Douth Downs Way, Day 7 Ditchling to Lewes - The bright lights of Lewes

Ever since we began our adventure a week ago, I have had my eye on this Thursday. A short walk, then an afternoon pottering about the shops and cafes of Lewes.

The morning's walking turned out to be only around seven miles. 

'Perhaps we can make it longer,'

'Absolutely not!'

An afternoon without milestones to hit was a wonderful prospect.  But when it came, it was hard to adjust to the change of pace.

Even as we began to wander the streets, I was still waiting for Nigel's Fitbit to announce 'Eight miles!' I kept feeling I had forgotten something. It was my walking poles - abandoned at the hotel.

Worst of all, our feet, instead of rejoicing at the leisurely pace, began to ache. 

We had to cut short our visit to Charleston Galleries and hobble back to the hotel.

So much for the bright lights of Lewes!

South Downs Way, Day 6 - Bramber to Ditchling - Don't mess with the yellow hats

Because the path was on a ridge the morning often began with a mile of steep uphill walking. Just outside Lewes, there were people ahead of us on the ascent.
A large mixed-sex group of people, around thirty years old, mostly wearing yellow beanies.
Some appeared to be capable walkers while others were frankly shambling. 
What did they have in common (apart from the yellow hats)?
Why were they here?
Due to their mixed abilities, they were already strung out.

'Its going to be too hard to overtake all that lot on this steep bit. And we don't want to end up in the middle of their group.  We'll just have to tuck in behind.'

But, to my horror, only minutes later, I found our normal pace had placed us in an overtaking situation.

Once begun on this course, one has to see it through, otherwise one is in the socially awkward position of walking alongside a stranger and looking as if you're trying to join their group.

On we pounded, bidding every yellow-hatted walker 'Good morning!' as we passed.
Even as we eyeballed each of them, we couldn't figure out what they were doing here. 

Finally we reached the foremost group - three young women, clearly fitter than the rest.
'We have to ask. Why the yellow hats?' I gasped.

'Oh,' replied a tall woman. 'It's my hen do and I wanted everyone to come for a walk!'
'What a lovely idea,' I panted.

But, now, having overtaken everybody, it still was not lovely for us. We had not yet reached the top of the ridge and if we slowed down, the yellow-hatted troupe would inexorably overtake us, each one bidding us 'good morning.'

'I think I'm going to die,'  I wheezed.

'You started the overtaking. Now we have to keep going!' grunted Nigel.

Day 6 became the day when we broke our own speed record!

South Downs Way, Day 5 - Amberley to Bramber - Falls!

Twice today I ended up at eye level with the chalk and flint surface of The South Downs Way. 

The first fall was when I skidded on the chalk, extremely slippery after rain. I had watched my step on the slopes, used my walking poles. But on a flat bit, with barely any incline, my legs skidded from under me.

The second was when, striding along at top speed,  the loop of my bootlace hooked onto the metal eye of the OTHER boot. I actually felt it happen, but there was nothing I could do.  I went flying and was just so relieved not to break my glasses. 

Both times, I was saved from bad cuts by the fact I was wearing fetching elasticated knee supports.

Had tiredness made me clumsy?

When we arrived at the (very hospitable) Black Horse in Amberley yesterday, we got chatting to another South Downs Way walker. He and his wife had not been on the path that day. They had dallied in the picturesque village of Amberley and taken a rest day.  

Now that is an interesting idea for future trips.

South Downs Way, Day 4 Cocking to Bignor - A Roman Discovery

If there was one historical site I was looking forward to it was Bignor Roman Villa. But the website said it was shut on the day our walk was scheduled to pass it.

To a Classics teacher with a (borderline obsessive) interest in all things Roman, this was a cruel blow.

'We'll have to come back and do this properly, and visit Bignor!' 

However, the Roman gods were kind to me. 

Slowly marching across our path on the South Downs Way was the biggest snail I ever saw. 

It was an edible snail, introduced by the Romans and still to be found in the vicinity of their villas.

I don't know which Roman god was in charge of snails, but, 'Thank you!'

Even so, we'll still have to go back to visit Bignor!

South Downs Way, Day 3 Buriton to Cocking - Friends in unexpected places

When you go on holiday, you miss a portion of your everyday life. 

As we departed on the train, I whatsapped Caroline, 'I'm so sorry I'm not around on your birthday. I'll get your card etc to you on our return.

''Don't worry,  I'm not around either. ' Simon and she were babysitting grandson Zac so their daughter and son-in-law could attend a wedding. 

On the day of Caroline's birthday we were staying  at the Bluebell in Cocking  We had been warned the kitchen was shut for the evening.

'Just take the bus into Midhurst.

'The bus into Midhurst worked fine. Except that it was the last bus of the day. When we went into a pub for an aperitif, we asked about taxis. They gave us four numbers, but a woman waiting to be served said, 'You won't get a taxi now. There's a big do on.'

As she predicted,, all the taxis were fully booked.  We rang the Bluebell and explained our plight. One of the bar staff answered and kindly offered to come and get us. But she didn't want to hand over her number, so the arrangement felt precarious. 

We were still fretting when we entered Fratelli's restaurant. It therefore took me a moment to realise that the tall man approaching me with outstretched arms was Simon. And there at a nearby table was Caroline, with Zac in a high chair. We joined them.

It turned out the big do that was occupying all the taxis was the wedding their daughter was at.  Not only was it brilliant to see Caroline and Simon and Zac, and to wish Caroline Happy Birthday in person, but they reassured us that if our lift didn't turn up, they'd run us back.  Which meant we could relax and enjoy our serendipitous evening. 

In the meantime, the woman who'd told us there'd be no taxis turned up with husband and son and occupied the next table. After Simon and Caroline left, she asked us what was going on. She was puzzled that our friends had finished their dinner whereas we had barely started. When we explained the coincidence of us converging from far-off St Alban's, she looked like she didn't quite believe us.

And I'm not sure I believe it myself!

(And in case you're wondering, the bar person from the Bluebell did come and fetch us!)

South Downs Way, Day 2 Meonstoke to Buriton - A bird in the Hand

I fancy myself as a bit of a birder.

One of our main reasons for halting as we tromp along is for me to watch a lark circling in the blue, or set my Merlin App to identify a medley of birdsong emerging from a thicket.

Today on the South Downs Way we were passing between a tree-lined hedge and a bank of tall grass. Robin and yellowhammer were singing in the hedge.

But then very loud and very close by came the unmistakable call of the eponymous chiff-chaff.

'That's weird. Chiff-chaffs usually sing from a tree but this one sounds like it's coming from the long grass.'

'Yes. It's really loud, like it's really close too.'

I thought maybe my ability to locate sounds was deteriorating with age.

'Mmm - it's playing tricks on my hearing too.' 

For a number of minutes, we peered about us for the little bird.

But finally we needed to get going.

However, as we strode on, the chiff-chaff appeared to be coming with us.

Wait a minute.

I put my hand in my pocket and drew out my phone. One of my bird apps had switched on and was playing the song of the chiff-chaff. 

A bird in the hand is said to be worth two in the bush. But what about a bird in the pocket?

South Downs Way, Day 1 - Winchester to Meonstoke - Harvey Miles

Nigel is a great optimist and a chronic underestimater of distances.

This has led, amongst our family and friends, to the concept of Harvey Miles. Harvey miles are longer than normal miles.  Our first day, Winchester to Meonstoke was to be a gentle one - 12 miles.

As we set off, Nigel added, 'Ooh. It's even better than I thought. Google says it's just 10 miles.'

As it turned out, the weather was perfect - dry, but not too hot. There were a lot of hills but mostly on a shallow gradient.  

All of which is just as well, because when we arrived, Nigel's Fitbit showed we had walked 14.6 miles.

South Downs Way - Day 0 Winchester - the rubble that made me smile

Before starting out on the South Downs Way we had an afternoon to kill in charming Winchester.

We'd visited the cathedral before and I knew if we went in again, we would be swallowed up in the interior for the rest of the day whereas I fancied a potter round the shops. 

Having 'pottered round the shops' for nearly an hour, Nigel was beginning to look desperate. Luckily for him, a sandwich board outside Tourist information proclaimed a walking tour about to start.

We joined it and admired the ancient premises of Winchester College and the stately Bishop's Palaces, both old and new.  But better than any of these was a tiny lump of collapsed wall made of flint cobbles.

This was all that remained of the Roman Walls of Winchester.

It was best was because it made me feel smug about the brilliant Roman remains we have in St Albans.

Holiday on a long distance path - The South Downs Way

In 2022, we walked Hadrian's wall and found that a long distance footpath leaves you fitter, well-slept and relaxed. 

Along the way there are encounters with both human history and natural history - two of my passions.

In the evenings, one is often at a hamlet in the middle of nowhere so there are few distractions from reading, writing and painting.  There is time to reflect on the day's discoveries.

It's not entirely stress free. A little thing like sunburn, blisters or a stomach upset could threaten the whole trip.  One is obliged to take good care of one's body - a good thing in itself. 

When looking for our next footpath, the choice seemed obvious. I'd walked sections of the South Downs Way before and I liked the simplicity of it - high ridges with views,  larks climbing into the blue, and the footpath, a white line scored into the chalk soil. It promised freedom.

The South Downs Way is a recent construct rather than an ancient Way, but still, it is composed out of many old paths and drovers ways, and it would allow us a transect through the fascinating villages of southern England.

And all that sky!

Ready to come home

As we get older time passes so quickly.  As we get ready to leave on our walk of the South Downs Way I can already imagine us returning, tired and with the usual deflated post-holiday feeling.  

So we prepare a lovely homecoming for ourselves. 
We tidy up, change the beds, scrub the bathrooms, hoover the carpets and book a supermarket delivery.
When we get back to our cosy home it'll be easier to leave the post-holiday blues on the doorstep.

Queen's Head or Drunken Duck?

Back in the days when we had three tiny children under five, we stayed in the Lake District at Hawkshead, with a bunch of university friends.

A plan grew to go for a last-day lunch at the excellent Drunken Duck, nearby.

However, on seeing the prices, Nigel and I baled out. It would be too difficult to keep all three children in a good mood while we ate, and it was too much money to chance.

While our friends settled to their gourmet meal, we went to the lovely Queen’s Head in Hawkshead.

We ordered a pleasant lunch, including a salmon sandwich for Pascoe. He tucked in enthusiastically. We were sad to miss the farewell lunch with our friends. Might we have managed after all?

Then Pascoe began to scream. What was it? Had there been something in the salmon sandwich.

The answer was Yes – Pascoe’s hand. He had shoved the delicious sandwich into his mouth so vigorously that he had crunched down hard on his own fingers. If that isn’t an advert for the scrumminess of Queen’s Head’s food, what is? They were also very nice about the piercing screaming.

Years later, staying with Pascoe once more in Hawkshead on our mother-son trip, we returned to the excellent Queen’s Head and were not disappointed. But we were both haunted by our unfinished business at the Drunken Duck.

So we went.

The food was exquisite and the venue delightful, but best of all, when the substantial bill arrived, my kind son split it with me.

And not a single scream.

Girl back

Carenza has been thinking outside the box. 

Her workplace is fully remote. There is no office. 

So if one can work from a flat or a cafe, why not a train or an air BnB?

Carenza was hoping to meet up with university friends in Tbilisi, but was trying to limit her air travel.

So she would work from home while travelling all across Europe.

Her five week solo trip would take her along many railroads less traveled. Not to mention bus trips on winding roads through snowy mountains.

As when she went travelling alone to south east Asia, she gave us a copy of her itinerary. As before, we had no idea what we could do to help if anything went wrong.

Off she went.

To curb my fretting, Carenza rang regularly - 'All is well'. 

However, she forgot I follow her on Instagram and posted an account of hitches and horrors, both major and minor.

My hair stood on end. 

Even when she reached Tbilisi, their mountain walking was blocked by an avalanche. When she returned to the UK she travelled via Armenia, landing her only eight miles from the Iran border on the day when Israel launched an attack on Iran.

However, now she is back, returning on the day she promised, with all her fingers and toes still attached. And I am glad.

'Would you do it again,' I asked. 

Not even the tiniest pause.

'Oh yes,' she said.

Mother-Son trip

 

Nigel was taking his mum away for the weekend – they would stroll along Great Yarmouth prom and visit tea shops.

Pascoe and I were going hill walking in the Lakes.

Because the trips were so dissimilar it took a while to spot that they were parallel mother-son trips.

But then the trips developed another theme in common - knees.

Nigel and his Mum had an enjoyable first day but had to return early due to knee trouble. Pascoe and I set off up the Langdales and I was proud to climb Harrison's Stickle and Pavey Ark.  However, during the descent, my knees began to complain.

On the following two days we tackled much smaller hills.

 

Later, Nigel's Mum said how even though they'd had to leave early Nigel's cheerfulness and kindness made it a good weekend.

I certainly could not have climbed even one mountain without Pascoe who carried our rucksack and encouraged me.

 

I do my very best to keep my knees going by using knee supports and hiking poles. But if one day I lose the the battle, I'm sure Pascoe will also be kind and cheerful and take me to a tea shop.

 

In the meantime though, just let me at those hills!

Somebody was taking care of me

I already told how my lost bag was returned to me intact. But there were two other things that same week which made me feel I was being taken care of. 

On Sunday I came down with a cold, probably caught in school. 

On Friday we were to attend the musical Hadestown. I had wanted to see this standout musical for ages so we had purchased the expensive non-refundable tickets months before. I HAD to be well in time

 In the mean time, I went to work, but when it came time to teach, I'd lost my voice. 

I found a quiet task for my pupils but was unsure whether it would work out.

In fact my lovely students were especially helpful, obeyed mimed instructions and answered each other's questions on my behalf.

I was delighted.

However. As Friday and Hadestown grew close, I'd developed an irritating cough. I have a horror of coughing during a live performance.  

'I do hope we're sitting on the end of a row so I can leave if I need to. '

'We won't,' said Nigel. 'I always try to book the middle of a row.'

But when we arrived we were actually at the very end of a row, bang next to an exit door. When a coughing fit came on I was able to withdraw discreetly and come back when done. 

All in all, it was a very much better week than I was expecting. I felt Somebody had been taking care of me.

Lost property

The other week I had a crazy time where a lot of things were in play.

I was preoccupied.

I had just been doing a printing course with Carenza and it was the end of a long day and I was heading home.

As the train pulled out of St Pancras I looked out of the window and had the shock of recognition - that familiar backpack under the bench was mine.

I stood up and said ‘No’ and everybody in the coach looked at me.

I managed to refrain from pulling the emergency cord.

I patted myself down – purse phone and keys were in my pockets. 

Should I get off at the next stop and go back?

 But the trains were very sparse due to engineering works – I had already had a long wait.   I would just resign myself to the loss of the bag, now quite old and faded.

However, as soon as I passed the point of no return, I began to recall the things in the bag which I valued.

My Swiss army credit card (like a pen knife but cooler)

A compact backup phone battery Nigel had sourced

But the thing that had me saying ‘Oh’ (to the further alarm of my fellow passengers) was the gift Carenza had just given - a craft-market hairslide in my colours and a card she had made me herself.

Once home, I gloomily registered with lost property.

There were no matches.

A whole ten days later, I received an email saying the bag had been handed in. It didn't refer to the contents.  

Nigel would pick it up on his way back from work.   But when he got to Lost Property it was shut. 

Eventually, nearly two weeks after losing it, I could bear the suspense no longer, took the train and picked it up myself. I could barely wait to unzip it. 

Everything was still there. Including my lovely card and hairslide. 

I asked about the person who handed it in, but their details were not available. 

Whoever you are, thank you. You've restored my faith in human nature. X

 

Better Adventures

 

We are currently not flying anywhere since it's a major contributor to climate change.

So when the grey days of late winter are crowding in and those friends who can afford it are taking airborne flights to warm shores, how do I get a break?

Last weekend I got a very different kind of break.

On Saturday I went with Extinction Rebellion friends and made 3D models of deep sea creatures like sea angels, dragon fish and Dumbo octopus. These models will be used in a spectacular parade to protest against the damage done by deep sea mining.

On Sunday I joined Carenza and took a beginner's course on screen printing. I came away with ten moody prints of an image I made of the Primaporta Augustus.

At the end of the weekend I had learned several new skills and worked closely with a new set of people. 

And I came away with a sense of wellbeing that will hopefully last longer than an out-of-season suntan.

Mother's Day Restored

Last year, I failed to establish a quorum for Mother’s Day.

My powers of emotional blackmail were clearly beginning to wane.

However, this year, Nigel and the twins turned out for a Mother’s Day outing.  This despite Carenza having run a half marathon (involving 630m of elevation) just the morning before, and Perran having his bags packed for a fortnight’s work trip to Europe, leaving that afternoon.

Pascoe gets out of Mother’s Day on account of living in Edinburgh, although he did put in a lovely phone call.

We went to Kenwood House in Hampstead (English Heritage, free admission) where there is a stunning art collection.  It took my breath away.

Perran and Carenza incidentally recreated moments which recalled their childhood: 

·       They both supplied me with handmade cards (although nowadays elegantly lino-printed).

·       Due to a London Transport event, they arrived and left on by old-fashioned bus with a proper conductor and paper tickets – the kind of vehicle which used to fascinate younger Perran (and still does).

·       On encountering a dressing up opportunity in Kenwood house, they did not hesitate!

However, even I had to acknowledge they are very much adults as nowadays they are the ones who pay for Mother’s Day lunch.  There are some compensations in one’s babies growing up!

Thank you for a great day, Perran, Carenza, Pascoe and Nigel.

Danger, Unexploded Bomb

I was to spend part of the half term week at my parents. Over the preceding weekend I isolated to ensure I didn't take any illness with me.  

It was the perfect time to experiment in the kitchen and I made three jars of red cabbage sauerkraut (which is two jars more than I meant to make - seems like cabbage gets bigger when you grate it).

Sauerkraut ferments, meaning it needs to be 'burped' each day. By the time I departed for my parents it was becoming very lively and needed to be burped twice a day. I left Nigel with instructions...

The visit to my parents went ok, with me getting through a number of the things on the parental to-do list. So, by the time I was sitting in Truro station waiting for the 14.54 to Paddington, I felt quite pleased with myself. 

The last thing I expected was the announcement that all trains were cancelled owing to an unexploded WW2 bomb at Plymouth. I made my way back to my parents. 

It is was only as I returned to my childhood bed that night that I remembered the sauerkraut. 

Nigel probably thought his cabbage-related duties ended on Thursday and would not have set himself a phone reminder for Friday. 

I lay awake in the darkness, ears straining for a distant explosion. Not the WW2 bomb at Plymouth - the sauerkraut in St Albans.

Mudlarking

I had often squinted over the railings at the muddy foreshore of the Thames and speculated on what I might find there.  So when Sharon told me she sometimes went mudlarking (like beachcombing, but along the Thames), I asked if I could come. 

To introduce some dramatic tension, this was the week when the police made an announcement about the man who had deplorably thrown corrosive liquid over his wife and daughters. His body was thought to be somewhere in the Thames.

We went with a licensed guide.  She could identify all the different animal bones which littered the mud, but asked 'Please don't find any human remains as it involves too much paperwork. Haha!'

Those of us who had been listening to the news exchanged furtive worried glances.

Between us, Sharon and I found pottery from the Mediaeval, Tudor, Georgian and Victorian eras, a metal hook from a boat, and large chunks of eighteenth century wine bottles. In fact, almost everything on the foreshore was an artefact of human habitation in one way or another.

My favourite find was a small square of Roman tile (centre of the pic below). The tile had been left on the ground to dry before being baked in a kiln and, while there, a cat had walked across it. Maybe 1600 years later, its paw print was still clearly visible. Magic.

And to our immense relief, no grim discoveries!

Beware the split-level patio

Carolyn and David travelled from the North East, Nigel and I from the South East, and we met up in the Peak District. As usual the agenda for the weekend was long walks, pubs, a bit of culture and a trawl of charity shops.

However, this time our attention was grabbed by the landlord of our accommodation.

Carolyn had very kindly made the booking, and soon began to receive very long emails with detailed instructions for the house.  Amid the many paragraphs were concealed vital information like the postcode, keycode and wifi password.  It was like a very inconvenient wordsearch puzzle.

When we entered the (very pleasant) house, the folder which was left out for visitors did not disappoint.

There was a lengthy screed on how to raise and lower the (perfectly normal) blinds.

The patio was on two levels and there was a whole page about not tripping or falling down the four-inch-high step, and outside, an outsize yellow traffic cone to mark the hazard.

The section on using the wood-burning stove was positively Dickensian in its detail.

After all this, I saw Nigel hesitating in the hallway, a frown on his face.

‘Anything the matter?’

‘Yes.  I couldn’t find the instructions for how to walk up the stairs.’

 

The Cult of Beauty

We were meeting Perran and Carenza in London to celebrate their birthday.

But what would we do together? 

Nigel, Carenza and I were interested in  The Cult of Beauty exhibition at the Wellcome Collection. 

'No' said Perran, 'I've never liked the Wellcome Collection, ever since you took us there as kids. It smells weird and medical, and some of the exhibits are always gross.'

However, we failed to achieve consensus on anything else and ended up at the Wellcome. Surely an exhibition on Beauty would be fine!

I watched Perran steel himself at the entrance. In the exhibition he was breathing shallowly. In fact, I couldn't detect unpleasant smells and there was even an art installation which replicated the beauty potions made by mediaeval women and emitted scents of rose and herbs.

With beauty as the subject, many of the images were colourful and attractive. So far, so good.

We were nearly at the end of the exhibition, when it happened. My eye was caught by two jars of fluid containing round, peach-like objects. What were they? I looked closer. 

The photo above and the label informed me they were the surgically removed breasts of a trans man. Complete with tattoos.

Rapidly I moved on.

The weird thing was that afterwards, when we compared notes, the only other person who'd spotted this challenging exhibit was Perran. 

Sorry son. 

Happy birthday anyway!

 

My hero

Following COVID, Nigel and I are just getting our mojo back.  

Something that helped to stir our blood were these facts about private jet flights:

• Up to 50 times more emissions per passenger mile than an ordinary commercial flight.
• Average number of passengers per private jet flight last year was 2.5 with 40% of flights taking off empty. People are even using private jets to ferry their pampered pets about.
• There's an illusion these flights are for VIPs on very important state business. But the busiest day at private jet terminals is Valentine's Day. Hmm.

So when we got the call to march through Farnborough and demonstrate outside the private jet terminal there, we said yes.

Our role on the march was to step out in the road and hold up a banner to stop traffic just while the marchers passed swiftly through.

This meant we were ahead of the rest of the march.

The guy beside me said, 'Have you seen who we are holding up the traffic for?'

I looked behind me at the head of the march.  'Who is it?  I can't see anybody I recognise.'

'Look again, on the right.'

And when I peered closely an unassuming young woman in a plain grey coat turned out to be Greta Thunberg.

I learned later that she was in the UK for her trial, following her arrest in October.  She sat down in the road in front of the Intercontinental Hotel in London where oil bosses and bankers were meeting to discuss how to make the most possible money out of fossil fuels while frying our planet to death. 

(Nigel was sitting there too, but the police didn't get around to arresting him.)

It was definitely worth making the effort to get out and march.  Seeing our young hero made it even more special.

Beating the January Blues

Having been ill over Christmas and then back at work before fully better, I'd got into a weird trogladitic existence where most of my time was either working at my desk, or resting up in bed. 

 My inbox alerted me to the fact that the Frans Hals exhibition at the National Gallery was finishing soon. 

I can remember that the first time I saw his Laughing Cavalier - it blew me away. I'd always wanted to see more Hals. What was I doing missing it? It was the final days though, so surely there would be no tickets.

However, I would try. 

And I got one!

The next problem was the freezing temperatures. Was this wise when I had been so unwell? 

But I donned a ridiculous furry hat and set off.

It was a timed ticket so I needed to catch a particular train.

The footpath to the station was blocked off for maintenance.

I backtracked and found another route. 

At the station the ticket machine was grudgingly unresponsive and I was out of time. 

But I encouraged myself to run over the footbridge and succeeded in jumping onto the train.

At the gallery I'd prepurchased an audioguide, but discovered on arrival I hadn't got the right phone equipment to access it. I felt stupid. 

But looking round, I could see others in the same position. It wasn't my fault! So I went and got my money back.

And great though it was to see Frans Hals' vivacious portraits and virtuoso brushwork,  the most nourishing thing about the day was overcoming all the tiny difficulties which nearly prevented me.

Now, like the laughing cavalier, I have a twinkle in my eye once more.

The Navy Lark

Once again, Christmas got scuppered by Covid but we did have a memorable outing just before disaster struck. The whole family visited the amazingly preserved wreck of the Mary Rose at Portsmouth Docks. The Mary Rose blew our socks off with detailed information on Tudor life and warfare. It was impressive that certain skeletons (such as the chief bowman or master surgeon) had been identified by their physical traits and scraps of clothing and matched to the wooden chests which contained their belongings. Afterwards, Pascoe was keen to see the submarines. We took a water taxi across the harbour, watched from above by a peregrine falcon. It was the 1946 A Class submarine which really captured our imagination. About twelve of us tourists squeezed into the stranded sub and a guide gave us a tour. When in service, it would be hundreds of feet beneath the surface, and contain 65 men. Just the thought broke me out in a claustrophobic sweat (although even as I write this, I’m now wondering whether it was the virus). Also guaranteed to induce panic was our guide’s repeated reference to the escape procedure, which I really couldn’t believe would ever work. It turned out our softly spoken guide had served 18 years in submarines, thereafter running emergency escape training in a nearby 100 ft tower of water. He was very informative, but I also had a feeling there was a lot he wasn’t telling us. ‘Did it create tension – so many of you in such a cramped space?’ ‘Well…mostly, we got along.’ We caught the last water taxi of the day and returned, with sunset blazing behind the historic ships. Despite the disappointment of getting Covid, that day at the Mary Rose still means Christmas 2024 will be one to remember.

Standing on one leg in a muddy field

The friends with whom I go walking planned to add a Christmas pub lunch to our December hike.  

I'm not a great fan of festive meals - memories of sitting round a littered table late at night, trying to make a large bill add up while slightly squiffy.

And would it even happen? Any of us might get flu, and we are each responsible for grandchildren or grandparents. 

Miraculously, we were all available on the day, but it was raining torrents.

 We brought our walking boots but more in hope than expectation. 

The meal was pleasant, but more than mince pies, we had hoped for a walk.  

The rain lessened, but still we loitered in the cosy pub. 

Finally Carol galvanized us and we set off across sodden fields, chatting.

On the topic of exercise regimes, Diane suggested that standing on one leg was good for mind and body. Like a bunch of middle-aged flamingos, we stopped amid the cabbages and tried it out.

Afterwards we carried on, climbed a ridge and looped back through beech woods. The clouds cleared and the embers of  sunset glowed along the horizon. 

It was a pleasant pub meal, and I'm glad I went. But standing on one leg in a muddy field with my friends was even better.

The Christmas scenes they deleted from Love Actually

In pursuit of the spirit of Christmas, Nigel and I met up with Carenza for outdoor carols at Columbia Road in Bethnal Green.  The vicar of St Peter’s church here is famed for wheeling a piano out onto the street and standing on it to conduct carols while a colleague bashes out the tunes below. 

It turned out to be far from a well-kept secret as every single twenty-something in London was already there.  Every one of them was taller than me, but I just about managed to keep my feet on the ground in the good-natured jostle, just hoping that none of the high notes started a stampede.  Nigel didn’t mind at all, as several of the young lovelies complimented him on his ‘beautiful voice’.  Pah!

On the way back from carols we got caught by train cancellations. We spent an hour at Farringdon with nothing to sustain us except a massive chocolate advent calendar Nigel was given at work.  We managed to call a halt at day six.

When we finally got on the train it was packed and a previous passenger had vomited. Then another drunk bloke skidded in it and fell over. Twice.

Explaining to a horrified onlooker, his mates said that it wasn't him who had been sick. 'It's legacy vomit'.

Nigel and I agreed that these might very well be scenes from a typical British Christmas.  So why on earth had they been left out of the final cut of Love Actually?  There’s simply no explanation.

Thanks to Carenza for the pics

Jack the Ripper hijacked our birthday

To celebrate Nigel's birthday we went for a self-guided walk around Spitalfields, Whitechapel and Brick Lane.

It was fascinating to learn of the silk weavers, the Jewish synagogues and the Moorish market.

However, we kept coinciding with other guided tours. Punters in lanyards clustered around leaders with flags. We must have crossed paths with at least five such groups.

Eavesdropping revealed that the others were all Jack the Ripper tours. When there was so much fascinating culture in that part of London, this particular ghoulish preoccupation seemed uncalled for. 

I have always been keen to avoid finding out exactly what the deranged serial killer did to his wretched victims but on Saturday I overheard far too much about entrails. There even appears to be a difference in status between 'official' victims of Jack the Ripper and 'unofficial' ones whose grisly deaths have not been conclusively attributed to him.

We then began to notice other manifestations of this gruesome tale. The local barber was Jack the Clipper, the fast food van was entitled Jack the Chipper. We imagined other local businesses we might set up in Whitechapel. Jack the flipper (selling burgers). Jack the nipper (selling cosmetic surgery). Jack the tripper, selling...well, you get it.

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.

Hit over the head with a rubber hammer

Following his emergency operation, Pascoe is making a steady recovery – I speak to him on the phone and am reassured.

He said ‘I can’t wait for the training montage to start.’  I imagine a clip from the ‘Rocky’ movies.

I, on the other hand, have felt like I’d been hit over the head with a rubber hammer. 

There was one week where Carenza had given up a week’s holiday in France to nurse Pascoe in Edinburgh and I was off-duty in St Albans.  I was so grateful for her selflessness, but it also felt very wrong not being there.

I distracted myself with some undemanding household tasks.  I took up some winter trousers, but when I looked at them afterwards was puzzled by my approach – are asymmetric trousers in fashion this Autumn?  What had I been thinking?

The only thing which went well was making forty jars of various chutneys.  I have been doing this for nearly four decades, so auto-pilot kicked in.  Okay, so my mild apple chutney is much hotter than my hot apple chutney this year, but apart from that, all is well.

So when I think of that week when I was good for nothing, at least I was good for chutney.

A bit of an emergency

I looked back at my last blog and saw that it came from a different world, one where I was revving up for the Autumn term in relaxed mode. Much has happened.

As I write this, I’m on the train returning from Edinburgh Waverley to King’s Cross for the third time in a month.  The first time was a social visit to Pascoe.  The consequent trips have been due to his medical emergency.  Since May, Pascoe had been repeatedly visiting his GP with stabbing pains in his abdomen, and been sent away with indigestion medicine.  Eventually he paid for a private scan - he had a massive gall stone and inflamed gall bladder, endangering his liver.  It should have been operated on long before it got to this. The emergency operation which ensued required a huge incision (25 staples long), rather than keyhole, a couple of days afterwards when it looked like he might not make it and then a sudden and dramatic upturn on Sunday following prayer by not just our church at St Luke’s but also the church of one of the hospital doctors. 

Today I leave him in his flat, supported by Perran, well on the road to recovery, but still weak.  Yesterday, I was talking to Pascoe’s friend Kritika about the strength of love she felt when she gave birth to her baby daughter.  There is nothing like nearly losing your child to revive the strength of that bond. 

How to bring a festival home

 

This summer I was privileged to attend three very different festivals and I ask what I can take from them back into everyday life. 

Primadonna – a literature festival, with the emphasis on women.

Edinburgh Fringe – a massive festival comprised of over 3k shows in a huge variety of venues.

GreenbeltFestival - arts, faith, activism. In a world on fire, we’re somewhere to believe in.

There’s a glorious ‘festival’ way of being - which elements will enhance my everyday life?

Trying new things

Because a festival is time-limited, it helps make your mind up.  This kind of thinking found me trying out a women’s urinal for the first time, and (less bizarrely) a workshop on cyanotype printing.

Fresh air

Wouldn’t work life be less fraught if one had to potter across a grassy field to get to every meeting?  I need to incorporate more little strolls into my working life.

Chat

At each of the festivals, the best thing was people – the friends/family we went with and the strangers with whom we chatted while queueing for the loo/ bar/ show.  I definitely want to spend more time idly passing the time of day with friends, old and brand new.

What won’t I miss?

You’d expect me to say the toilets – but the ‘mobile thrones’ at Primadonna and the composting loos at Greenbelt were fab.

I guess I might say ‘burning the candle at both ends’ but in fact a level of tiredness softens me up and readies me for revelations both intellectual and emotional – festivals make me cry…and that’s not a bad thing.

Picture by Pascoe Harvey - me at Edinburgh with the wonderful Katy Berry