The Mezquita mosque, Cordoba

If I made a list of the wonders of the modern world this Mezquita mosque would be on it. The prelude to the amazing building itself was the courtyard of orange trees, bright with ripe fruit and fragrant with blossom, punctuated by fountains and cypress trees.

Inside, hundreds of columns and arches replicated the trees.

This manmade orange grove was so large, extended three times by various caliphs, that one lost one's sense of direction until, suddenly one broke through into a much taller chamber.

Later, Christian, monarchs had plonked a soaring, rumbustious Gothic cathedral down literally in the centre of this massive mosque, flying buttresses crashing down into the sacred space.

From within the mosque, however, the cathedral was a well kept secret until one actually entered it. Yet later, when we climbed the bell tower and looked out, its extra height made it the most obvious feature of the place.

Again and again we looked back at the magic trick of a cathedral within a mosque  - simultaneously both concealed and yet standing out. 

Probably it is a metaphor for something, but I have no idea what.

The curse of Mr Sniffles

Our train journey to Barcelona took six hours. We had delightful window seats in the upper storey of the train and enjoyed watching the views and getting some work done.

Except for one thing. In the seat just behind Nigel was a man relentlessly blowing his nose, coughing and sneezing.

For the whole of the journey.

 I remembered far too late that I brought masks in my bag for just such an eventuality.

We couldn't see him but nicknamed him Mr Sniffles. At one point we heard him get up, probably to visit the buffet car. We both peered to see what our Nemesis looked like. He was in early middle age and wearing cream jeans ripped to reveal what appeared to be black rubber leggings underneath. On his top half, a cream sweater with a motif knitted into it in silver lurex. It was a skull and crossbones.

Miraculously Nigel did not contract the cold, but a few days later when I felt my throat grow sore, I remembered the skull and crossbones, harbinger, if not of death, at least of a nasty cold.

PS just wanted to say that this could equally have happened on a plane and wasn't a consequence of train travel. Perhaps Mr Sniffles was also an eco warrior!

on safari at Doñana

We were visiting Doñana National Park for the extraordinary wildlife there. Most of the park could be accessed only by tour so at crack of dawn we joined a guide and maybe 20 others to tour the southern part of the park where land met sea.

The guide, who was also our driver, was clearly used to people who were only mildly interested in wildlife. He amused himself by pretending we were on an African safari.

'Today, we shall be viewing lions and giraffes.'

When another minibus came towards us, 'Here we have a green elephant.'

When we passed a group who had got out, 'And here is a group of primates.'

However, despite his idiosyncrasies, he did show us a number of wildlife wonders the most unforgettable of which were a great number of gryphon vultures circling in a tall column, an osprey hunting fish along the shore, and a huge Spanish Imperial eagle sat solemnly beside its nest.

And we certainly would not have seen the last of these on an African safari.

Flamingos or horses

At the town of El Rocio two rivers meet and there is a large lake which has not been dried out by the drought. 

I stood transfixed, my back to the town, with my binoculars fixed on flocks of flamingos (flamencos) and spoonbills, glossy Ibis and black winged stilt. (I could go on. And on.)

However, gradually I became aware of lots of gallopy and trotty  noises  behind me. My assumption had been that El Rocio would be famed for its flamingos and that's why anybody would visit.

But no, it was the town of horses. Horses are 'farmed' semi-wild here, in a manner similar to New Forest ponies. The streets of the town are composed of sand to suit the horses and many houses have wooden bars for tying your horse outside, like a saloon in a spaghetti western. 

People were taking excursions in horses and traps and riding horses down the street at much higher speed than would be acceptable in a Cotswold town.

My grandfather, who bred horses, would have been in seventh heaven.

The town had thoughtfully provided a wooden rail along the lakeside to divide dozy flamingo watchers like me from crazy equestrians, possibly following previous regrettable incidents.

So I was able to turn back to watching my pink feathered friends in peace.

The great cat of Spain

I had heard there would be amazing water birds at Doñana national park. As you've gathered, I'm a bit of a bird nurd, but even somebody who wasn't might thrill at the prospect of flocks of pink flamingos.

But with wildlife tourism one must always hold anticipation in check, as birds and animals don't appear to order and disappointment is frequent.

First we visited the el Acebuche reserve but there were no water birds at all as the marsh had dried up.  

However, we were excited to find that Acebuche was a captive breeding centre for the famous endangered Iberian lynxes.

These creatures are so well camouflaged with their spotted pelts that we were unable to see the one in the enclosure. Even with the help of a professional naturalist and a telescope trained on the creature, it took several minutes of us going '¿donde?' and her going '¡alli!'

Finally, a patch of dappled sunlight resolved itself into a sleepy great cat.

'There she is!'

So if it was that difficult to see the lynx  - the large iconic animal of the area, just how difficult was I going to find it track down flamingos tomorrow?

No holiday from climate change

Always conscious of climate change, Nigel and I came on this trip by train not plane - we no longer fly. Despite the challenges of Andalusian cuisine, we have been eating as vegetarian as possible. But we had planned to enjoy our holiday and for a few days to forget about our worries, including climate change.

Nigel's Spanish colleagues had recommended we visit Doñana National Park on the Atlantic Coast west of Cadiz. Here, acres of marshland play host to thousands of water birds migrating north from Africa. Many breed here on the edges of the fertile lakes. There would be flamingos!

However, when we reached the Achebue Visitor Centre, all was not well. The map showed a series of blue splodges with bird hides beside them. But where these lakes should have been there was only dry heathland. Tiny pink and yellow flowers had grown on long, wispy stalks and stone chats abounded everywhere. But there should have been water.

The rangers in the visitor centre who seemed friendly, but distracted and a little sad explained to us.  

Apparently, climate change meant the rains had been too brief. Plus agriculture had then extracted too much water from the aquifer. Instead of being a marshy paradise, the area was threatened with desertification. 

We went on to find a river which still had water, and consequently a wildlife spectacle worthy of Attenborough, but we were mindful we might be seeing some of the last of this special area.

It seems none of us can take a holiday from climate change.

From the very edge to the very centre

The Roman emperor Hadrian was born very close to Seville. 

Last year, Nigel and I walked Hadrian's Wall in Cumbria and Northumberland - the very outskirts of his empire,  watched by wary sheep as we paced the rugged boundary. 

This year, however, we visited Hadrian's birthplace, the very heart of civilisation, in Italica, once the third biggest city of the Roman empire (after Rome and Alexandria). In Italica, huge houses, furnished with the most elegant mosaics, were ranged around garden courtyards. Our friend Hilary told us to look out for a mosaic with 32 panels showing life-like portrayals of birds. We found it and lingered, identifying the species. 

But the thing that struck me most in Italica was the public baths. The Italica baths are extensive.  But this is one highlight of Roman life that IS found even at Hadrian's Wall - life on the frontier was conducted without courtyard gardens and exquisite mosaics, but a life without a hot communal bathhouse was not contemplated. The baths at Chesters Roman fort were much smaller than those at Italica, but surely, in the Northumbrian cold, twice as welcome.

Not a proper patio

When I hear the word 'patio' I picture the paved area in our backyard.  Essentially it is hardstanding for our picnic table and pots of herbs.

I was therefore intrigued to hear that Seville had especially beautiful patios. Just what did that mean?  Did they perhaps have integral barbecues? Or a discreet pebble fountain au Titchmarsh?

What I found was that here a patio is a whole courtyard, fragrant with jasmine or orange trees, brightened by tiles with geometric designs (azulejos) and centered on a rippling fountain.

Andalusia was under Moorish control until the twelfth century. Even after that, the Spaniards were reluctant to relinquish the very beautiful architectural style (Mudejar), one of the things which had attracted Nigel to this area. 

To plunge through the crowded narrow streets and then come on one of these outdoor sitting rooms is to encounter an oasis.  Here, people take a moment to read a book or play with their children.

The thing however that did link these Seville patios to our own was the presence of doves. We have never visited a city where there were so many white doves, and it made it feel like home. 

Even if there was no integral barbecue.

Carmona and the talking urn

We took a day trip to Carmona, a perfect town built before the Romans, before even the Carthaginians, on a hill rising from the fertile plain where farmers cultivated olives. The white-painted town boasted baroque  churches and tall palaces, and at the Seville and Cordoba gates, massive ancient fortresses. 

In the narrow cobbled streets we spotted the double trail of candle wax droplets and the balconies draped in red, evidence that Carmona had been having its own Holy Week processions. 

But the thing I enjoyed the most was the trip to the old Roman burial ground just outside. There were grand tombs flanked by columns and water features, and modest columbaria - niches for pots holding the cremation ashes of the dead.

 But my very favourite thing was in the small site museum and the way it catered for children. At the bottom of each information board there was a cartoon character with a speech bubble giving a shortened version of the caption. 

I stood scratching my head wondering just what this cartoon character was supposed to represent. And then, I spotted in a display case, the thing it had been modelled on. There were several terracotta boxes like simple houses with roof-lids.

 They were made to hold the bones and ash of the cremated dead. 

The museum had chosen to enhance kiddies' visits with a picture of a talking cremation urn!

Human tapas

We were so sad that our timing was slightly out and we were doomed to miss the famous Easter Parades of the religious brotherhoods in Seville. 

We had seen pictures of the 'Nazarenes' wearing pointed Klan-style hoods, parading the narrow Mediaeval streets, a great ornate silver cross at the front of each procession, a massive Baroque float at the rear, bearing Mary in all her glory surrounded by candles and vases of white flowers, each accompanied by a separate marching band. How disappointed we were that we would miss it. 

Until we discovered that it all kicked off while we were still there on Palm Sunday (Domingo de Ramos). We discovered this by being trapped heel to toe, nose to back-of-head with hundreds of thousands of Spanish people as we tried very hard to get from A to B.  A (our hotel) should only have been eight minutes from B (the restaurant), but under these conditions, it took over an hour and a half. Every so often we managed to break free and scuttle down an unfrequented alley, only to become wedged in another knot of people, with the distant view of pointed hats parading slowly past the end of the street. It felt like being trapped in a particularly fiendish level of a computer game.

At one point, when we were forced to bide still, a lovely young woman who was an English teacher explained to me that there was a brotherhood (hermanidad) associated with each neighborhood church.  The people wearing the pointed hoods were Nazarenes or penitents. For le Paz, which was the group we were watching, there were two thousand Nazarenes and around five thousand other supporters, present in their Sunday best.  The Nazarenes trudged around the city for many hours, day and night, some barefoot, some carrying crosses. The tall hoods hid their identity and pointed to God. They were thus not claiming admiration for their act of penitence.

By the time we returned from our restaurant at night, the streets were even more packed. 

However, what really struck me was that the whole festival still had religion at its heart. There was little visible drunkenness, the young people's smart clothes were colourful and tight but displayed little flesh. And touchingly, whenever a Mary float was heaved past, the boisterous crowd shushed one another, crossed themselves, and watched in respectful silence.

La Giralda

There were no warning signs at the entrance at the foot of the Giralda - a tower 104 meters high.

But that's ridiculous I thought. Someone with a heart condition or weak knees might set off to climb the tower.

However the tower had been designed to allow donkeys to climb it carrying people or goods.  Therefore the ascent was achieved not by a precipitous staircase but by a series of thirty-five shallow ramps.

The stream of people ascending ran alongside the line of people descending, each keeping to their respective right. So if one felt tired it appeared easy to swap over and return to the ground. 

The fact that each stage was manageable and that starting the climb did not require a big commitment meant that a huge number of people attained the top of the tower. 

As we jostled elbows for a view from one of the windows at the top we realised just how many people of all ages had made it.

Perhaps humans would achieve more if all aspects of life were designed with donkeys in mind.

Arrival, Seville

In the past, before we became aware of climate change we used to fly. I always thought it a miracle to be in grey, rainy London in the morning and somewhere bursting with heat and light in the afternoon. 

This time we took the train. It was still a miracle of modern travel to be able to say 'Only yesterday morning we were in grey rainy London.'

When we arrived in the heat and light of Seville  what struck me was the scent of orange blossom and wisteria in the  courtyards (patios) and the shrill gleeful cry of swifts hurtling through the high narrow streets. We were not just in another country but in another season - summer.

And as we trotted round the cobbled streets orienting ourselves, we stumbled on a band of flamenco musicians and dancers busking. Their twitching, stamping clicking dance held us spellbound. 

Not just a different season, but a different world.  

And I'm glad we reached it by train. The luxury of going on holiday abroad is costly but it should not literally cost us the earth.

I do not like green eggs and ham

I don't know how many years Nigel has been dreaming of a trip to southern Spain.

Finally we are going. He has prepared the itinerary - Seville, Donana, Cordoba & Granada, all by train, not plane for climate reasons.

For my part, I have learned rudimentary Spanish using Duolingo and an audio book. To learn Spanish is something I have wanted to do, also for a number of years but finally I had a good reason to invest the time. 

I love the sensation of learning a lot of new material in a short time. It has invigorated my brain and cheered me at a grey time when older family members have been ill and causing concern.

However, the early lessons focused weirdly on an item of food I hope I am never called on actually to consume - la hamburguesa con pescado.

'What would you like?'

'I would like a hamburger with fish.'

OR

'What do you have?'

'I have a hamburger with fish.'

Dear Spanish people, 

we anticipate that your usual cuisine may cause us to compromise our vegetarianism. However, please do keep your hamburguesa con pescado to yourselves. I really don't like the sound of it.

No gracias.

Clare

Departure

It is always difficult to leave on holiday. Particularly now with the spring bulbs pushing up in our garden - blue hyacinths and yellow daffodils recalling the flag of Ukraine. 

In the pond, frogspawn (see pic).

In the nestbox, blue tits.

In the dove cote eggs have been laid - there will be chicks by the time we return.

We will miss Easter at our church.

There are some climate events we won't be there to support.

But I guess the regrets attendant on parting are a good thing. They mean we inhabit our lives enthusiastically, rather than constantly seeking to escape.

At least we know our lovely guests are house-sitting for us, watering pot plants and seedlings, refilling the wild bird feeders.

As we prepare to depart I soothe myself by visualising our return. Our rooms in the house are tidier than usual so we can come in and relax. 

And we'll be back in no time.

How I lost the battle of Mother's Day

Each year I become Mumzilla and insist on a Mother's day outing featuring at least two of my three children. (Use this link for outing ten years ago)

Last year we visited Sissinghurst  and this year we planned to build on the Vita Sackville-West theme.  Carenza and I had watched Orlando - both the current West End play and the Tilda Swinton film adapted from the Virginia Woolf novella in which she made clear her adoration of Vita.  Our Mother’s Day outing would be to Knole, the great Tudor pile which inspired Orlando.

Perran had a plausible alibi for Mother’s Day itself, so we went a week early.  Allowable slippage I thought. 

However, it turned out to be just the beginning of the rot setting in.

One of the purposes of having a Mother’s Day outing is to avoid the church service where all women are given a brightly coloured polyanthus.  (Something really annoys me about it, but I can’t put my finger on what.)   This year I had to contract an actual cold to get out of it.  Made me miserable for a few days, but worth it.

Then Pascoe’s Mother’s Day card arrived, adding a new layer of weirdness.  He had given a photo of me to an AI program and asked it to make me into a Roman lady (as I am a Classics teacher).  Unfortunately, he had selected a picture where I was holding a hedgehog (why?), which then rather dominated – see pic.

Maybe I should give Mother’s Day a rest.  After all, apart from grumbling and sending the occasional WhatsApp, I’m doing very little mothering nowadays – except of course, when I find an orphaned hedgehog.

 

 

I wanna thank you

On Saturday, Nigel and I listened to R4’s Saturday Live.  We particularly enjoy the ‘Thank you’ spot. This time it was about somebody who had slipped and broken their leg on a cliff path.  A passing hiker had stopped, rung for help and waited with them until the paramedics arrived. ‘At the time, I was just so relieved to be taken to hospital, I forgot to even ask your name.  But whoever you were, thank you.’

Later, we were walking in some quiet woods when we heard a piercing cry.  The gut-wrenching screaming went on and on.  It wasn’t quite human, but what on earth was it?  Whatever it was, it was in great distress, so we pushed our fear aside and hurried towards it.

At a fork in the path, a woman was holding tight to a labrador, restraining it.  Close by, a man was struggling with a large-mesh fence.  Stuck half way through the fence was a muntjac deer, a buck from his pronged antlers.  The dog had startled the deer into the fence and the animal was trapped and fighting with extraordinary strength and making that blood-curdling sound. 

Nigel helped in attempting to dislodge the terrified muntjac.  It was quite a wrestling match and as it finally came free, its antler caught Nigel’s hand causing three nasty gashes.  It bounded off into the undergrowth at top speed. 

The other couple thanked us profusely, but we wondered if we might ever hear from the deer – perhaps one day on Saturday Live…

‘I was in quite a hurry to get going, and I’m afraid I didn’t thank you properly.  And I’m so sorry - I think I may have accidentally caught your hand with one of my antlers.  Anyway, my freedom today is all down to you, and I just want to say Thank you.’

Cross-dressing drama

 I was to meet Pascoe in Liverpool for a mother/son weekend.  I checked out the theatres.  Most were between shows.  Pascoe found some great stand-up, but it was fully booked.  Eventually we settled for The Everyman Playhouse – Death Drop 2 – back in the habit – a show featuring several well-known drag queens and set in a nunnery.  This didn’t really sound like high culture and I worried it might be so rude it made my hair stand on end.  However, I told myself it would be a new experience.

I was much more confident about the outing I had booked for Nigel and I just the evening before in London.  This was high-brow –a dramatisation of Plato’s Symposium at the Bloomsbury Theatre, put on by students of University College, London.  This was to be a philosophical dialogue about the nature of love.

However, when we got there, the cast of male philosophers was played entirely by young women who acted with gusto and humorous asides to engage the audience. 

Looking back, I think I laughed more at the cross-dressing Plato, but only because so many of the drag-queen references in Death Drop 2 whistled straight over my head.

And which was more educational?  Well, I learned quite a lot at each.  But in VERY different ways.

Valentine's Day treat.

Private jets are one of the most flagrant emitters of massive amounts of carbon.  The busiest day for taking a private jet is Valentine's Day. This refutes the claim that VIPs are using them only for trips vital for business and politics. 

Frankly, they are happy for the rest of us to drown as sea levels rise or to scorch in heatwaves. They are rich enough to have insulated mansions on high ground with guards to protect their food stores. 

So for our Valentine's Day, Nigel and I and around forty friends carried out an act of love for the planet and demonstrated outside the two most-used private jet terminals in the country, at Luton.

Faced with the problem of cutting free people who had locked themselves to a boat and to oil drums, the police made no arrests. 

We were among friends and when the Samba band arrived and the sun came out, and a member of airport security brought us some chocolate biscuits, it was really rather lovely. 

I certainly enjoyed it more than an overpriced dinner in a crowded restaurant and a dozen wilting roses.

Whatever happened to Twinnyness?

We celebrated Perran and Carenza's birthday by going to the Making Modernism exhibition at the RA. (Thanks to MaryBeeArt for the recommendation.) Four women artists made extraordinary work at a time when to be called a great artist you had to have a pair of testacles.

Two of the paintings were of twins, but as babies. It's true that now Perran and Carenza are very much adults, people rarely congratulate me on my multiple birth, or say , 'You've got your hands full.'

Even in the cafe where we went for lunch afterwards, the waitress heard us discussing 'the birthday' and brought a single scoop of tiramisu with a candle....and set it in front of Carenza. Perran (who actually made the booking) said, 'And it's my birthday too,' only to have the waitress smile non-comitally, as if he were some kind of dessert fraudster.

So does twinnyness really diminish in adulthood? 

Not at all.

The twins arrived at the RA from different parts of London - although they hadn't seen each other that day, they were nattily dressed to match, both in baggy black trousers and outsize jackets.

Twinergy.

Murmuration-ed

Murmurations are when starlings miraculously fly together in a flock tens of thousands strong. As they swirl, group and regroup they create a liquid geometry of patterns in the sky.

 

The time to see this is December or January, just before sunset, since it is pre-roosting behaviour.

Nick and Jackie reported good views of a murmuration from just outside their village Spar.  I asked if we could please visit, and as the day dimmed we arrived to join several dozen of their neighbours.

 

Over twenty thousand starlings created their stunning formations against the backdrop of a flaming sunset.  People oohed as if they were watching fireworks.

But then as the sun sank, the starlings began to funnel down into a small stand of hedgerow.

Between us and the hedgerow was a tiny cottage.

 

‘Are all those thousands of birds landing in that person’s back garden?’

‘How can there possibly be space for them?’

‘I expect they make quite a mess too.’

 

As we were conjecturing, a delivery van drew up outside the little house.  The driver was hesitant – the number of spectators made it look as there had been an incident.

 

Finally he got out and knocked.  The luckless homeowner appeared, only to be faced by around fifty of her neighbours brandishing binoculars and phone cams, like being papped. 

 

She accepted a large box from the courier and disappeared swiftly back inside.

‘What do you think was in the box?’

Speculation raged.

The most positive suggestion was ‘starling food’ (Jackie), the most negative, ‘a peregrine falcon’ (me).

Either way, I did feel a little sorry for the woman.  Much as I love starlings, I don’t think I would ever wish to be ‘murmurated’.

video courtesy of Nigel

 

A flock of one's own

For years I have met my friends every two to three weeks for a walk.  We have it in common that we like to tramp along a footpath and spot interesting features of nature, geology or archaeology.  One of the tenets of our friendship is that we hugely prefer this to shopping or meeting for coffee in the town centre.

Over the Covid period, we would travel in separate cars rather than risk infecting one another, so it was greener to stay close to home.  Our adventures were curtailed, and we beat the same dull muddy bounds again and again.

Over the last few months, however, we’ve started to bundle into one car and go a little further and see a little more.

Recent highlights include a spectacular sunset murmuration of jackdaws, rooks and crows near Wimpole Hall, and a flock of hundreds of fieldfares and redwing devouring ivy berries in a hedgerow near Hitchin.  We also stood in slow-breathing silence as a goldcrest hunted insects on hazel twigs just in front of our noses. 

Last Friday, we spent some time simply puzzling over the curious ice structures which had formed in puddles on a track.  Now that’s my kind of girls’ day out!

A Midwinter Night’s Dream

Each year, our old university friends meet to catch up with one another and also to commemorate our friends who died young – Malcolm, Steve and Hugh.

This year, we struggled to reach a consensus. 

Proposals included:

A starling murmuration in Brighton – too far to travel for some,

Hieroglyphics at the BM – out of bounds to those of us who disapprove of oil company BP greenwashing themselves by sponsoring exhibitions.

Cezanne at the Tate Modern – popular, but already seen by some.

Avatar II at Leicester Square – other audience members seem not to like it when we chat.

Magdalena Abakanowicz – Tate Modern -  a major artist of the 20^th century (and beyond) whom we all should have heard of, but never had.

 

In the end, we split between Cezanne, Hieroglyphics and Abakanowicz.

Although we meet in midwinter, it often feels like a Midsummer Night ‘s Dream, with people at cross purposes, popping up in odd corners of galleries and narrowly missing one another.  A bunch of us were at the Tate when somebody spotted the contingent from the BM arriving just outside.  Several people rushed out to meet them, but since it was nearly closing time, were not allowed back in.  Meanwhile another group of us waited fruitlessly in the Turbine Hall beneath a massive arrangement of hanging white fabric, lace and nets said to represent the knot language of South American indigenous peoples.

However, finally we regrouped fully for dinner.  And reassuringly, we reenacted the ritual of many years when, as usual, despite some of us having impressive credentials in mathematics, we were unable to match our payments to the bill. 

Photo shows Annabel, Stephen and an Abakan (one of the monumental textile sculptures of Magdalena Abakanowicz).

Blowing away the cobwebs

 

My post-Christmas blog last year was rather melancholy – reluctantly waving goodbyes to my children and hauling down the decs the moment they were gone.  I expected to feel the same this year and had been strategising some midwinter cheer for myself.  However, this year I don’t feel so wistful and gloomy.

After three disrupted Christmases I was expecting Covid, flu, snow or strikes to scupper our modest domestic plans once more, but somehow they didn’t. The fact is, Pascoe, Perran and Carenza all arrived and at last we spent Christmas Day together and even several days either side of the festival itself.  Decorating the tree, roast dinner (veggie of course!), muddy walks and parlour games all happened.

I know myself to have been thoroughly Christmased, and the result is that I feel more buoyant, even despite the annual festival of sheet washing after the offspring have gone.  And best of all, the two none-work days after New Year have allowed Nigel and I to get out and blow away the cobwebs.

In the low, slanting sunlight I can already sense the days lengthening once more…

Courtroom Drama

Last Thursday – Friday Nigel was in court.  He and colleagues Sue and Phil had super-glued themselves to Barclays’ window to protest against the fact that Barclays is Europe’s largest funder of new fossil fuel extraction, a massive driver of the global rise in temperatures and sea levels.

These court cases are quite frustrating – the audio-visual equipment for viewing evidence usually doesn’t work and a lawyer has to show everybody on their little laptop.  On this occasion the judge’s microphone also didn’t work and the defendants hadn’t been sent all the necessary paperwork, again, quite usual.

To stave off the boredom, I took some embroidery.  Supporters of climate protesters get an extra thorough search on the way in, so I’d already had my embroidery scissors confiscated, but was still stitching away at the back when, during a lull, I caught the judge’s eye.

‘Somebody has brought a dangerous implement into the court!’  she announced.  I looked around me in surprise before realising she was referring to my embroidery needle.  As the court usher marched towards me, I zipped it into my bag and tried to look innocent. He let me keep it.

Nigel, Sue and Phil, however, were not so lucky - they were found guilty of criminal damage because the police’s de-bonding agent temporarily left some smeary marks on the glass when mixed with the super glue (now all nicely cleaned up).

The whole experience leads me to the question, who is more dangerous – a woman embroidering, three non-violent protesters glued to a window, or a vast multinational bent on profiteering from causing irreparable damage to the planet?

For much greener banks, try Nationwide or Triodos.

A Haven of Welcome

  
There is something very special about the house of friends – a haven where you know you are welcome.  Carolyn and David’s house in Gateshead has been that to us ever since we met when sharing the experience of new parenthood thirty years ago.

For twenty-four years however, we have been living in different regions, hundreds of miles apart.

Over that time, the generations have rolled over and the families have developed through different phases in their life cycle.

We have met the changes in our own family by moving from one house to another, whereas David and Carolyn have extended and adapted the same house in an inventive manner. This time when we visited, a room that I remember was a bathroom thirty years ago had become a bathroom once more, whereas the bathroom which long ago replaced it had morphed into the dining room.

I wished for a time lapse film that tracked the expansion of both family and house.

However, when we visited recently, the person who recalled most to us the first days of our friendship was somebody we had never met before - Lydia, one of their young grandchildren, busied herself with toys that once Hannah and Pascoe had played with and over her head we smiled at one another

Advent - a blessing

 

In the past, Advent was a time of fasting and contemplation, allowing people to prepare themselves spiritually for the Christmas celebration to follow, rather as Lent is a time to prepare for Easter.

Now, lights and baubles surround us even before Advent starts and many Christmas parties are over by the second week in December. 

In CS Lewis' much loved children's book, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Narnia was under a curse whereby it was always winter and never Christmas.

Nowadays we seem to be under a spell where it is always Christmas and never Advent.

No wonder that when Christmas Day arrives, we are often frazzled - instead of a sense of wonder, I have a sense of disappointment - somehow I have cheated myself of the 'true meaning of Christmas'.

This year, I'm going to try to take the bustle and preparations with a pinch of salt.  Whatever I manage to do, it will have to be good enough.  And actually, because my friends and family are kind and forgiving people, it WILL be good enough.

So in 2022, I am making a pre-New Year's resolution to find some space and stillness in Advent.

Photo shows Nigel & our friend Carolyn with a giant robin at Gibside.

The pleasures of giving blood

Today was really rushed, with a thousand small-yet-important errands and tasks jostling my brain, and on top of everything else, I had made an appointment to give blood. 

However, once there, my hectic day slowed right down – the first task was to have a long, cool drink of squash while glancing at a list of activities to avoid in case they made you faint.  After filling in a form with a smug long list of ‘No’s (no intravenous drug use, recent tattoos, sex with intravenous drug users), I was settled into a reclining seat and a line attached to my arm, tethering me to the spot.

Whatever tasks beckoned, I could now do none of them.  Hits of the eighties played gently, and I scrolled casually through the book I am reading on my phone.  Apart from remembering to squeeze my fist, I was relieved of all duties for a number of precious minutes.  It was not unlike being at the hairdressers, although without the glossy mags.

And afterwards, I was commanded to sit still for a bit and have another lovely drink of squash and a cheering bag of crisps. 

The only thing that nearly ruined this period of me-time was when I saw that the snack selected by the woman next to me was a delicious chocolatey waggon-wheel. 

‘Nobody told me there were waggon-wheels!’ I wanted to shout. 

However, I took a deep breath and resumed my calmness.  After all, I wouldn’t want to faint, would I? 

Poppies

I wore a white poppy this year – given me by my friend Davina. At the green heart of the paper bloom, it says PEACE.

It is an anti-war, pacifist poppy.

But isn’t that disrespectful to the many thousands who gave their lives for this country in the First and Second World Wars and more recent conflicts? 

I don’t think so.  For me, remembering those who died makes it even more imperative there should be no more wars.  No more husbands, sons and brothers, no more wives, daughters and sisters should be lost. I suspect very few of the casualties, if able to have their say now, would clamour for more war.

When we walk on Coombe Hill in the Chilterns, we pass a memorial from the Boer War (pictured above), a conflict in South Africa where the British as a colonial power tried to oust the Dutch, their rivals. This is not a glorious moment in our history and is little talked of today, but even those Boer War soldiers died for their country in what they believed was a good cause and should be respected accordingly.

If the red poppy symbolises remembrance, then maybe the white poppy represents learning from our mistakes.  Maybe next year I shall wear both together.

Turning Sixty

 Earlier this month I turned sixty. 

Several weeks have elapsed and I now feel familiar enough with sixty to submit a review.

I’m not sure how many stars to give it, so I’ll work through the factors.

Pro’s

I never thought I’d still feel so young at sixty.

Learning to pace myself and to take better care of my diet, exercise and sleep – these are new skills I am acquiring and wish I’d learned earlier.

I enjoy my work, and with retirement on the horizon, much of the stress has vanished.

I have accepted who I am and have learned to be kinder to myself.

My values have crystallised, meaning I am not torn between different worlds.

Free prescriptions!

Con's

My body sometimes creaks even when I don’t know what I’ve done to cause it.

I go to more funerals now and even look forward to the tiny sandwiches.

I often do not recognise the music of current top ten artists.

 

Over all I’d probably give sixty a rating of four stars

So I’ll just submit my review now – but where to?

I shall go away and look for the metaphysical version of Trip Adviser.

What Integrity Looks Like

 

I recently attended the funeral of my 97 year old friend John.  There are pleasures to be found in the funeral of somebody who lived as long and well as he did - most especially hearing the life story of the departed person.

John’s story, told by his children, was remarkable in being entirely consistent.  His strong Christian faith led him to uphold the rights of others and to defend the underdog.

World War Two found him a pacifist.

Worthwhile work as a missionary led him to Uganda.

Marriage showed him a feminist, supporting his wife in continuing with her work as a doctor.

Fatherhood was a role he shouldered fully.

 

It is this consistency in John’s values and behaviour which adds up to the precious quality of integrity.

 

When, eleven years ago, John became confined to a wheelchair, I questioned how such an active man could bear it. Problems with eyesight meant he lacked even the consolation of reading. 

But his mental furniture came to the rescue. He knew many works of literature almost by heart and even on his death bed introduced me to a Robert Frost poem I had not read. 

He would say that he was re-reading a certain book but in fact he was going over it in his mind.

Others might grumble at being wheelchair bound, but not John.  To a man of such integrity, the long stretch of stillness each day was an opportunity.  He prayed – for his family and friends and for our church, but also for the many parts of the country and of the world afflicted by troubles.

Much missed, John is now a torch for me, lighting the way into old age.

Hag Stones

 

We just had a family weekend in Norfolk.

 

On the beach were a huge number of flints, rolled and tumbled by the tide, some smoothed into spheres, others fractured to reveal their ochre hearts. It was flints like this which influenced sculptors Henry Moore and Barbara Hepworth.

 

My friend Carol collects flints with holes running through them - she threads them on twine and hangs them from her fence. These perforated stones were once considered magical. Said to ward off witches, they were called hag stones.

That day in Norfolk, I asked my family to comb the beach for very tiny hag stones – hag pebbles.

A long time ago when Pascoe was little and the twins mere toddlers we were all together, wrapped up against the cold wind, paddling on the beach below Kilimantringen

 

Lighthouse in Galloway, when Nigel handed me just such a pebble. Ever since, it has been my key fob.

 

Twenty-six years, however, have worn the hole broad and the stone thin, and someday soon it will wear through. Before that happens, I would like to have its successor lined up, and if possible, I would like it also to have been gleaned on a day when we were all together once more. 

Lucky then that we found one – another precious memory I can turn over in my pocket through the years ahead.

 

(Thank you so much, Andrew and Liz, for lending us your barn).

 

Show Your Scars

At Girton College, Cambridge there is a unique permanent exhibition called People’s Portraits.  The artists are members of the hallowed Royal Society of Portrait Painters, but the sitters who are the subjects of the paintings are ‘ordinary people’ insofar as anybody may be said to be ordinary.

A couple of weeks ago, I went with Nigel and my old friend, artist Mary Fraser @artbymarybee, to see the unveiling of the portrait of Sylvia Mac, founder of the organisation Love_Disfigure.

Having suffered severe childhood burns to her back and received a number of painful skin grafts, she grew into adulthood self-conscious of her scarring.  However, as a mature woman, she decided she could no longer live a life of concealment and began defiantly to display her body, scars and all, on social media.  She has opened up a conversation, changed hearts and minds and lent confidence to others with similar body-issues.

In this bold portrait, Alastair Adams, the artist, had worked closely with Sylvia to convey the image by which she is known – a woman who has defied her scars to become a proud and capable person. 

It has to be said, Sylvia is not only an artist’s model, but also a role model and very far from being ‘an ordinary person’.