The End of the Social Drought

At times I have been so grateful to have Nigel’s companionship over this period of isolation, at others, I have wondered whether Rentokil ever deals with husbands.

A particular low point was the day when I was trying to write a short story at my desk close to the front door and Nigel decided he would fix the doorbell.  It involved testing the doorbell repeatedly over a long period.

I went into the hallway and said, ‘You know, yesterday I saw an interview with Margaret Atwood.  In 2019, she lost her partner of many years, Graeme.  It’s very sad and she clearly misses him….But do you know what she doesn’t miss at all?’

‘No?’ said Nigel, ‘What?’

‘Him playing with the bloody doorbell for hours on end.  Apparently it in no way helped her to win the Booker Prize.’

Leaving him with a thoughtful look on his face, I retreated back into the office.

But, for the time being at least, the social drought has ended and both the joys and the frustrations of one’s life partner will be diluted to safe levels by friends and family coming for a cuppa in the garden.  And probably a good thing too.

 

A Year On

Looking back at my blogs from a year ago, it brings back vividly the weirdness of distancing from people I was used to hugging, the panicky feeling of being on holiday in Lille at the point where it was locking down.  

However, I also remember a sense of relief at life becoming less frantic.  Travelling to work and to see relations ground to a halt.   There was suddenly time to address calming domestic tasks in the  house and garden.  There was tinkering with pot plants and with baking recipes.  There were leisurely with neighbours across a two-meter gulf.

My photos show a backdrop of dazzling blue skies behind frothy blossoms, the delight I took in each new spring flower – celandines, violets, wood anemones. And so many long walks as the spring evenings lengthened.

What is clear, however, is we never guessed Lockdowns would continue so long.  There was the sense that the first Lockdown was a little oasis in everyday life.  I remember teaching into the Easter holidays because I thought it would mean fewer lessons in the summer term when everything would be back to normal.

I also worked through a list of long-postponed projects, rushing to finish them before everyday life resumed.

But Lockdown has been a marathon, not the sprint I first envisaged.  If I could send a message back to myself in Spring 2020, I’d say ‘Slow down – You’ll have plenty of time at home!’ 

 

 

Vaccination II

 

For me, today is vaccination day.

Unlike Nigel, my first opportunity to book was via the NHS website and the jab would be delivered at a local pharmacy rather than the louche nightclub surrounds of Batchwood.

A pity – I’d been looking forward to the vaccination-with-glitterball experience.

However, that was a minor detail.  The main thing was to get jabbed, especially as the news this morning mentioned that the vaccination rate was slowing.

All my friends who’d been ‘done’ have said how efficient it was, so I wasn’t anticipating any problems. As an afterthought I stuffed my letter of invitation in my pocket in case I was asked for my NHS number.

When I arrived, many stewards were in view, wearing high vis or toting clipboards, but as far as I could see, I was the only actual punter.

When I said my name, two young women both got me to repeat it, then to spell it. They flicked rapidly through their lists.  I wasn’t there.  My appointment had somehow not registered.   It felt just like a bad dream.  Had I missed the boat?

Panicking I got my letter out and flapped it, wishing now I had also brought the print-out of my appointments. 

Given that I had my letter and that nobody else was waiting, it was decided to give me my jab.  Oxford Astra Zeneca, thank you very much!

One of the staff confided there had been a few cases like mine.

I feel very fortunate to have been vaccinated and only hope that moment of having the rug pulled doesn’t come back as a recurring nightmare.

Vaccination 1

 

The roadmap out of Lockdown had two opposite effects on me.  I foresaw with delight the prospect of having family and friends round to our garden.  On the other hand, I was apprehensive at the possibility of catching Covid, or worse, of Nigel catching Covid.

Most of our friends have made a good recovery, but just a very few had to be hospitalised or have Long Covid.  It’s a bit of a Forrest Gump/ box of chocolates situation – you never know what you’re going to get. 

I doubted the vaccination programme would reach us any time soon because just as our cohort became eligible, many older people also needed their second jab.

So when Nigel got his invitation we were thrilled. 

Incongruously, our extremely efficient GP-led vaccination centre is Batchwood, usually a nightclub.  Our children have many times boogied the night away there, but did they ever feel as happy as Nigel did when he received his jab and took a selfie under the giant chandelier?

Then two days later, I received an invitation to book my shot.  It felt like a privilege.  Sometimes things do go right after all.

And I can also refute the conspiracy theory that the vaccine contains microchips – although I have tried very hard this week to reprogramme Nigel, he is still doing exactly as he pleases 😊

The Worst Lockdown Job

We started this Lockdown with a list of tasks we didn’t want to do, but ought to. 

Our thinking was that there was no better time than during Lockdown the cold dark winter months.

However, we soon discovered that if we were feeling a little depressed, doing a horrible job like sorting out the loft did not make us feel any better.  So we let ourselves off.

But now that we have a roadmap out of Lockdown, we are more motivated.  One day, we will have more exciting prospects than decluttering our drawers.  So we should probably use these last few weeks getting through dull tasks.  I guess.

The job that we REALLY did not want to do was revise our very out-of-date will, made when the children were minors.

Now in their twenties, we figured that they might not appreciate having to go and live with our friends Nick and Jackie as the will stipulated previously.  And indeed, Nick and Jackie might have been surprised when they arrived, suitcases in hand.

So last weekend saw us on Zoom with a professional will-writer having a conversation which largely consisted of phrases like ‘If I got hit by a bus…’, ‘Any of us could get hit by a bus tomorrow…’ & ‘What if we all got hit by a bus…?’

It feels good to have done this.  But even so, I am still going to be very, very careful of buses from now on.

When Will I See You Again?

I remember the magical day last year when two households were allowed to meet outdoors for the first time.  We drove and Perran and Carenza hired an Uber and we met in Epping Forest.  it was so wonderful to see them, so weird not to be able to hug.   The weather was perfect that day, just as it would be for the reunion scene in a Hollywood Movie.

The Covid roadmap released earlier this week tells us it will be a while before we can see the twins again.  We had the privilege of Pascoe’s company in December. But, unaware we were about to Lockdown in November and then have Christmas ‘cancelled’, we last spent a day with Perran and Carenza in early October. 

I have never had so long apart from them and am looking forward to the day when two households can meet outdoors, even if the only kind of cuddles will be air hugs.

For the picnic I am planning to bake vegan pasties from scratch.  Now if that isn’t taking it seriously, what is?

Standing up for all of us

Today Nigel attended a London magistrates’ court (via Teams videoconferencing), was found guilty of obstructing the highway, given a conditional discharge and asked to pay court expenses of £331.

And I am proud of him.

He was arrested 07-10-2019 while sitting in the road at the junction of Northumberland Avenue and Trafalgar Square.

It was part of an Extinction Rebellion protest.

His defence was ‘Necessity’ - by drawing attention to the Climate Emergency and trying to get the Government to act Nigel was attempting to save lives, both in the immediate future and throughout the years to come.

Representing himself in court, Nigel said:

‘The number of deaths as a result of the climate emergency is going to rise, and rise dramatically. Mark Carney, former Governor of the Bank of England, and now UN climate finance envoy, put it very simply in a statement to the BBC on 6^th February:

"When you look at climate change from a human mortality perspective, it will be the equivalent of a coronavirus crisis every year from the middle of this century, and every year, not just a one-off event. “

Covid is an emergency.  Currently it has caused 100,000 deaths in the UK, and 2.4m globally.  But by the middle of this century, the climate emergency will cause that number of deaths every year.  Every year. 2.4m every year.’

However, even though thousands of people have indeed died since Nigel sat down in the road in October 2019, of the drought, floods and storms caused by climate change, the court did not consider the danger immediate enough and convicted him.

We knew beforehand that this was the probable outcome, but time will prove that it was not the right one.

 

I Believe in Summer

 

In the middle of Winter there are days when it is easier to believe in unicorns than in Summer.

Stricken by icy temperatures and a constant unsatisfactory ‘dandruff’ of snow (as Annabel put it),  we have had to exercise our faith and our imagination.

I put together a necklace from some butterflies which I had enamelled in bright colours.  There WILL come some sunny day when I can wear it above a strappy top.

Nigel has been filtering his elderberry wine.  One day it WILL be one of the ingredients of a ruby-coloured sangria on a warm summer’s evening in the garden.

I guess these things we have made are little pledges to ourselves, signs that we are trying to believe in Summer.

Little Lockdown Project for the Ears

My eyes hurt.

As a teacher, I used to get to spend time focusing on the far-away back of the classroom, trying to guess what the pupils in the back row were looking at under the desk and calculating whether I could sneak up on them before they put it away.

Now all those long-distance moments have been replaced by staring at my screen.

I am worried my bloodshot eyes will scare my pupils.  But luckily the picture’s not crisp enough.

So for my current Lockdown project, I have decided to use my ears.

The birds believe that spring is on its way and are giving three cheers, each in their own way.  I am trying to tune in to the different calls there are out there.  I’ve got the RSPB app on my phone so I can listen to bird song and try to figure out what I’m hearing.

It can be difficult to remember, so the best method for me is to fit words to the call, like the yellowhammer who sings ‘A little bit of bread and no cheese.’

Today’s morsel of learning?

‘It’s me, it’s me, it’s me.’ – coal tit

So if you spot me stopped still in mid-step with a thoughtful look on my face, that is what is going on – I’m listening to a tiny bird!

https://community.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/b/notesonnature/posts/birdsong-masterclass

 

Snow Fest

 

In the past, I’ve always valued a snow day – one where there has been a deep enough fall to stop traffic and close schools. 

It has meant a lie-in, and the complete slow-down of life. 

Everything we meant to do that day goes by the board.  Might as well take a long walk then bake some bread.

However, this year saw yet another complete inversion of the norms.

On Sunday in St Albans, we had a reasonable fall of snow.

Usually, most people wait until the flakes stop falling before they go out. 

But I thought there might be a lot of people on the paths if we delayed, making it hard to socially distance. 

‘We should go out now, while it’s still snowing!’

So Nigel and I set off to cross the local public playing field. 

It turned out nobody had waited for the snow stop.  There were scores of people and nearly as many snow-people.  Snow fights, snow angels and sledding were all happening.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen it so busy. 

Clearly, in the absence of anything else in the diary, a snow day was no longer a peaceful oasis in the hubbub of everyday life.  Instead, it was the very epitome of excitement.

And it was great to see the everyday outlines of our local neighbourhood transformed.  Due to Covid restrictions we can’t travel to see a different landscape at the moment.  However, it came to find us.

Blue Monday

The third Monday of January is traditionally known as ‘Blue Monday’ and is the most depressing day of the year.

Even without the help of a Pandemic

Overcast and a cold and a bit rainy, the weather was in on it.

My Latin pupils, glimmering pale green and glum in the Zoom-light lesson, were in on it.

As if to emphasise the fact we would be going nowhere, Nigel had made an appointment for the car to be MOTed.  He was in on it too.

Outside, the garden looked grey-brown and dead.

However, I channelled the overly-cheerful 1913 literary heroine, Pollyanna, and looked for some things to make me glad.

One was the flock of redwing, wintering here from Scandinavia. (They clearly don’t know there are visa issues since Brexit.)  They landed on the cotoneaster tree outside my window, much to the consternation of the local blackbird who shooed them off.  But as soon as he turned his back they returned, swallowing down the bright red berries whole – like you or me gulping down an entire tennis ball.

The other was ‘Running Family’.  We see them sometimes when we go for a walk.  Dad, Mum and two small boys.  They belt along the pavement with the Dad zig-zagging backwards and forwards encouraging the boys.  Dad probably thinks they are doing it for the sake of the boys.  But Mum probably suggested it so Dad would run off his surplus energy and settle down quietly when they got home.

There.  Done it. Got through Blue Monday.

 

Online funeral

Today I am watching little knots of black-clad figures walk past by window.  They are on their way to a funeral at the neighbouring church which I attend.  It is the funeral of my elderly friend, Dilys who was one of the grand old characters of our street and whose memories of WWII I recorded for our Sharing Stories project.  She died peacefully in her own bed in the house where she was raised, an ambition she had made clear in the past.

In any other year, I would be attending in person, but due to Covid precautions, I’m at home, participating online.

It is a way of discovering the aspects of a funeral that cannot be reproduced online.

Usually at the funeral of an elderly friend, one meets their children and grandchildren.  I could see some of them on video but didn’t get a chance to press a hand and say how much I had admired their matriarchal grandmother.

I also missed that communal experience of grief that finds you swallowing back tears along with everybody else, even though you know the departed had reached the end of a long life well-lived and has gone on finally to Heaven to meet their lifelong hero, Jesus.

On the other hand, I could hear loud and clear the eulogies, the outline of a full life, embellished with jewel-like anecdotes.

And when they placed the coffin with its vivid flowers in the hearse just outside our house, I stood at the window and saluted.

Farewell, Dilys.

How was your Christmas....?

This year, Christmas was different.  Pascoe had come early to avoid crowded trains so was with us before the new restrictions curbed our Christmas plans.  The twins, however, were still in their flat, so we drove to Bermondsey and delivered gifts, food and decorations on the doorstep, but didn’t scoop them up and take them home despite the huge temptation which our parental instincts urged on us.

What can I say?

We admired the twins’ splendid Christmas dinner on Zoom and were impressed that they had dressed for dinner. Turns out Christmas is much more photogenic without us oldies.

It was a privilege to have Pascoe home.  Our own Christmas centred on knee-depth mud as we rambled with him over the Hertfordshire countryside every day.

And on Christmas Day, we had a very special encounter.  The three of us had reached Nomansland Common as the sun sank.  At a time of year when not many birds sing, we could hear a virtuoso performance from a song thrush, reminding me of ‘The Darkling Thrush’, by Thomas Hardy (below).  But although we stared at the tree, the bird remained hidden.  Eventually, I got out my phone and played a recording of a song thrush.  Immediately, our invisible entertainer appeared and flew straight at us, only just stopping short of dive-bombing us.

We laughed with delight. 

It may not have been an ideal Christmas, but once we started to look, there was so much to appreciate.

 

For those of our friends, however, who have been ill over Christmas, there has not been much fun and our thoughts are with you for a speedy recovery.

The Darkling Thrush

by Thomas Hardy

 

I leant upon a coppice gate

      When Frost was spectre-grey,

And Winter's dregs made desolate

      The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

      Like strings of broken lyres,

And all mankind that haunted nigh

      Had sought their household fires.

 

The land's sharp features seemed to be

      The Century's corpse outleant,

His crypt the cloudy canopy,

      The wind his death-lament.

The ancient pulse of germ and birth

      Was shrunken hard and dry,

And every spirit upon earth

      Seemed fervourless as I.

 

At once a voice arose among

      The bleak twigs overhead

In a full-hearted evensong

      Of joy illimited;

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

      In blast-beruffled plume,

Had chosen thus to fling his soul

      Upon the growing gloom.

 

So little cause for carolings

      Of such ecstatic sound

Was written on terrestrial things

      Afar or nigh around,

That I could think there trembled through

      His happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew

      And I was unaware.

 

 

 

A Peregrine in a Pear Tree

A couple of Saturdays ago Christmas preparations were boiling up to frantic. Every year I feel a strong pull to make my way into town and shoulder my way into the scrum. Like a salmon swimming upstream.

Could I resist?

Birdwatchers had been tweeting. A rare hen harrier had been sighted in a rushy river valley close to St Albans. 

So instead of going into town, we walked along the River Ver until we spotted a cluster of folk in bobble hats clutching binoculars and the odd outsize ‘scope.

The little flock of bird watchers was friendly and communicative.
The hen harrier had been through earlier but was nowhere to be seen now.

Nigel and I stood for a while and saw red kite, heron, egret and all manner of titmice.

And then, flying over, a large falcon. Everybody whooped. (Quietly - they are bird watchers after all.) They trained their scopes on the sky. It was a peregrine. Nowhere near as rare as a hen harrier but still worth a restrained cheer.

Even better, a hapless buzzard flew into view and the peregrine began to attack, stooping from a height, swooping like a bullet, until it drove the larger bird away.

We never did see the hen harrier but neither did we get caught up in the Christmas consumer madness. And I won’t ever forget that peregrine.

Birthday Surprise

Nigel’s birthday was coming up just at the very end of Lockdown.  There weren’t many options for celebrating.  As a family we are largely vegetarian, so scotch eggs were out.

I proposed to the children that we meet up with just a few old friends to have a surprise Zoom quiz for Nigel.  I arranged the call and the kids came up with rounds on topics which would interest Nigel – growing fruit and veg, lightbulbs, getting arrested while sitting in the road and ‘What was Nigel doing in that photograph?’

The day dawned and Nigel was none the wiser.  I personally defrosted a lovely birthday supper and unwrapped his birthday cake.  (I go to endless trouble on these occasions.)

Then we began what Nigel expected to be a call with the kids.  As his friends rang in, he said umpteen times ‘I wasn’t expecting this’.

And there was a surprise for me too.  Apparently I had forgotten to tell the kids that it was supposed to be a surprise, but somehow nobody had blown the secret.

Over the Zoom call with friends, I said to the children,

‘But didn’t you wonder why I’d set up a new WhatsApp group to make the arrangements?’

‘No Mum,’ said Carenza, ‘I just thought it was some sort of manipulative behaviour.’

Thanks, Girl.

Who Stole the Road?

 

On Monday afternoon, Nigel strode into my study.

‘Clare!  Look outside! Somebody has stolen the road.’

We live at the end of a very long cul-de-sac.  Both of us working at home.  For the last month, most of our interactions whether work or social have been via Zoom or the phone.

I didn’t think we could get much more isolated until the road resurfacing team came and took away our route to anywhere.  Where once there was asphalt now there is only a lumpy, uneven surface.

Perhaps tomorrow I will look out of my window and see only mist and clouds, indicating that finally we have been entirely cut off from all time and space.

Like the tardis. 

I shall remain stoical, as long as the wi-fi still works.

But the promise is that by the end of the week, we shall have back not only our road, but some of our freedoms.

For a while anyway.

The Egg Incident

 At the weekend, Nigel was cultivating our smallish garden and I was inside, writing.  Every so often he would stride purposefully past the window carrying a spade or fork.

After 8 months of gardening, particularly intensive due to this year’s special circumstances, I wondered what could be left to do out there.

Suddenly he rapped on the glass, making me jump.

‘You’ll never guess what I’ve found!’

‘Is it a frog?’ Tetchily.  It is usually a frog.

But no, just by an iris, a complete chicken egg, partially buried.

‘Could it have been kids egging the house on Halloween?’ 

No – it was several feet from the house and not even cracked.  As if it had been laid down carefully.

Laid.

The Vicar next door sometimes kept chickens.  Occasionally the chickens got out.  Once in a blue moon they appeared in our garden.

We could think of no other source for this egg, so we shared the story with him.

He said that they haven’t had chickens recently due to the depredations of particularly active urban foxes.  So that egg had to be more than a year old.

Nigel shook it.  Something inside rattled.  Yep. This was an old egg.

So it makes you think, doesn’t it – if something as large and obvious as a chicken egg could remain unnoticed in our well-tended small garden, what other amazing creatures are there for us to discover on this great planet of ours?  And can we find them before they become extinct?

 

The Gin Incident

 When the R number soared at the end of October, I booked in a series of online shops. 

For each one I put in a placeholder order of a high-value item which takes me over the £40 limit needed to get a delivery.

A couple of days before the delivery I go in and remove the high-value item and put in the list of what we really need.

What could possibly go wrong?

Now my high-value item of choice just happens to be three bottles of gin.  Doesn’t really matter which gin as I’m going to take it off the order. 

I had idly thought that the profile derived from my shopping habits would portray me as an acute alcoholic, purchasing three large bottles of spirits each week.

This Monday, when the doorbell rang, I went to receive my supermarket order from the young delivery man.

“Good morning.  Would you mind taking it through to the….”

The words died on my lips. 

At my feet was only one crate.

In the crate were three large bottles of gin.

“This isn’t my order!”

The young man smirked.  He had heard it all before. 

In retrospect, I gave in too quickly.  I should have insisted on seeing the paperwork or asked that he take it back.  But I knew deep down that it was my mistake – I had amended the wrong order.

Looking around nervously in case any of the neighbours was about, I grabbed my haul of gin and retreated indoors, clanking.

My shopping will come next week.  At least the gin will make the wait pleasant. 

The Goldfinger Incident

I’m a bit of a fidget.  If I’m talking on the phone I like to use a headset and find a task to keep my hands busy.

It was time to ring John, an elderly friend from church.  So I decided to make some Christmas decorations out of materials I already had, the remnants of previous projects.

“Hello, John.  How has your week been?”

Since John is confined to his house and my adventures have been curtailed by Lockdown, it is hard to make the conversation sparkle.

“It’s been mild for the time of year, hasn’t it?”

I laid out some cones gathered from a giant redwood and drilled holes in them.

“The Autumn colours have been lovely, but the leaves are falling now.”

So far, so good.  I was having a nice catch-up with John and being creative at the same time.  I felt positively smug.

Looking at the decorations however, they seemed very…brown.

A little gold paint would make it SO much better.

I found a half-used spray can. Unfortunately the gold paint had formed a crust which meant I couldn’t depress the nozzle. 

I pressed down harder.

Suddenly, there was a crunch and the nozzle was now stuck down, in spray mode.  Gold paint was bubbling everywhere and pooling on the worktop. 

I gave up trying to have a civilised conversation.

“Oh no.  This is the only gold paint I’ve got!  I have to use it.  So I’m putting my hands in it and rubbing it over the pine cones…It’s going everywhere.  I look as if I’ve been in a punch-up with Tinkerbell – and lost!”

Judging by the chuckles from the other end of the phone, I think John enjoyed my combination of craftwork and phone call rather more than our usual sedate chat.

And the paint did stop coming out eventually.

 

Unsung Heroes of Lockdown

The new Lockdown stole up on me unexpectedly.  I hadn’t been watching the ‘r’ number, and it did all seem to happen swiftly.  But I guess that’s all part of the exponential curve with which we’ve grown so familiar.

However, sometimes it is good things which arrive unheralded. 

This Autumn I’ve enjoyed seeing the bright fly agaric toadstools near our home which live most of the year invisible beneath the soil as hyphae.

Field maples are scrubby hedgerow trees, but around now their foliage is pure gold.

Spindle trees are insignificant bushes most of the year, but in Autumn their leaves turn fiery shades, and they yield fabulous pink berries which split to reveal orange seeds.

The wild stinking iris has a drab brown-purple flower, but right now its seed pods are splitting open and showing off their magnificent scarlet seeds.

So I guess there are wonderful things out there - we just have to wait for the time to be right and to keep looking out for them.

 

 

Lend your support to the campaign to save Symondshyde Woods

http://www.save-symondshyde.co.uk/

Climate and Ecological Emergency Bill – please help your planet

Please follow the links below (which will take you swiftly and easily through to your MP’s email) and ask your MP to support the Climate and Ecological Emergency Bill which will be debated during this session of Parliament.

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The Toilet Slime Incident

 

At the moment, when we think about our personal safety, we think of hand gel & face masks.

So it took me by surprise to find myself lying flat on my back at the bottom of some steps.  Nigel and I were having a half term break, walking near Falmouth.  My boots were very muddy and when I spotted the steps, I thought I’d go down to the river to get the worst off.  I noted with interest the strongly built home-made handrail.  However, I did not hold onto it.  I realised only as I described an arc through the air that this rail had been a sign that the steps were extremely slippery.

It had all happened so quickly that Nigel thought I had disappeared into thin air. 

‘I’m down here’ I called, hollowly.

Bruise on bottom and on elbow.

Two days later, we walked from Malpas along the Tresillian River.  I was now much more alert and successfully negotiated at speed a narrow path slick with puddles, lumpy with tree roots and blocked by fallen pines. 

On the way back, I decided to use the public loo at St Clements.  Set on a level concrete platform, it should have presented no hazard.  However as I turned sharply to enter, I felt the now familiar sensation of flying through the air. 

On close inspection (eye level, in fact) I could see the area was covered in green algae and was beyond slippery.

Bruise on knee and same elbow.

This time Nigel was at hand to haul me to my feet.

‘At least the last fall was sort-of wholesome and open-air,’ he opined, ‘Not like this time - slipping in toilet slime.’

Which I believe is known as ‘adding insult to injury.’

 

Lend your support to the campaign to save Symondshyde Woods

http://www.save-symondshyde.co.uk/

Climate and Ecological Emergency Bill – please help your planet

Please follow the links below (which will take you swiftly and easily through to your MP’s email) and ask your MP to support the Climate and Ecological Emergency Bill which will be debated during this session of Parliament.

Find everything you need to take part here: https://digitalrebellion.uk/cee-bill

She Stoops to Conquer

 

Every year, we go to glean chestnuts in the local woods.  I use them in all sorts of vegetarian and vegan dishes over the winter.  We realised they were ripe now and if we didn’t go soon, we would miss out.

I’d committed to a teaching conference at the weekend (on Zoom), so we couldn’t get away to the woods until almost dusk on Saturday.  We would have to be quick or the car park would shut with our car inside. 

We headed for the best spot and began combing the ground for the green spiny cases.  They always remind me of the land-bound version of sea-urchins.  But the only land-urchins we found had already been split open.

Many people and even more deer had been there before us.  The deer always leave the case spread out with the silky lining showing, like a pale star, completely cleaned of chestnuts. People do a less thorough job and leave small nuts behind.

Empty-handed, we rushed back to the car before we got locked in.

The following day, the conference again stretched into the afternoon, but when I got out, I remembered a new spot.  I’d discovered it a couple of weeks earlier, by the usual expedient of spotting other foragers and asking them what they were collecting. 

However, it was a long walk to get there and would there still be chestnuts?

In the green gloom of the woods, it turned out that there were.  Plenty of them.

And it allowed Nigel to make the annual repetition of one of his favourite puns.  As I bent to pick up a chestnut, ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘She stoops to conker.’

NB Despite Nigel's terrible pun, conkers ( AKA) Horse chestnuts are not edible. It was the delicious sweet chestnuts that I was collecting. 

 

Lend your support to the campaign to save Symondshyde Woods

http://www.save-symondshyde.co.uk/

Climate and Ecological Emergency Bill – please help your planet

Please follow the links below (which will take you swiftly and easily through to your MP’s email) and ask your MP to support the Climate and Ecological Emergency Bill which will be debated during this session of Parliament.

Find everything you need to take part here: https://digitalrebellion.uk/cee-bill

Birthday with Trees

 There have a lot of trees in my life this year. 

Just before Lockdown, Perran and I visited ‘Among the Trees’, an exhibition at the Hayward Gallery.

Twice this year, we’ve done the tree trail in our local park, and my tree identification has got much sharper.

I’ve read:

Ghost Trees by Bob Gilbert

The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Woehlleben

Wildwood by Richard Deakin

The Overstory by Richard Powers

I’ve produced reviews on books about trees both for Radio Verulam and for the St Albans Podcast.

And I’ve written a short story for WRITERSREBEL – Tree Girl.

So I didn’t mind at all when we decided to keep my birthday celebrations outdoors and visited the brightly coloured Autumn trees of Kew Gardens.  What could be nicer!

And as the evenings draw in, I am looking forward to the October finale as the trees around me turn to gold and bronze and I think I shall read ‘The sixteen trees of the Somme’ by Lars Mytting (passed on to me recently by my neighbour Alex).

 

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Lofty Thoughts

Everybody has one job they really hate.  Maybe defrosting the freezer or cleaning out the recycling bins.  (Although that last one now makes me smile since  I heard somebody suggest that the disgusting liquid left at the bottom of a bin should henceforce be know as ‘Farage’.)

For me, it’s turning out the loft.

I worry I may have hoarder tendencies.  And disturbing the layered strata of stored possessions in the loft brings me face to face with this dark side of myself. 

Best left alone.

So I tell Nigel it is a task which could, indeed MUST, be postponed – the longer we leave it, the easier it will be to see what we don’t need any more.

But faced with a rainy Saturday in the Covid season, Nigel would no longer accept my excuses.

He unhooked the hatch and lowered the Ladder of Doom.

However, to my own surprise, I discovered I had been right. 

While the loft hatch remained unopened, we had quietly passed a life stage. 

Up there was a stack of boxes containing modest household items such as mirrors, lampshades and small shelves.  All things we had no place for after downsizing.  But we had held onto them in case the offspring wanted them. 

However, it’s clear to us that they have now passed that needy phase of being students and new graduates and have accumulated a basic kit of belongings.  Meaning that a whole bunch of stuff can be put on Free-cycle and go off to a new home, thus freeing up the loft.

And we have, at last, found the mattress-topper which we stored up there in 2016 and have been trying to find again since 2018.

 

 

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Please follow the links below (which will take you swiftly and easily through to your MP’s email) and ask your MP to support the Climate and Ecological Emergency Bill which will be debated during this session of Parliament.

Find everything you need to take part here: https://digitalrebellion.uk/cee-bill