way last year. 

So when Nigel planned a large section of the North Pembrokeshire coast path, I grumbled again - the Cassandra of the achey knees.

However, he'd soon booked it, all planned in meticulous detail. We were going, and my knees were coming with us. 

Unfortunately, the first day was going to be the hardest with what the guidebook said would be 14 miles of distance, but turned out more like 16. And moreover was 1240 metres of ascent, and then the same of descent - almost as much as Ben Nevis. 

It was the descent which really did it, and despite knee straps and walking poles and Nigel carrying the day sack, I was limping badly for the last four miles. 

However, once I recover, I'll try again!

Oh dear, we shall just have to be tourists for a couple of days. In scenic Pembrokeshire. What a burden.

When a hobby comes to find you

 

I’ve always had plenty of greenery in my house, but I would never have called pot plants a hobby.  They are just part of the household, and we get along fine together.  A bit like Nigel.

However, recently Perran left to live in Brussels.  Pot plants very much had been his hobby, but rules forbade the import of his green friends to Belgium. I volunteered to caretake some of his large collection until the day he returns.

His plants are different to mine.  I am ignorant of the names of most of mine as they are propagated from bits friends gave me, or kind donations from the odd stately-home conservatory (‘I tell you, that bit was just lying on the floor!’).

Perran’s darlings however have Latin names and very specific care regimes on their pots.  Also, because he had been preparing to move abroad, they had been somewhat neglected and appeared lacklustre and gloomy.

I took home ten of the fading beauties, and have been repotting and repositioning ever since.  How can a plant demand both bright light, but also not want it ‘direct’?  One plant loves nothing more than wet roots, while another should be kept Sahara-dry.

Generously, Perran has said he does not mind if not all his plants make it.  The only one he really cares about is a crassula (jade plant) which I gave him as a tiny sprout when he first left to live in London.  Through several moves and changes of job, he has nurtured this companion, and like his life, it has grown big and strong.  This is the one he most hopes will be there to greet him when he returns.   I’ll do my best.

Well, I can’t write any more now – I need to get back to my new hobby.

In training to be a spectator

Carenza was preparing for the Hackney Half Marathon.

She was hoping to beat her previous best by a whole seven minutes – a bet with a friend was at stake.

‘I’m quite proud of myself – I’ve done a reasonable amount of training.’

Pascoe and I were to spectate, joined by Dan. I had not watched Carenza race since she was at school.  I had neither trained nor prepared for my role as spectator.  How naive I was!

Carefully, Pascoe and I traced the route map and found a midpoint from where we could also cut across to the finish line. But how would we know when to expect Carenza?

‘You can just download the Hackney Half App and track me on that.’

Carenza went off to the start and we found our spot and waited.  The app said she was coming, coming, coming.  She appeared to be lagging her target time. Oh dear.  Then suddenly she was past us, but Pascoe, Dan and I hadn’t spotted her.

We trudged off towards the start/finish line and stood there.  The app said she was stationary at a rehydration station.  But she WhatsApped us ‘Yay.  Beat my personal best by ELEVEN minutes.’ We’d missed seeing her again, but she was somewhere very nearby.

Finally it dawned – with huge numbers of runners and supporters, all on their phones, there was a big lag on the App.

When we caught up, Carenza was delighted with her time but the start had been dodgy.  It had been so cold she left it until the last minute to check her coat into baggage, thereby missing the warm up and being allocated to a starting pen for much slower runners.  In the pen, amongst the runners, appeared an elderly homeless man who took a shine to her.

‘They say there are twenty-five thousand runners here today.  Make it twenty-five thousand and one, baby – I’m coming with you!’

He did indeed start the race, carrier bag in hand, but luckily she soon outran him.

It was clear that Pascoe and I had been rubbish spectators – instead of failing to catch Carenza at the middle and end, we should have been at the start to see her off safely.

Our spectator training is complete - we’ll know for next time.

Nigel Gummidge

 As pets we keep no dogs nor cats, but free-flying white doves who come to be fed.

On the end of our house is a white dovecote which has proved less popular as a roosting and nesting site than the space beneath the solar panels on my friend Claire’s roof.

One of the reasons is that the dovecote, with it’s pretty arched openings, is vulnerable to crows and magpies.  This spring, two pairs of doves were nesting, and then suddenly they weren’t - the nests were abandoned, the eggs and chicks vanished, and on the ground a tell-tale broken egg.  There had been a crow raid. 

We were chatting with some of the teenagers at church and confided we were worried that when the doves nested again, the crows would attack once more.  Yet we could think of no device which would keep the crows out, which would not also deter the doves.

‘You want a scarecrow,’ announced one of the boys. 

We laughed, but on consideration, he was quite right.

The doves have no fear of Nigel – it is mostly he who feeds them. So I made a model Nigel, using his old clothes and even printing out a photo of his face for it.

Nigel then sat his doppelganger on top of the garage.

It is a measure of the politeness of our lovely neighbours that they waited nearly a week before gently enquiring why we had put a lifesize model of Nigel on the roof.

So far, the crows appear not to have returned, and there has been an unexpected side effect.  We put the figure up there to scare the crows.  We did not anticipate it would also have a positive influence on the doves. 

Such is their affection for Nigel that we now have more birds than ever roosting and nesting in our little dovecote.

A family pilgrimage

Before ever my mother became ill and died, we had booked a holiday cottage close to my parents for a week at Easter, intending to get the whole family together.  It now offered a very different opportunity - perhaps we could scatter Mum’s ashes all together.  However, Dad was not ready.  Given the great time pressures on Pascoe, Perran and Carenza this year, it seemed unlikely we would be able to assemble everybody again to do this.  Even as it was, Perran and Carenza were working from the holiday cottage, with only one day of leave left to give us.

Meanwhile, my friend Fiona had told me of a one-day pilgrimage along St Michael's Way, walking from Lelant on the north coast of Cornwall down to Marazion on the south coast, then across a tidal causeway to St Michael’s Mount. It was the old route which British pilgrims had taken as they set off to embark for the Camino de Santiago de Compostela. By coincidence, Carenza had also just given me Wayfarer by Phoebe Smith describing this very path.

Mum had loved Lelant, the village where the trail started. As I sorted her belongings, I found a couple of drawings she had made of Lelant. That clinched it.

 On our one day together as a family, we would make this pilgrimage in memory of Mum.

 From Mum’s desk, we picked up the pebbles she had once brought in her pocket from the beach and put them in our own pockets. We took the little water bottle from her painting kit and set off.

When we found a spring on the cliff at Carbis Bay, Nigel scrambled down and collected some water in the little bottle. 

There was a small pool in the Neolithic fortifications at the top of Trencrom Hill and we added more water there.

 The peninsula is not very wide at that point, but the pilgrimage sent us on a circuitous route, up hill and down dale, encountering prehistoric standing stones and medieval churches, like the one at Ludgvan with a carving of a pilgrim above its door. It amounted to a walk of thirteen miles.

Mum loved birds, and along the way, we were accompanied by larks overhead, and from the hedgerow, a chorus of finches, wrens and robins. We saluted five ravens on Trencrom Hill and in Marazion Marshes, there were egrets and even a Cetti's warbler.

When finally we approached St Michael's Mount, we had timed it for low tide, to allow us to traverse the paved causeway.  Once on the island, we climbed the cobbles to the giant's well, where Jack the Giant Killer once slew Giant Cormoran , and into the well, we poured our water. 

On the steep path up, we found ‘Giant Cormoran’s Heart’ – a heart-shaped cobble. 

At the summit near the ancient Benedictine chapel, we found a niche in the rock with a magnificent house leek growing just below. There we set the pebbles to rest.

 
These stones had been part of Mum’s surroundings at her calligrapher’s desk each day.  Relinquishing them brought it home to me at last that she was gone. It was odd to leave them behind, out in the open under the sky.  The only comfort was that they could be in no place more beautiful or holy.

 
And the day held one last small blessing.  Back in Marazion, waiting for a taxi to take us back to our car in Lelant, we saw the best bird of all – a single white dove came and perched on the wall above and waited with us.

Thanks to Pascoe for several of these photos