Camp Friends

Who in the world would want to spend a weekend with a single toilet between fourteen people?  Especially as the toilet had no door and its walls were loosely woven and see-through.  One shower too, but only for people who didn't mind cold water and a strong smell of gas.

Let me put it differently. 

Who would want to stay in a tucked-away field, bordered with poplars and a gurgling stream, bounded by a drift of buttercups and lady’s smock? In the distance, the purple haze of a herbal ley.  Over our shoulder, a ploughed field with a hare bounding across it. Beyond, a paddock with a new-born foal.

But whether you see the environment as hell or paradise, really the surroundings are not the main thing.

It's the chance to catch up and debrief with a dozen of our oldest friends. People we met when we were eighteen or so at uni, and still working out who we were.

When we share the food we’ve brought and cooperate over cooking in a cauldron above a firepit, we accidentally recreate the community of our long-ago youth.  And we talk and talk and talk. 

And guess what, we are still working out who we are.

One Funeral and a Road Trip

We went to Wells for my Uncle’s funeral. 

When I first rang to say I would be there, it looked as if it would be a long drive towards sadness.

Then Pascoe agreed to come with me. 

Suddenly it was a road trip that would be companionable instead of lonely.

I had not seen my uncle or his family for a number of years, but wanted to show support.

The funeral was touching and my cousins’ eulogies captured vividly the man I remember.  The excellent final gesture was my Uncle’s coffin being carried out of the church to a spiritual by Elvis – his life-long idol.

At the funeral tea,  I caught up with cousins who for so long had been only "best wishes" in a Christmas card.  Afterwards, Pascoe and I retired to the inn where we were staying.

That evening, we discovered the door of Wells Cathedral still open and we explored the lofty interior where sunset poured in through stained glass.   Wells Cathedral is an epicentre of tourism, but surreally, we were alone in there, drifting about in the airy space between the vast columns.  A once in a lifetime experience.

Next day, we walked Cheddar Gorge together in bright weather.  We saw wild goats and a mass of flowers and birds.  And we caught up with each other’s lives.

It may be that sadly, due to geography, my lovely cousins return to being the senders/recipients of Christmas cards rather than people I am able to see regularly.  But if family was the focus for the trip, then it was a success.  I had time with Pascoe (who currently lives in Edinburgh) to restore the bonds between us.

Back to the Seventies

This week there were news items about mothers marching against climate change with their small children.

But today’s children are not the first generation to have a sharp awakening to our violation of the environment – pollution was a major concern for youngsters of the 1970s. 

As a child my cultural heroes were environmentalists. The Wombles recycled rubbish, singing ‘Pick up the papers and make ‘em into something new. It's what we do.'  Bagpuss was an expert in thrift: ’We wiĺl mend it. We will fix it. We will make it like new, new, new.’

As a teenager, instead of buying new, I embraced the 1970s’ revival of handicrafts and made my own leather bags, floaty skirts and bead jewellery. Cars were a rarity and I travelled by bus, bike or on foot and got to know my neighbours.

Reducing our carbon footprint could take us back to the 1970s.  But would that be completely bad?
Today’s notoriously stressed youngsters might well enjoy the benefits of a less commercial society.  Once we have begun to tackle the emergency of climate change, there may be space for a better way of life.

This blog is taken from a letter I just had published in the Guardian https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2019/may/15/if-climate-change-sends-us-back-to-the-70s-would-that-be-so-very-bad

A total white-wash!

Dawn and Steve, it is your fault that we ran out of excuses. 

It was going to be impossible for us to paint the bedrooms at the weekend because we were meeting up with you.

We were saying things like “We would love to paint the upstairs but unfortunately we can’t – we are meeting Dawn and Steve.”  And then we had to try not to look smug.

But then you baled on us.  And ever since, our life has been dominated by the ominous rumble of paint rollers on walls and the stink of white spirit. 

For the last week, our home has been a man-trap of vicious exposed carpet gripper and tacky white gloss.

After an hour or so undercoating skirting, I decided to WhatsApp Pascoe.  He was probably as bored as I was, writing up an academic paper.  But no, he and his pals, Caroline and Ian, had just completed the Yorkshire Three Peaks Challenge on unicycles.  Not only that, but they had then discovered a bluebell wood and a magical cave from which ran a spring.

The following morning, I texted Carenza – “Thought you might enjoy a chat while you trudge to work.”

“Not trudging today, Mum.  I’m on holiday in Seville with my girlfriends.”

So, Dawn and Steve, we are the only ones having a bad time.  And it is all your fault.

A Telling Experience

At the local government elections on Thursday, our friend, the Lib Dem Councillor, Robert Donald needed Tellers. 

These are the people who sit outside the Poling Station and ask you for your voter number.  The purpose is so that the candidates can see which of their supporters have not yet voted and might need encouraging.

The slot left to fill was the graveyard shift, 9 – 10 pm.

But we hadn't been tellers before and weren’t sure what it involved.  Plus Nigel had a work event earlier that evening.  And neither of us was keen on me as a woman sitting on my own in the dark outside the polling station late at night. 

In the end, we went along together.  

 It was a cold evening with occasional dramatic downpours and we arrived muffled up to the eyes in ancient wax jackets. Our departing Lib-Dem friend passed on the by-now slightly droopy orange rosette.

There were two other tellers, one Labour and one Conservative, and to our delight, they had inveigled the tellers’ chairs into the porch of the Polling Station, out of the worst of the weather. 

The first thing we learnt was that the other tellers were smartly dressed, unlike us.

The second thing was that we were all politely working together – anybody who obtained a number shouted it out for the other tellers. I needn’t have worried about going along on my own.

The Conservative teller worked in Westminster and was a mine of information on matters procedural – for instance, no rosettes are allowed within the voting hall itself as it could constitute intimidation – also the reason why the tellers are meant to stay outside.  It was also interesting to hear his view of recent controversies.

All in all, it was a privilege to take part in our well-ordered democratic system, to learn more about it.  

And best of all, Robert had a huge win for the Lib Dems.

Why don't we jarp any more?

I have been to Oxfam to buy the vegan fairtrade Easter eggs, including some little ones for the Easter hunt.

The egg hunt may be one of those weird traditions that keeps going because we don’t want to disappoint our (now definitely adult) children and which they persist in requesting simply in order to humour us.

Some family Easter traditions we no longer observe, for instance, jarping.  Nigel’s Northumberland Grandmother was know as a “terror for jarping” – it involved hardboiling eggs and then using yours to whack other people’s – a bit like a game of conkers.  We also used to do egg-rolling – each person decorated a hard boiled egg and set it rolling down a hill (or in our case, the kids’ slide) and see which went furthest.

But wait – I think I can work out which family member is the true motivator for some traditions persisting and others not.

Looks like anything to do with boiled eggs got canned, whereas anything to do with chocolate eggs continues.

Somebody who dislikes hard-boiled eggs but likes chocolate.

Carenza!

God doesn’t have Good Taste

One of the best things about God is that he doesn’t have good taste.

We just visited Copenhagen with shops famous for Danish design.  All that pared-down, smooth-edged beige and grey!  Step outside however, and the contrast actually made me laugh.

What was on offer was ridiculous abundance – armfuls of white and pink cherry blossom, the million tassels of lime-green willow catkins, hosts of bulbs pushing up flowers of scarlet, yellow and purple.  

The first bees humming purposefully and brimstone butterflies flittering through.

Why are there so many yellow flowers at this time of year?  Is it in case we didn’t get the point?  The sun is back!

And the birds burbling incessantly like the cascade of a snow-melt river.

It is going to be the promise that is implied by this encompassing beauty which gets us through the dark moments of Good Friday as we remember Christ’s crucifixion. 

But it’s going to be Easter Sunday when we truly receive the message of the Resurrection – Christ rises up after death.  And all around us, the trees that have looked grey and dead through the winter, and the lifeless stretches of beige earth are suddenly dazzling and brilliant and overwhelmed with colour.

Doctor Pascoe

Since last November, there has been an element of suspense in the Harvey household.

When I started this blog, many moons ago, Pascoe was in the last year of his Biology degree at UEA, and applying for PhDs.

It went well and he went to work for Susan Rosser at Edinburgh University.

We missed Pascoe, being so many miles away, but thanked heavens for Skype.

His first couple of years, he settled into the work, but there was also evidence that he was taking full advantage of the cultural life of Edinburgh and the social life of a postgraduate student.

Over the last year or so, our impression has been that the balance has tipped decisively away from fun and towards PhD write-up, with regular break-outs climbing snowy mountains for the sake of sanity. (Which he doesn’t tell me about until afterwards – for the sake of MY sanity.)

Then in November, he handed his thesis in, landed a temporary job at the Edinburgh Genome Foundry and waited for his viva.

For a long time, not much seemed to be happening, then finally last Friday, we got the news he had passed with flying colours – only minor corrections. 

So now the time of waiting is joyfully over and life will move on again.  The only question is "What next?"

Celebratory doctoral meal

These Boots Weren’t made for Brexit

I’ve been enjoying my new foot recently.  Gradually over the nine months since surgery last summer, it has been becoming more robust.

So Nigel and I were able to chance the second People’s Vote March last Saturday, although we cheated and headed straight to the rally in Parliament Square on the basis there would be something to lean against there.

We straight away found a good stretch of empty railing, but soon realised why it was vacant – it was just behind a small bunch of Brexit demonstrators and it looked as if we were of their number.   Before our faces appeared in the Mail as Brexit supporters, we slunk off.

But, having done what we could by joining the march and the petition and writing to our MP, my feet served quite another purpose the rest of the week.

They have been getting me out of earshot of the incessant roilings of the Brexit debacle.

 I went to Greenwich with friends, climbed the hill to the observatory and revelled in clear blue views across London.  From up there, you would never guess how troubled it is.

And I visited Heartwood with Nigel where we were soothed by the song of skylarks.

It lifted our hearts.   Maybe they should pipe it into the chamber of the House of Commons.

Never Cross a Zebra

I seem to be having a Zebra Moment.

On the news there was one single item that was not about Brexit, and it was that zebras have stripes to confuse  horseflies  – apparently the flies dislike landing on stripes.

Hmmm – you’d think that the strong smell of zebra would still be an attraction to the little insects.

However, lately, I have had a lot of zebra sightings – enough to check the research.

For instance, there's the horse in zebra’s clothing which sits at a café table in Brussels train station. Unlike an ordinary horse, he seems not to be troubled by horseflies.

(Although perhaps he has a sad expression, owing to Brexit.)

At half term in a pub in Ghent, we saw not a horse, but a bull dressed as a zebra.  (Okay, so my picture shows there was ALSO a bull dressed as a tiger, but it’s a zebra theme I’m following here.)  We also ate in a great restaurant on Zebra Street.

In neither place did horseflies ruin our repast.

Our friend John has wood-turned a bowl from zebrano – not a fly to be seen.

Then, last weekend, Carenza turned up wearing a zebra-print jacket.

 

I checked behind her, but there were no horseflies in pursuit, so the research must be correct.

I admit, I doubted the findings, but my own extensive research conclusively proves they are water-tight.

And okay - I can't completely avoid Brexit.  PLEASE SIGN THE PETITION : -

https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/241584

Cutting in

We are lucky enough to have a tiny en suite.  But for nearly four years, I have been wilfully ignoring the fact that the shower leaks.

Finally a nice plumber has fixed the problem.  And now the en suite needs redecorating.

Not only that, but we had dragged our clothing and bedding into Carenza’s old room and covered our bedroom furniture with dust sheets, meaning it made sense to go on and decorate the whole bedroom.

Decorating was something we used to do together – “Me Ceiling, you Walls.  You Roller, me Cutting In.”

My back isn’t good for ceiling any more.  As the substantially shorter partner, I’m not sure why I was doing it anyway. 

At least I could still do the cutting in.  I used to be the Queen of Cutting In, making straight lines without the need for masking tape.

But something has changed.  My wobbly brush strokes trespassed on skirting boards and plug sockets.

Is it some refraction or parallax caused by my varifocals?  Perhaps it is the lumpy brush I am using? 

It can’t possibly be, can it, simply that I have become impatient and grumpy in my old age?

Nope.  Think I shall blame the fact that we are cutting right down on alcohol for Lent.  I must have been distracted by the fact that the white spirit was actually beginning to smell delicious.

Of Friends and Fermentation

I’m sorry to tell you this way, Annabel, but your sourdough starter….didn’t make it.

I was full of enthusiasm when I first begged it off you and carried it back across London, cradling the precious jamjar of yeastiness in my arms.

I fed it frequently, made sourdough bread.  It bubbled appreciatively.

Then Christmas loomed and I got busy.  You’d told me that I could slow it down by putting it in the fridge. That’s what I did.

Then directly after Christmas the trip to my mother-in-law in Northumberland. Then a New Year’s get-together, then a wonderful and unexpected trip to Lisbon with Pascoe.  It took me a week more to remove the jar from the fridge and check – in my heart I already knew I was a murderer.

But now I have a second chance.

In a caf in Truro, Jen presented me with a ginger beer starter.  Taped to the jar was a lengthy set of instructions, blurry from where the starter had leaked.

“How lovely.  I didn’t expect this.  But. Er. I have an eight hour train journey home tomorrow….”

“Just keep loosening the top every so often to burp it.  Then it definitely won’t explode.”

On the train, I texted her:

“So far, so good.”

Her reply:

“Go froth and multiply.”

Internet Shopping Encounter

I was an early adopter of online shopping, twenty years ago, but the software kept hanging up and saying “ring the help desk”.

Eventually I did just that but the technician was rude and patronising.  “You must be doing it wrong…”

I pointed out to him that I was likely to complain.

He asked my name.

I told him.

He asked my title.

I told him.

“Doctor?” He asked.  “A Medical Doctor?” sensing now that he could not so easily write me off as a silly little woman.

“No.  My doctorate is in Computer Science.”

A few minutes after the end of the phone call, I was just mentally composing my complaint, when my phone rang.  It was the helpdesk guy again. I hadn’t given him my phone number. (It was before I had a mobile.)

He had obviously given it some thought and was now very worried.  In his case, worry manifested as aggression.

“If you think that just because you’ve got some poncy qualification in computer science, you can complain about me….etc.”

Funnily enough, I don’t think I ever got round to complaining – life was busy then: that’s why I’d wanted to do an online shop!

But I also didn’t do an online shop again for more than ten years.

Now however, I use it regularly, chiefly to save my back.

Wonder what the guy on the help desk is doing now.  The only profession I can think of that celebrates disdain like his is waiter in a Parisian restaurant, and I’m not sure they take on nerdy Brits. 

Scaerobics

Aerobics terrify me. 

My limp excuse is that I was raised in the late seventies/early eighties when Olivia Newton John donned an eyewateringly tight electric blue leotard and matching head-band and ankle warmers and threatened the very existence of us more lumpy females.

Then, last week, I walked into my local gym at just the wrong moment, and the receptionist made the assumption I was there for “Fit for Life”. 

I like to think it’s because I look like the kind of person who might very well do aerobics should they so choose.

“Alright then,” I said.

I was nervous about my foot, following the major op last July.

But that turned out to be a minor consideration compared with the disability issue I discovered once the class started.  With the vintage disco music pumping and our tiny instructor barking out the names of moves that I had never heard of, I discovered that my brain-limb coordination was flat-lining. 

Luckily I was tucked away at the very back of the hall so nobody could see my ungainly flailing. Until, that is, the instructor shouted “TURN!” and suddenly I was right in front of everybody else.

I pinched myself, but sadly did not wake up.  Meaning this was reality, rather than a recurring nightmare.

I continued to stumble left when she yelled “RIGHT” and vice versa.

At the end, one of the other women suggested I might like to go home and watch YouTube videos of basic aerobics moves to get the hang.

But even after all that, I am going back next time.

I work as a teacher of Latin, and it’s healthy for me to experience the confusion of being confronted with a new unfamiliar language.

S’pose I ought to do my homework too.  YouTube, here I come.

A Birthday without sticky patches

This week it was  Perran and Carenza’s birthday.

In the past the weekend closest to their birthday has been packed with activity.

We have held a Pirate Party, a Harry Potter Party, and one year, owing to a blizzard, even a Build-Your-Own-Igloo Party.  Each year, I have baked two cakes and decorated them elaborately to match their current interests. We have bought and made cards and gifts to capture their imagination.

But a year after the twins moved out to share a rental in London, this birthday was different.

When the weekend arrived, I had nothing better to do than clear out the Welsh dresser; Nigel painted the downstairs loo. 

Finally, early on Sunday afternoon, we pootled into London, took Perran and Carenza to the amazing Bill Viola exhibition at the RA, then on to an early dinner at Sagar, where Will joined us.  I handed over two small and frankly disappointing token gifts and Nigel BACSed them a proper present.

Then we dispersed to our homes. 

It had all been kinda easy.

I felt a little flat until we were opening our front door and Nigel pointed out that we would not be needing to mop up sticky patches of lemonade from the floor, nor pick crisps out from the sofa cushions.  There had been no breakages nor any weepy kids.

All we had to do was watch the last episode of Les Miserables on telly.  And even that came to a more-or-less happy ending.

Better than Snow

Better than snow.

I was due a snow day. 

I had planned it very carefully. 

Tuesday night snow was forecast. 

There should have been several centimeters, all nicely frozen and turning the whole world into an ice rink. 

Wednesday was my day for teaching in a school which is dependent on buses and cars to transport its pupils in, and hence vulnerable to bad weather. 

Not only that, but I am one session ahead there, so if snow had closed the school, I would not even have had to catch up on work.

Yes sireee, Wednesday morning, I was planning to be returning to my warm bed with a mug of steaming coffee.

Imagine my desolation when, in my town, snow failed.  I looked out of my window and found myself hating the colour green.

 And not only did I have to go to school, but to add insult to injury, my exercise class too!

This Thursday, I am at home, so I didn’t care about the weather forecast.

Except when I looked out, there was a magical hoar frost, outlining every leaf and twig with white crystals.

I pulled on my boots and went for a walk. 

The zing of cold air and the gleaming transformation of the frosted countryside lifted my spirits.

By the pond, I spotted bullfinches and a rare water rail.

I could even get over missing my snow day.  Almost.

Winter’s Tales

I have this Winter fantasy of hibernation.  To sleep with the depth and twelve-hour commitment of a teenager in a soft, warm bed, lulled by the pattering of sleet on the window pane.

I do believe that once as a school girl, I spent an entire half term of relentless rain reading in bed. If only I could have known at the time what a rare and unparalleled privilege that was.

Ever since then there has always been Something To Do.

And my powers of slumber have also weakened. Given an eight-hour sleep opportunity I find myself only half submerged in shallow dreams.

So if I can’t doze the long winter nights away, I shall have to while them away with stories, as was once the tradition before TV.  Already this winter, I have read so many, including, inappropriately, The Summer Book, by Tove Jansson.

And this weekend, I shall take it a step further.  Together with my writers’ group, BeauSandVer Writers, we are gathering at nightfall and reading aloud eight tales in an hour at our wonderful local Oxfam Bookshop.  

Organising this event has been enough to wake even me up!

Please come along if you’re in the St Albans area.

Needlework for Intellectual Women

Newnham Iris Cafe

Last week, I was privileged to accompany my old friend Annabel O Docherty as she delivered her replica suffragist banner to Newnham College.  A welcoming committee of Henrietta, Lucilla, Laura and Harriet were there to receive it.

The original banner, once carried by our fore-mothers in suffragist marches a hundred years ago is now fragile and hangs in a hushed and climate-controlled case in the foyer of Newnham. Since it can no longer come out to play, Newnham commissioned a replica. 

However, it was women from BOTH the original Cambridge Women’s Colleges who stitched and carried the banner.  Like me, Annabel is an alumna of Girton College where the original banner is much missed and she had already used her considerable skills as a theatrical-costume-maker to create a stunning replica for them too (click through for story).

The approach that Annabel used in producing the replica banners demonstrates the benefits that women now gain from a Cambridge education, thanks to the pioneering efforts of those early students who fought not only for the vote, but also for degrees for women. 

Annabel had the research skills to re-discover lost stencilling methods, to identify, source and dye exactly the right fabrics and to piece together the technique for replicating the huge, ornate tassels which helped the suffragists to hold the banner steady on a windy day.

And in case you are wondering, her stitches were perhaps even more precise than those of a hundred years ago.

Girton Library

Newnham website: https://www.newn.cam.ac.uk/newnham-news/suffragists-banner-flies-again/?fbclid=IwAR1wOBg4l4Q5pz4Fl_O2e2W0AXIgd-GrE3QSfQKaRbC5H79i0_0k8HH_ZQQ

Girton website: https://www.girton.cam.ac.uk/news/1908-cambridge-alumnae-suffrage-banner-on-display-at-girton-college/?fbclid=IwAR2ViF7odlDCGl6r7I93LPXp211zD9FDB0TXyg0wV7S3hLJRAwcOT8UQ-AY

BBC News Cambridge Online: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-cambridgeshire-46862175?fbclid=IwAR0vSHbaPxvwJE-0R82f8rCertP0oMCwZghabddoxicOzUiFPOhebsnKtxg

BBC Radio Cambridgeshire (my bit is at the 1:40 mark, so scroll along the play bar) : https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p06w10t7?fbclid=IwAR3gitxas481ydFEoaui7dg_qoRAnz-rH361UcoVrp7dk2KT23EfDBYryJ4 

Life after Christmas

I am now more than a week into 2019 and only finally today admitting that Christmas is over.

It is understandable – Christmas paraphernalia is lingering:

Drying in the porch, there are still the baubles we hung on the tree outside.

The last slab of Christmas cake is still crouching in the larder with an air of permanence.

So why is it today that Christmas is over?

It is because until yesterday, there was still one child at home, Pascoe.

And I realise too that I am timing the start of Christmas from Wednesday 19^th December when Pascoe arrived just in time for carols at the Swains.  Carenza and Perran followed soon after.

For me then, Christmas is defined by family – a chance to recreate both that first Holy Family, and also our own family, us and our three children.

We went for country walks, played charades, cooked together and even did a jigsaw. We watched telly in a row on the sofa. We drove in the overcrowded car to visit Grandma in Northumberland.

But now be we will be back to Skyping Pascoe in Edinburgh and the odd snatched meal with the twins in London.  And unlike the nativity scene that I have packed away in its box, our family will keep changing.

It may well be that, as partners and other families become interlinked with ours, we can no longer rely on Christmas for our annual family reunion.

But I’m thankful for the time we have just had. And grateful that I have children who, just by being there, were able to make it feel like Christmas, even when it wasn’t any more.

The Holly and the Ivy and the Echinacea

It’s dark and cold and we middle-aged women are run ragged by gift-buying, gift-wrapping, card-sending, and the purchase and preparation of food – while feeling guilty that we are not enjoying Christmas more.

Opportunist viruses patrol, eager to invade. 

As a teacher I can take my pick of virulent illnesses.  They are handed to me on exercise books, they await me on doorhandles.  Sometimes, they are sneezed right in my face.

So my favourite seasonal plant is not the holly, not the ivy, not the Christmas rose nor poinsettia.  It is a plant which blooms not in December, but in summer - echinacea.

It is extract of echinacea which boosts my immune system and wards off the seasonal colds.

Pascoe informs me this is stuff and nonsense.

But I am clinging to my beliefs.

Especially as Christmas is here and I don’t have a cold yet this year.

Obviously it meant that at Evensong at the Cathedral, I was unable to participate fully in “the annual festival of coughing”.

It also means that the impressive stocks of lemsip and cough sweets that I laid down are redundant.

Worst of all, it means I have to find a new excuse for the shortcomings of Christmas dinner.

But, otherwise, it’s a great improvement. 

So next year I shall be sending Christmas cards with an echinacea motif, weaving an echinacea door wreath and decking an echinacea Christmas tree.

Happy Christmas.