A weekend away in a time machine

It was time for a break. Our family had been afflicted by various illnesses, crises and illness-crises (a dramatic combination of the above). Half term had therefore been a washout. Somewhere inside I'm still expecting the September we never had. 

Some loyalty card points bought us a weekend in a hotel in Birmingham. I was looking forward to the Pre-Raphaelite collection at the big municipal art gallery. However, we arrived to find the gallery shut for refurbishment.

Instead, we visited a Christmas craft market, the Christmas light switch on in the Jewellery Quarter and a massive German-style Christmas market. All when we were still twelve days even from the start of December. 

There was a lovely atmosphere of chatting to friendly strangers. The live music and gluhwein helped! It felt like being at the jostling crowded heart of the festive season.

But returning home, it was odd to discover we are still a long way off Christmas. It is as if we had  travelled not just many miles, but many days. Here I am, back home and back in time again, looking forward to the eventual start of Advent and the run-up to Christmas. 

Remembrance of a different kind of courage.

This year I pinned on a red poppy but it felt inappropriate -  I wished that it was white, not red. White poppies express a wish for peace, and this year that seems more important than ever.

My friend John Compton who died just over a year ago was a pacifist and used to wear a white poppy.  During World War II he refused to fight, serving instead as a London hospital porter, in danger of his life during the Blitz. It is a different definition of bravery.

It was only as I put my red poppy in a drawer (as a spare for next year) that I saw that all along I had possessed a white poppy. John's daughter Elizabeth had thoughtfully sent off for one each for Nigel and I the year before he died. 

I have put a reminder in my diary for next November so that on Remembrance Day I will wear the white poppy in memory of a man who was courageous enough not to fight. 

Fireworks

Fireworks night has always been a special occasion for Nigel and I. Forty  years ago we spent it apart. At that point, Nigel and I were good friends but he was considering whether to ask me out or not. 

The reason for his hesitation, he told me later, was that he had a conviction that if he asked me out, he would someday marry me. 

Having missed the municipal display at Cambridge that year, we vowed not to miss one again. 

In our forty years together we have been to some spectaculars at Saltburn Park, the Tyne Bridge and Verulamium Park. We love to oooh and aaah.

A memorable one was Dove Holes in Derbyshire where the amateur pyrotechnician decided to set off the fireworks one at a time leading to a display that was very long indeed but at no point spectacular. We left before the end.

This year, we shunned our usual display at Verulamium to attend Alexandra Palace with Perran, Carenza and friends. 

How did it go? Carenza felt there had been a lack of communal oohs and aaahs.

However, the fireworks coordinated brilliantly with the music.   And at the end their was a man dancing on a podium with lightning coming out of his head. 

But even that was not as special as the fact that I spent the evening with Nigel.

foraging discipline

A rich variety of family illness and other crises has disrupted our autumn. I feel like I'm in a time travel movie, surfacing to find that another fortnight has somehow zipped past.

However foraging has anchored my feet to the ground once more. The best time for chestnuts and mushrooms is now.

Nigel and I were busy catching up on neglected chores.   Yet if we did not go now to the woods, we would miss the harvest.

We went up to Ashridge and sure enough the ground in the woods was scattered with sweet chestnut cases like green sea urchins. To save my fingers, I've learned to open them with my booted feet, and imagine this must be similar to what deer do with their hooves, as they too are clearly partial to the odd chestnut. 

I filled my pockets with the gleaming prizes until it was hard to walk. 

Meanwhile Nigel was stooping to gather puffballs. We've become cautious about mushrooms, but puffballs are completely unlike anything poisonous.

The chestnuts form part of our Christmas meal each year, but the puffballs were delicious right away with gnocchi. 

But even more than the food we gain, I value the therapeutic effect of foraging. After a morning in the rust and amber woods, rhythmically hunting and collecting, I was restored and ready to deal with whatever happens next.