The Time of My Life

Smiles always follow tears.........

2009-12-03T11:48:00.000Z

And my smiles came quicker than I thought they would. The wonderful, encouraging messages from you guys, after my surgery being put back to the 16th December, have lifted my spirits - thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I said it was for a reason (I didn't know what reason, though) but I'd like to think that a possible reason was this: today I saved a life. The life of a little, scared bird. Picture the scene - I was sweeping my kitchen floor (I know how to live the high life!) and one of my 3 (yes, 3!!) Jack Russell terriers was whining. I looked up and saw her staring intently at the log burner, and then I heard a frantic tapping at the glass. I peered in and saw a tiny sparrow, frantically trying to get out and flying at the glass door in desperation. I just managed to get my hand in and gently clasp it, but it wriggled free and flew to the window, fluttering helplessly against the glass.

'Don't panic!', I kept muttering under my breath - me, that is, not the bird. I opened the window but it just didn't seem to understand and kept missing the opening, so I closed one curtain and managed to guide it down to the window ledge. All the while my heart was pounding - it was as if its feelings of terror where being directly wired to me. Finally, I managed to catch it and when I stuck my hand out and opened my fingers, it flew out and into the trees across the lane.

I cried then, with relief at freeing the bird and, well, just for everything. All of my emotions were focussed on setting the bird free but they mirrored the panic and desperation in my own heart.

But then, through my tears, I started to smile. 'Yes!' I had done it - I had saved its life. Just a little bird, you might say, but it represented so much more. If my operation was still going ahead tomorrow, we would have already left today and that bird would have died, trapped in a log burner for several days.

I was meant to be here today - I know it. That bird's fight for life stirred overwhelming emotion in me. A recognition of being 'trapped', out of control and needing someone to set me free from this. Symbolic, don't you think?xx

A bad day.

2009-12-03T11:45:00.000Z

Fed up and feel sick. My surgery has been postponed from 4th Dec to 16th December. Was so ready mentally and now I have to wait another 2 weeks. I need an ICU bed on standby and they are full at the Brompton this week - the 'panel' had a meeting and decided I wasn't high up enough on the priority list and so I have to wait. This has already been one of the longest weeks of my life.

The irrational part of my brain is terrified it will grow or spread in the next 2 weeks. I know I'm being a stupid cow -bear with me, I'll get over it!

Here we go.....

2009-11-26T19:10:00.002Z

Tuesday was a good day, bringing the very best of news: the cancer hasn't spread. It is adenocarcinoma, non small cell lung cancer in its early stages. I met with my specialist cancer nurse, Michael (who is amazing), and the surgeon, Mr Jordan, who is also amazing. After reviewing my PET scan, the surgeon was keen to offer surgery and stressed that this was good, as not everyone is suitable. He told me how it would be: 2 chest drains, central line, catheter, cannulas and an epidural morphine pump; painful, exhausting and hard to breathe. That was on top of the 10% mortality risk. The colour drained from my face and I locked eyes with Jimmy as we both felt horror at what would come if I chose surgery. But the decision was not yet made as he wanted the radiologists to see my scan first, because there was an alternative, and then he would call me on Thursday for my answer.

The alternative was radio frequency ablation (RAF); a much 'simpler' procedure of inserting a needle directly into the tumour and blasting the cancerous cells, plus some extra around the outside, to make sure. A walk in the park, by comparison. But there isn't really that much information about the long-term prognosis with this radical treatment. It sounds almost too good to be true but I do know it has worked, it's just whether it would work for me. Could I risk it? Would it work or leave me vulnerable to the cancer returning and spreading to other parts of my body?

We drove ourselves mad on Wednesday; talking, researching, saying "what if", until we were blue in the face. At bed-time we fell into bed, mentally exhausted, and still hadn't reached a decision, but we slept the deepest sleep since my diagnosis. When Jimmy brought me my morning cup of tea, he sat next to me with such sadness in his eyes and told me that he loved me. He told me he was scared I might die on the table. He told me he was scared that RFA wouldn't work. And he told me that he couldn't help me make the decision because it was happening to my body and he didn't want to see me suffer from an operation when the RFA might possibly work, but that he was scared the RFA wouldn't work and then it might be too late. I hugged him close and said "I know" and we cried.

Mum rang to tell me she loved me and the text messages started to stream in from my friends. No-one wanting to say "go for surgery" because they knew what it would involve and that it would be me, not them, having to do it. I made up my mind and changed it at least 8 times before I got dressed. And then there were my friends on Purplecoo - offering their usual strength and support, along with some sound non-biased advice.

We agreed to wait and see what the phone call would bring, and prayed the decision would be taken out of my hands. My prayers were answered for the second time this week: the first when I prayed it had not spread and this time when the surgeon rang to tell me that the radiologist felt surgery was a better option for me. He felt that RFA could be a "fall back" treatment for the future but should not be my primary treatment, as there was a "better" solution. Good enough for me, thank you.

My surgeon sounded relieved when I said that I was happy to go ahead. He laughed when I told him not to let me down, and promised that he would not. He's one of the best, I know, and I have to let him do his job - not easy for bossy old me, who likes to organise everything!

Before I knew it, my nurse was back on the phone with a date - 4th December. A week tomorrow. This will either be the longest or shortest week of my life, as I get myself ready for what lies ahead. I'll let you know what it was when I come home................. xx

Getting ready to fight......

2009-11-23T18:13:00.002Z

How to start? I think, deep down, you know, don't you? My recent feelings of living on automatic pilot – that of seeing the world from a distance, hovering on the sidelines and watching as everyone else just gets on with it; living but not quite fully. My worst fears have been confirmed – I do have lung cancer. I don't want this blog to become morose and just a diary of cancer – it is going to be my partner on this journey of downs and ups and I am determined that the ups will win.

On the 10th November I had my CT guided needle biopsy. As expected, my lung collapsed and I had to stay in overnight but was discharged the following afternoon. Back home, I carried on as normal – well, as normal as you can when you just want those results. Like yesterday.

Maybe I did a bit too much but on Monday 16th November, I got back from shopping with sharp chest pains and I could hardly breathe. I rang my GP who called an ambulance and the next thing I knew I was in Gloucester Royal having a chest drain fitted. Nightmare. Absolute flippin' painful nightmare, but the paramedics were cute and knew how to make a girl smile - laughing was too painful, which I found out twice and had to ask them to stop being so nice.

Later, I was safely ensconced in ACU (acute care unit) where my pain was managed with morphine, until my lung started to re-inflate (which was painful in itself). The next morning I was much better and transferred to an ordinary ward for the next 2 days until all the leaked air had been released.

Of course, now I had missed my appointment at the Brompton for my biopsy results and badgered the doctors at Gloucester until they found out for me. To their credit, they were amazing, considering the fact that I wasn't normally one of their patients and the news they had was so bad. I was glad they told me there – if I had gone to the Brompton I would have been alone and had to travel back from London on the train.

Since they discharged me, things just haven't stopped. My family and friends have rallied round and we have sobbed, cuddled and even found the odd laugh. They will get me through this – I can't bear the thought of leaving them and I will fight this.

The battle lines are drawn now and the first one is tomorrow (Tuesday 24 November) when I go for my PET scan to see if it has spread to anywhere else. If it hasn't, I am meeting the surgeon in the afternoon and we will set out the way forward for surgery. If it has, things are another story and will no doubt involve chemotherapy and radiotherapy, and that will be discussed with the rest of the medical team tomorrow too.

So, for the next few hours, I will remain in limbo but I know that my feet aren't going to be touching the ground all too soon, as things begin to happen. The lull before the storm. The advice that has been most consistent is “take it a day at a time”. Simple, true but so very hard to do.

Autumnal ramblings

2009-10-05T15:29:00.004+01:00

I'm warning you now – this blog is going to be a jumble of thoughts and musings! My mind is leap-frogging from one thing to the next but is totally reflective of the way I'm feeling right now.

Last month, I went to the Brompton Hospital in London for my routine check-up and had a CT scan of my lungs to”update your records”. Nothing to worry about, I was told, it was just that it had been over 5 years since the last one. I haven't the energy to bore you with the details but the upshot is that I have some marks showing on my lungs and they don't know what they are. More scar tissue from the fibrosis caused by my Scleroderma? A pneumonia-like infection? TB? …..... and the dreaded question: cancer?

Further tests were quickly carried out: a bronchoscopy with lung wash and biopsy. The results: inconclusive. Negative for TB. Negative, currently, for cancer which should make me jump up and down with elation but, as they can't say what it IS, they won't rule it out. I'm popping antibiotics and steroids and have to wait until 10 November for a repeat scan. If it's still there, I shall have to have a needle biopsy, which carries the risk of deflating the lung – great. Limbo....... fear and dread and, above all, a kind of numbness.

My usual exuberance as my favourite season, Autumn, arrives is not there. I'm still doing my normal things: hedgerow foraging, preserving, gathering in the wood, lighting the Rayburn, putting throws over chair backs and changing cushions, but there's something missing this year. I'm doing it all on auto pilot and it makes me feel sad.

Normally, there's nothing better than picking the last of the blackberries in the autumn sunshine, listening to the buzzards calling over head and smiling as the robin lands on a nearby branch to make sure I leave some for him, cocking his head at me to show his button black, beady eye. I talk to him and he chirrups back at me before he flies off. The woodpecker flashes by – a streak of green and red and then all falls still, save for the gentle chomping of the cows over the hedge as they tug at the grass. They are Gloucester cows and belong to my neighbour, Charles Martell, who milks them for his cheese. He is most famous for Stinking Bishop, but I prefer the single Gloucester and Hereford Hop – and so does my fridge!

Returning home, the kettle is gently steaming on the Rayburn and I make tea as I sort out containers to freeze this last picking of blackberries. My cupboards already hold jars of jam – damson, strawberry, blackcurrant and plum, alongside kilner jars of chutney which will be ready at Christmas. Christmas: it seems a long time away in my mind at the moment but, in reality, is just weeks away. By then, I'll know, won't I? One way or the other. Part of me is terrified at finding out, the other part just wants to get on with it. Is ignorance really bliss, when it stops you “feeling” properly; when it numbs your senses?

The logs are chopped and stacked in the porches as well as the log store. This is the first year we have been properly self sufficient in wood and we are so excited. We have a proper “tree coppicing timetable” now and our next session will be in November. The oak, ash, hazel, holly, plum and apple trees are all ear-marked for attention and the pruned limbs will provide next year's wood. And, of course, nothing beats the smell and sight of wood smoke curling up from your chimney and the anticipation of walking into a room with the fire or log burner on. We collected our first batch of sweet chestnuts from down the lane at the weekend – small and sweet, roasted over the fire and then the sound of cracking as J throws the shells onto the flames and all traces of our snack are gone.

Outside our bedroom window, the hawthorn berries are turning darker red – not yet their final ruby red colour - and each morning I watch as the birds dance along the branches. They haven't started eating them yet (they're not quite ready) but, when they are, I love to watch the blue tits hanging upside down as they pull a luscious berry into their beaks and gobble them down. The blackbirds love them too but they are too heavy to get at the ones on the end and, sometimes, they try to fly like they are treading water, hovering near the end of the branch to pull the last ones off. The finches (green, gold and chaffinch) love to eat the rose hips from the roses growing by the gate.

The other weekend, it was the monthly flea market held at the Malvern Three Counties Showground. We don't go every month but this time I came back with a gorgeous “granny blanket” - a bargain at just £12. It's huge and more than covers a double bed, but I use them over the backs of chairs and sofas for when the evenings get really chilly. I love to light the fire, make a mug of tea and curl up at the end of the day with a good book and a blanket over my lap, especially on those damp, misty days when all you want to do is retreat indoors. J bought some medals and military buttons and I also got a lovely old oak framed picture (I am going to change the actual picture inside) for £5 !!

This weekend, apart from the blackberry picking, I made lots of tomato and basil soup with the left over ripe tomatoes, and froze it down ready for warming lunches. Oh! And I made banana cake with the 2 dead bananas in my fruit bowl! My neighbour popped in to say “Hi” and commented that the smells were wafting down the lane from the open windows, making him so peckish he had to come and investigate! That's a first!

Until next time......... enjoy the autumn sunshine.xx

Rooks or crows?

2009-09-14T16:19:00.004+01:00

Rooks or crows? Now there's a question I've never got round to answering. I grew up in Bournville, Birmingham, and used to love to listen to the nightly raucous pilgrimage of said birds as they returned to roost at night. As a child, it was a daily marking of time; getting ready for bed and the onset of darkness.

It's correct name is Bournville Village, designed and built by the Cadbury family for their workers at the chocolate factory in 1893. The estate was called Bournville after the nearby Bourn Brook and the French word “ville” for town. Originally, the estate consisted of a scattering of farmsteads and cottages, linked by winding country lanes, set in a rural area (then) to the south of Birmingham. The Cadbury brothers chose this area for their factory as it was regarded as being cleaner and healthier and gave ample room for expansion, as well as already having a railway station and canal.

The Cadbury family were Quakers and held their workers in high respect, providing homes in the village, with gardens large enough for fruit trees and vegetable patches. To this day, the gardens are considerably large and, although some are still rented from the Bournville Village Trust, many are now in private ownership. This was not the full extent of the Cadbury generosity: they paid high wages, pioneered pension schemes, joint works committees and offered a full staff medical service. They even provided holidays for the under-privileged in Cadbury owned holiday homes.

By the year 1900, the estate included 313 cottages and houses on 330 acres of land, and many more similar properties were built in the years leading up to the first world war. Bournville became a blueprint for many other model village estates around Britain. However, as George Cadbury was a Quaker, no public houses have ever been built in Bournville, although since the late 1940s there has been a licensed members' bar at Rowheath Pavilion.

The Cadbury concern for the health and fitness of their workforce, meant that park and recreation areas were key in the Bournville village plans. In the early 1920s, extensive open lands were purchased at Rowheath creating football and hockey pitches, as well as a grassed running track. George Cadbury designed the Rowheath Pavilion and it was built in accordance with his instructions, opening in July 1924. It served as the clubhouse and changing rooms for the sports playing fields, several bowling greens, fishing lake and an outdoor swimming Lido, a natural mineral spring forming the source for the lido's healthy waters. The Rowheath Pavilion itself, which still exists, was used for balls and dinners, and the whole area was free of charge to use by the Cadbury workers and their families. The lido was eventually closed in the 1970s after complaints of noise disturbance were made by residents of the newly built Oak Farm estate, coupled with new health and safety regulations. Cadbury's also built an indoor swimming baths on Bournville Lane, the Valley Pool boating lake and the picturesque cricket pitch next to the factory site, that was made famous as the picture on boxes of Milk Tray chocolates throughout the 1950s and 1960s.

The Bournville Village Trust was set up in 1900 to formally control the development of the estate, independently of George Cadbury, or the Cadbury company. It is a conservation area and, as such, there are strict guidelines for extension and modification of properties. A true village feel evolved, with a triangular village green, infant and junior schools, the School of Art and the Day Continuation School (originally intended for young Cadbury employees) plus a host of events such as fêtes and dances are held. The carillon on top of the junior school and a Quaker meeting house are also beside the village green.

I went to both the infant and junior schools, attended Sunday School at St. Francis church, and used to run down the hill on Saturday mornings, when the carillon bells rang out for weddings, arriving breathlessly to see the bride and groom emerging from the church. Such warm and happy memories of a wonderful childhood spent in idyllic surroundings.

We lived in Acacia Road – all the roads were originally named after trees: there's Sycamore Road, Maple Road, Hawthorn Road, Mulberry Road........... Home was a 3 bedroomed, end of terrace cottage, with a Park-Ray coal fire in the kitchen and the ubiquitous “Sheila maid” airing rack, with pulley, above. There was an apple tree in the garden with the most amazing blossom and this was my den, high up amongst the branches, peeping at the world through the leaves. I had a sand pit, swing and gold fish pond, watched over by models of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (hand painted by me!). I loved to help on wash day and used to wait on the other side of the electric mangle to catch the clothes as they came through the other side. My room was a tiny single room overlooking the back garden – I still remember the floral wallpaper, the chest of drawers, single wardrobe and simple wooden chair with a rush seat. There was nothing more in the world I could have wished for and today my home has echoes of my memories, keeping those treasured times close.

Bournville has, of course, changed much since then, but the bones are still there. It has grown – it now contains over 7,500 homes on 1,000 acres of land, alongside 100 acres of parks and open spaces. It remains a popular residential area of Birmingham but I have moved on and my home is now well and truly in the countryside.

However, I still go to the dentist there and always get a familiar rush of warmth as I catch glimpses of “old Bournville”. The surgery is opposite the woods, which are full of bluebells in the Spring, and from the waiting room, I can see the path I used to skip along and my “secret” fairy tree. The last time I went, I ambled across, furtively looking over my shoulder to make sure no-one was watching. As I approached the tree, it was hard to see the little wishing well type hole in the trunk that I used to put a half pence piece in and make a wish to the fairies. But it was there; covered over with ivy and so obviously unknown to anyone else in the whole wide world. My secret place. I felt both glad and sad – glad that it was still mine, but then swiftly followed by sadness that no other little girl could feel the magic of the fairy tree. Cautiously, I prodded my finger into the hole – the adult in me squirming at what beasties might be lurking in the little pool of water. It was empty. No half pence pieces – the fairies must have taken them...........

It's those birds, though. Each evening I hear the same raucous noise as they head into the wood in the corner of the field at the bottom of my garden; a mob of black birds silhouetted against the darkening sky as they fly to the trees to roost. I picture my fairy tree in Bournville, just for a fleeting moment, standing at the edge of those far away woods, knowing the same noise is going on there, as it has for years and years. A noise so familiar from childhood through to the present day, and yet I still haven't decided if they are rooks or crows! Any suggestions gratefully appreciated!!

Getting back to living life

2009-07-27T12:22:00.008+01:00

I started to write this blog so many times, in my head and on the computer. “Don't think – just write”, but the words wouldn't come out in the right order, and I pressed the back space key so many times, I nearly gave up. What's the point? It's been so long and so much has happened – too many things to catch up with.

But here I am, pounding the keys and fumbling with words, thoughts and emotions, with a few pictures thrown in, just for good measure.

Spring was a write off for us. We had three close bereavements in rapid succession – the culmination of an emotional roller coaster as I watched my friend, Carole, lose her battle with cancer. Then there was my uncle Peter, also a victim of cancer, quickly followed by my ex-father-in-law, Derek, as he finally gave up his brave fight with Parkinson's. I moved through Spring in a state of numbness, not feeling the same joy as new life burst forth all around me. What is it all about? This journey of life we are all travelling on: watching the seasons come and go; getting up, filling our day and going to bed; laughing, crying......

I was brought up Church of England, but following my parents' break up, when my Dad found the Jehovah's Witnesses, I have had a strange relationship with religion. I don't go to Church, except for weddings, funerals, harvest, Christenings – you know, the times most people make an appearance, but it doesn't mean I don't believe in God. For me, religion is a personal thing: I don't wear a label; I don't “belong” to a particular faith. My experiences of the affects of religion on a family have soured my belief in Church – not in God, but the Church bit, when mankind gets involved. Watching the goings on as the ladies do battle over alter flowers (C of E) and “Elders” (Jehovah's Witnesses) telling my Dad to shave his beard off because it gave the “wrong” impression to the outside world (unclean – can you believe that?), then listening to my Mum crying and pleading with Dad to stand up to them, after all, didn't Jesus wear a beard? The sound of him tapping the razor on the side of the bathroom sink will stay in my memory forever, as I watched the sparkle dim in my Mum's eyes. But that wasn't God's hand – it was men “interpreting” the Bible and its message, and that was when I pulled away.

So, my faith has become my own personal relationship with God, and this spring saw that sorely tested. As I watched the greening of the hedgerows, buds bursting forth and bulbs pushing through the earth, my usual joy and wonder was absent, as I grieved for people I loved. But this IS what it is all about, though, isn't it? The cycle of life, that continuous circle and my grief gradually turned into a heightened awareness that I had to get on and “live”.

And that is what I have been doing. I have been outside at every opportunity, working in my vegetable garden and nurturing my plants. I have started to sew again and resumed my voracious reading habit. Oh! And cooking – something I have always enjoyed, but now has become a passion. Jimmy has been chief tester as I have tried out new recipes on him and I have shopped locally for in-season produce, that I haven't grown myself, like a woman possessed. We have entertained as never before and I have hardly turned the computer on – that is a major achievement in itself!

Last week we went to Suffolk – just the two of us in a beautiful cottage between Edwardstone and Boxford (Grove Cottages).

The cottage was rustic rural at its best and each morning we were visited by a family of ducklings, with their mum. I fell in love with this county as we visited Flatford Mill, on through Manningtree to Mistley (Essex borderland), back towards Nayland, Polstead, Kersey (where the Witch finder General was filmed), up to Monks Eleigh, Needham Market, across to Framlingham, Woodbridge and Sutton Hoo and then on to the coast, where we explored Walberswick, Dunwich Heath, Westleton, Thorpeness, Aldeburgh and Orford.
The furthest west we went was to Lavenham and Long Melford, where we also visited Melford Hall. Wherever we went, we drove through picture perfect villages of pastel coloured, thatch roofed cottages, with village greens and duck ponds. I completely understand Suffolk Mum's choice of home county! All too soon it was time to come home, back to the reality of domestic routine – washing, ironing, cleaning the chickens out...............

But then, of course, as we drove home reflecting on our adventures in a previously unknown county to us, we turned the corner and the Malvern Hills came into view, as the sun was setting. My heart lifted, as they gently stood proud on the landscape and the warm feeling of home seeped into my bones. We finally turned into our lane and as we drove up the hill, our cottage stood quietly waiting for us. The dogs were going ballistic as they recognised the car engine sound and after a raucous greeting, accompanied by wet noses thrust into our hands and tails circling at 90 miles per hour, we collapsed with steaming mugs of tea, laid out in preparation on a tray by my Mum. We grinned at one another. There's nowhere quite like home, but we both agree that Suffolk comes a VERY close second!!

Just blethering........

2009-03-10T14:38:00.004Z

I woke this morning to the increasingly loud chorus of bird song as the sun struggled to raise its head. Peeking over the blankets, I was unsure what the weather would hold for today and tiptoed out to open the curtains. Brrr, it was still chilly so I jumped back into bed, just as J came in with my morning cuppa. “Morning, honey,” he smiled at me and kissed the top of my head before he went back downstairs to let the chickens out.

The next sound to assail my ears was the dogs barking in delight as they were let out to “help” with the chickens. Their “help” is to snuffle all around the run, checking up on who has been roaming around eating spilt seed, during the night. Their curiosity satisfied, they come skidding back into the house for breakfast.

While all this goes on, less than five minutes has passed but already my mind is at it. It’s the same every day: I wake up and my mind is instantly alert but my body struggles to match the pace. So, this is my time to plan the day. Sipping my tea, I watch as the sun pokes through and patches of blue sky appear through the white fluffy balls of cloud. “Enough blue to make a sailor’s suit”. That was one of my Nan’s sayings and it popped into my mind and brought a smile to my face. Thinking of my childhood and time with my Nan always brings a smile to my face and, after the pain of losing her, I carry her with me always. I find myself still doing things we did together; things I would never have done without her and I smile often at the memories.

A pair of long tailed tits sit on a branch outside the window and peek in at me. They are nervous little birds and soon fly off as the more confident blue tits appear. Note to self: top up the feeders before breakfast.

The clouds roll in and the sky turns grey again as I am in the shower. I can see the field at the bottom of the garden and the pale green shoots are just pushing through the red/brown earth that is so characteristic of this part of the country. It is still too early to tell what it is going to be, but last year it was pasture and I think we are due a wheat crop…………. My mind moves on again: I must change the spare bed as we have visitors due. Mmm, will the sheets dry out today, or shall I hang them up over the Rayburn? Nearly dry myself now, I give lip service to some body lotion – too chilly to dally and get dressed.

Windows open and bed turned back, I shoo the cat out. She loves to jump up on the bed and I don’t mind after it is made, but she always makes a beeline to the warm patch I have not long vacated. With arms filled with washing I negotiate the stairs down and J is just coming back in from walking the dogs. Oh, great! They’re filthy (again!) and after a brisk rubbing down are banished to the utility room to finish drying off. Dog chews are dispensed before they start barking to “ask” for one – they are such creatures of habit.

The washing machine starts its gentle hum and the kettle is sending small spirals of steam up to the ceiling. I make J’s sandwiches for work and then we sit to eat our cereals together. And then it happened. You know the feeling when your stomach flips over as realisation hits? I had glanced at the calendar and realised that I had a blood test in 40 minutes. Darn it! Mental lists scatter as I frantically finish eating, rush to clean my teeth and throw on some lippy whilst doing up my shoes. I have to have blood tests every fortnight for a while now that I have restarted my Bosentan. Liver function can be affected and there is a strict protocol to follow.

I wave a kiss at J as I grab handfuls of keys and leg it to the car. Newent is only 15 minutes away so I may just make it; that is if there are no tractors on the road. And then my mind is at it again as I spy litter floating in the ditches. It was bin day today and we always get litter after a collection. Note to self – get litter picker out of greenhouse where it had been shoved when I went to buy chicken feed last time. Time to be a womble again!

Turning left at the Dymock crossroads, I pass a thatched cottage that is having the roof re-done. It is long overdue and I’m not sure if it has changed hands as there has been a hive of activity over the last few months. The ladders are still on the roof but it is still a little early for the thatcher to be at work. Crossing the motorway bridge I note that traffic is very light (this is not a busy motorway at the best of times, more like a dual carriageway), glance at the clock and dip the accelerator a bit more. I normally pootle about but today I have got an appointment so will get up to the 50mph speed limit.

It was hard to find a parking space this morning but I did find one eventually. Red-faced and out of breath, I check in at the desk. Just made it! 10 minutes later I am walking down the high street to pay a bill at the bank and the sun parts the clouds once more. I pause to pick up two plastic bags that are rolling along the floor and shove them in the nearest bin, tutting. This irritates me soooooo much. Newent is such a pretty market town with its timber framed market house and Tudor buildings. In the summer there is multi-coloured bunting draped across the streets and there are wonderful butchers, greengrocers, bakers, tea shops, card shops and the obligatory “country” store selling wellies, Barbours and cords. It is host to the Newent Onion Fayre in September and the crowds roll in.

Today, though, I have a hefty list of phone calls to make, washing to finish and floors to clean, so I need to concentrate my thoughts once more. And I left the house without making the bed! Major sin!! It is starting to spit as I pass the thatched cottage in Dymock village once more and see that the thatcher has started his work. Eight minutes later I reverse on the drive; 2 buzzards call from above as they circle over our roof and I battle with the gate against the strengthening breeze. I’m ready for that cup of tea now and slide the kettle onto the hot plate as I discard body warmer and hang up the keys. Within minutes it is boiling and I can commit my mental list to paper so that later I can enjoy crossing things out! So satisfying – I love a list and that smug feeling when you reach the bottom. Only trouble is, there’s always another list tomorrow!

It's been a while

2009-03-06T18:24:00.003Z

The last time I blogged, it was about autumn. Now, it is spring and as the snowdrops are fading away, the crocuses and daffodils have taken over. Christmas has been and gone; already a hazy memory and, as the days start to get ever longer, the birds are beginning to build their nests and the promise of new life beckons.

We have had snow here, like many places this winter but, apart from that, winter has been a long one for me. Scleroderma has chosen not to be kind to me lately and I have suffered from digital ulcers like never before. My only pain relief has been morphine and I have been numbed down and out of it for a few months now. I don’t think I suffer from depression, but I have been down with zero energy and vast amounts of lethargy. When this happens, all I want to do is sleep or gaze out of the window at the trees.

Ever since I can remember, I have had a fascination of trees. I marvel at their ability to live so long, when we are here for just a fraction of time in comparison. I love the different varieties; their colours, sizes, blossoms, fruits and texture of bark. We are fortunate here that from every single window of our cottage, we can see trees: trees of all descriptions – oak, perry pear, hazel, silver birch, elder, ash, copper beech, apple and plum trees, plus a huge eucalyptus tree right at the bottom of the garden, with its amazing peeling bark. When my nephew and niece come to stay, we write secret messages on the bark and lay a treasure trail around the garden. We have had magical moments doing this, but they grow all too quickly and will soon rather sunbathe, listening to their IPods instead.

My “therapy” is my tree gazing. I have long since learnt to listen to my body when it is not firing on all cylinders, and so our trees have listened to my misery and pain and ever so gently, kicked me up the bum and nudged me back on course. They have turned a blind eye to my attire (I have been unable to do zips and buttons for over 2 months) as I have slobbed around in pull up trousers and sweatshirts. And now they are teasing me to want to go outside and do some gardening, but it has turned too cold for me again and I have to content myself with making plans and drawing up planting maps for my raised vegetable beds.

At least now I can type again! I am VERY slow and my fingers are clumsy, but I get there in the end. I am healing daily as the spring advances and there is a hint of warmth to the sun (not today, though!). I will never be fully “well” or cured, but I always get my equilibrium back – this winter has been harder to get through but I received good news that my funding has been granted for the drug “Bosentan” last month. I was in hospital having my Iloprost infusion (to try and kick start the healing of my ulcer) when my letter came and that was the icing on the cake. I participated in the drug trial for Bosentan and afterwards was given the drug for a 12 month period, free of charge by the drug company. This was 2 years ago and for the last year without the drug, my ulcers have been very spiteful. Bosentan doesn’t stop the ulcers coming completely, but makes them heal much faster. It is also used by sufferers of pulmonary hypertension but, fortunately, my “type” of Scleroderma means I am less likely to have this. So, enough! I have my little pills once more, my ulcer is shrinking slowly and I am feeling stacks better. Life is pretty darned good and I am back in the frame of mind to realise it.

It is growing dusk now and I am off to put the chickens to bed. Our ex battery hens have settled in wonderfully and are keeping us in more eggs than we can eat. Neighbours and friends are enjoying the eggs too and come to see them grubbing around in the dirt. They are such characters and so friendly – you only have to walk towards their gate and they come running to see what presents they have. Their favourite is mash potato, but they love rice, bread, veg peelings, chips (!), grapes, apples, strawberries and pasta. They love being picked up and stroked and the kids love to go and fetch the eggs when they come to stay. It couldn’t have worked out better – they give us so much amusement and we give them love and a safe environment.

So, until another time (not so long, I hope) – wellies, body warmer and gloves are to be donned before I venture into the cold air to close that pop hole! xx

Autumn reflections

2008-11-07T16:47:00.002Z

Autumn is my favourite season. Well then, of course, there’s spring too, and summer’s good………. even winter has its blessings. Let’s face it, I love living in this country because we do get to experience ALL of the seasons, although summer can be noticeable by her absence! By the end of each season, I am ready for the next: looking forward to the changes ahead and hauling the next season’s clothes out of storage. This time of year is a triumph of colour, a feast of preserving and storing and that distinctive smell of wood smoke as tiny spirals dance lightly from cottage chimneys. Putting a match to the fire and hearing the crackle and spit; seeing the flare of flame and inhaling the smell of apple wood. Candles glimmer on the mantelpiece and the house smells of apple spice, cinnamon or winter berries. I put hand crocheted “granny” blankets over the backs of all the chairs and the curtains are drawn against the ink black night.

Today was one of those autumnal days of watery sunshine and I went to a local church to clean it for my mum. Mum is the official church cleaner but she is spending the week up in Scotland with my dad and I have volunteered to step in. Bromesberrow church is such a lovely church. It dates back to 1170AD and is full of architectural gems. The drive up to it is a tree-lined avenue and today the sun set the colours off to perfection. Bromesberrow lies in the foothills of the Malverns, where they merge into the Eastnor hills. From the A417, the timber framed spire can be seen jutting out from the trees and standing in relief against the gentle rolling landscape of the hills.

And then, in a spiritual juxtaposition, behind Bromesberrow (or Bromsberrow as it is also called), following the twisting lanes, you come to White Leaved Oak – a tiny settlement nestling at the base of the hills. There are some amazing walks around here, not least a visit to the White Leaved Oak itself. Much folklore and legend has sprung up about this tree, including debates as to whether it is THE original pagan White Leaved Oak. Nonetheless, it is clearly a place of pilgrimage and the tree is adorned with crystals, ribbons, flowers and crafts, especially at Solstice. It is said the tree marks the centre point of laylines which include locations such as Stonehenge and Glastonbury.

Wherever your Spiritual faith lies, on a day like today, you only have to look around you and see the wonders of nature and marvel at her display of vibrant colours, even as she is dying off, ready to be reborn in the Spring. My drive home was spent in quiet contemplation: having been moved by stories from other PurpleCoo members, seeing nature at work, spending time in the serenity of that ancient church and thinking of family and friends. It is these quiet, still moments that bring us closer to who we really are and I felt the stress ebb away.

I drove up the lane, glad of my 4x4 as I plunged through mud and yet more mud. Now I know why I always seem to have a stripe of mud on the inside of my right calf – note to self “wash the door sills!” As I reverse on the drive, J is in the kitchen window and the kettle is gently sending puffs of steam from its spout as it boils on the Rayburn. He knows me so well, this man of mine………….

Hens, carpets and gravel!

2008-10-01T22:29:00.005+01:00

Here are our new girls! I’m not a fan of soap operas, but when I was a child, I remember watching Coronation Street with my Nan so, when naming our new additions; it just HAD to be done. Welcome to Ena (Sharples), Betty (don’t know what her surname was), Hilda (Ogden) and Mavis (Riley).

Nearly one week on and they are getting their feathers back. They have learnt to scratch around in the dirt, stretch their wings and even jump up onto the roof of the hen house we borrowed for them. Tonight, we put them into our own hen house with our Buff Orpington girls and, hopefully, by tomorrow they will all be fully integrated.

Oh, and the eggs! We were a bit worried about the quantity we would get, as they are ex-battery hens but, no need! We are getting 3 eggs a day and, yes, they are delicious. Our Buffs lay pale, creamy coloured eggs – these are ever so slightly smaller and brown. We had one egg laid in the transporter box as we brought them to their new home and we gave it to my niece – first egg for a special young lady.

The other exciting thing that has happened is our new stair runner! It was fitted today – our bargain, half price, lovely, scrummy, Roger Oates carpet. (It looks more pink in the photos but it is actually a raspberry colour!) During our alterations, we moved the staircase and, on one of my eBay forages, I found an antique stair rope and carpet clips – so, a stair runner it just had to be. Roger Oates’ studio is in Eastnor, Herefordshire and I have long loved his carpets and visited the studio shop often, as it is just down the road. Our latest visit brought with it the delight in finding a runner that was only ever produced as a sample, and there was enough for our stairs! At half the normal price, it had to be……..

And finally for today, I am off to bed to get an early night in preparation of a gravel delivery which, with mum and dad, I will be spreading over the membrane I have laid in the front garden. Tomorrow night, no doubt, I will have a bad back and blistered hands from raking!

And......... the kitchen.

2008-09-23T20:24:00.008+01:00

Our bargain eBay kitchen out of a farmhouse, re-jigged by our carpenter and walls liberally decorated with some of Jimmy's enamel signs found at a car boot sale.

We were VERY naughty and bought a Lec retro fridge (also off the internet!)

Alfie looks very bored by it all now.

Finally - some extension pics!

2008-09-22T18:32:00.003+01:00

Some pictures of our new bedroom and ensuite - kitchen, hallway, new stairs and outside to follow!

Getting back on track

2008-09-16T19:03:00.003+01:00

Office – paint everything and wax everything else. Hang blind.
Downstairs loo – paint shoe pigeonholes.
Utility room – Wax window and sand/reseal worktop and sink area. Paint inside cupboard doors (yes, I know you can’t see inside but I’ll know they need doing…) Get a blind. Hang it.
Garden – don’t go there!

I’m not going to talk about the extension – the “to-do” list speaks for itself and my life is nearly back to normal. Well, as normal as they usually are in our household.

J finally found the leads for the camera but, in the meantime, we have had nightmare internet problems and India Telecom, sorry, British Telecom, have taken their time in sorting them out. I shan’t embroider on that but I’m sure you know EXACTLY what I mean. Suffice to say, things have been fraught here as J tries to run a business with temperamental internet access for checking orders and emails.

For me, things have also not been so good. My health has been pretty naff (all Scleroderma related) and I’ve been as hacked off, fed up, low, bordering on depressed and as antisocial as anyone can get. There! It just feels good getting out. How anything has got done chez Woozle, (by Woozle, that is) is pretty amazing but I’ve slowly hauled myself from my fog of self pity and, as I have been able to start walking again bit by bit, got back out into my garden and let it weave its magic on me. I’ve averted my eyes from the triffid-like weeds that have leapt up everywhere and systematically tackled my borders; plants have re-emerged from tangles of bind weed, along with my good humour.

A couple of weeks ago, I managed a few days down in Cornwall at my friend’s parents’ who have retired to Delabole. I was so chuffed to be able to go on a cliff top walk, without a stick and even with a spring in my step (when I wasn’t going uphill!). We walked from Daymer Bay round towards Rock, but the rain clouds started to gather on the horizon (again!) so we headed back to the car and ate ice-cream as the rain pelted the roof and the windows steamed up around us. Bliss, actually! The waves rolled in, topped by brilliant white crests of foam and the wind whistled through the car, but we grinned at each other over our cones and laughed at our red tipped noses and cheeks and windswept hair.

The next day we visited a National Trust property – Trerice. I really loved it as it wasn’t too big and you could almost imagine living there (funds permitting). The gardens were gorgeous – not too formal and the orchard was a delight to walk through. Round by the vegetable area and greenhouses there was a scything demonstration and the young girl made it look so easy as she used tiny movements, back and forth, to clear around the bases of trees. We ate cake and drank tea but did grumble at the sandwiches - £4.10! Not on your Nelly!!

All too soon it was Thursday morning and I packed up the car to come home. I drove through the whole gamut of rain, wind and sunshine as I headed northwards up the M5 and dodged a car that had shed its canoes from the roof onto the hard shoulder. Finally the familiar landscape of home loomed as I saw the Malverns rising from the ground and the wind whispered “nearly there” to the drone of “home, home, home” from my tyres as they ate up the remaining miles of tarmac.

My heart always lifts when I see those hills – they’re not majestic mountains, or dramatic cliffs but their presence on the landscape marks home to me. They are beautiful and graceful, gentle almost, as they rise out of the ground close to the triangle where Herefordshire, Gloucestershire and Worcestershire meet. They were Elgar’s inspiration and I truly understand why. I have walked the length and breadth of them, as he did, and never ceased to marvel at the views over this, my very favourite part of our beautiful island.

As I turned into our lane and past the village shop, I waved to John as he was sorting out the locally grown tomatoes in the boxes outside and then pulled over for the hedge cutting tractor. Life was going on as usual and thoughts drifted to seeing the dogs and cat again, making my first cuppa for 3 hours and waiting for J to come home from work. When I got out of the car to open the gate, I could hear the dogs barking with excitement as they recognized the sound of my car and it brought a smile to my face. I love going away and seeing new places – marveling at the diverse countryside to be found a few hours down the road, breathing sea air and having my hair whipped around my head by the sea breeze. But I always love coming back again, just as much, or even more. The going away makes the homecoming even sweeter and I can look around with renewed vigour, rather than horror, as I make a mental note of things to go on my list before I get flattened by 3 furry hounds.

2008-05-20T20:04:00.004+01:00

Forgive me Headmistress – it has been too long since I last blogged and joined in with class properly.

What can I say? I have popped in briefly and signed the register. Occasionally I have gone on class outings with the Welsh/Marches girls, but on the whole I have been absent. And to top it all, I’ve lost the wires that connect the camera to the computer. I say “I” but that is very tongue in cheek – it is not “I” but “he”…….. as well as his car keys, mobile phone, blah, blah……… So no pictures to put up to at least show some excuse for my absence as we now enter the tweaking and pruning section of finishing the extension.

To do list: New bedroom – finish painting 2 walls and paint skirtings/door frames and wax windows. Paint floor. Get curtains. Hang curtains. Move in.
Ensuite – last coat of paint on floor.
Office – paint everything and wax everything else. Hang blind.
New staircase – ditto.
Hall – hang pictures.
Downstairs loo – paint shoe pigeonholes and hang mirror/hat rack. Hang blind.
Utility room – Wax window and sand/reseal worktop and sink area. Paint inside cupboard doors (yes, I know you can’t see inside but I’ll know they need doing…) Get a blind. Hang it.
Porch – lay floor tiles.
Kitchen – paint shutters.
Garden – don’t go there!

Apart from that, we are so very nearly done. This last final push is the worse bit as we can now live happily in the house just as it is and this is dangerous. It would be too easy to stop and “have a rest” for a bit, but I know that the little niggly things would never get finished off (like inside those cupboards). So, Dad has been coming for the last couple of weeks and has been sanding rough bits, touching up the paintwork here and there, filling in little cracks and holes and generally pulling it all together and driving us along. Last week he painted our new stable door and it looks brill. At the weekend Mum came and moved all the left over pieces of Kingspan stored in the gazebo and put them behind the barn out of the way. Then we sat in it and had lunch in the garden, eyes firmly averted from the trenches half filled in and the skip that still sits outside the back door.

A sedge warbler is nesting low down in one of the garden borders. We had heard its glorious warbling and thought it was nesting down near our neighbour’s pond but, no, this daft but exquisite little bird decided to make its nest in full view of anyone walking past with a sharp eye. At first we thought it was a field mouse nest, as it was positioned tilted slightly forward. Then, when Mum went to look, the eggs had appeared and the female was agitatedly flitting from branch to branch of a nearby tree. We were terrified she’d abandon the nest but the change in the weather turned our attention to all things inside again until yesterday when Mum went to check and two little yellow edged beaks could be seen waiting for their next feed. Mum didn’t hang about but we are all hoping that there’s more than just two from the clutch of eggs we saw.
Whilst all this has been going on, I’ve been laid up with a bad foot, and feeling frustrated at my lack of mobility. It was coming on when I met up with Bodran, CCA, Elizabethm, Mountainear and SBS at The Dingle Nurseries near Welshpool. I was glad to pull onto the car park as my foot was throbbing and I managed to hobble around, buoyed along by excellent company, fantastic surroundings and glorious weather. I even succumbed to buying a few plants for my ravaged garden but not as many as CCA! I dreaded the drive home but eventually made it and hoped the anti-inflammatories would soon kick in.

Several weeks later and here I am, sat with my feet up and almost at the end of a course of combined antibiotics. The inflammation became my first ever ulcer on the ball of my foot (I get them regularly on my hands): I cried and railed against Scleroderma and I have never been so miserable. I would have sheepishly logged on for a Purple Hug request if my laptop hadn’t been packed away for the final bit of plastering as we had a new ceiling in the dining room. But no, I couldn’t even surf the net so sat and wailed in pain and frustration, surrounded by books I couldn’t muster up the enthusiasm to read, while Mum and Dad beavered away on the house and J was at work.

And then, on Saturday night, our beloved George finally succumbed to the lung cancer that’s ravaged his body since Christmas. He saw his 78th birthday the week before and then went to join his darling daughter, A, who left us last year with a brain tumour. George and Olive had managed a final visit to see us in April – they knew time was running out and George so desperately wanted to see the house. They have been second parents to J and he looks haggard with the grief of losing the man who played the role of father to him when his own could not. As for Olive, she is in a whirl as she has lost her husband and only child within a year.

We are all numb and I sit and gaze out of the window at the hive of activity as birds are feeding their young. My friend texts me pictures of her 3 month old daughter. The birds are singing as the cycle of life continues around us; my eyes fill up with tears of sadness for lost ones but then I manage a watery smile and give thanks for being a part of it all.

The pictures are of us with George during happier times - we miss him already.

A day in my life

2008-03-03T14:19:00.001Z

Tagged by Faith to write about a typical day in my life!

A day in the life of Woozle

Every day, except Sunday, starts at 7am. The alarm is just going off and my arm flailing around to turn off the incessant noise when J comes in, flinging the curtains open and depositing a cup of tea by my side. His side of the bed is almost cold as he is a 6 o’clocker (or thereabouts – I’m still in a deep coma and never hear him get up) and he is chirpy and chatty as he changes from his chicken letting out and dog walking clobber to something a bit more respectable. By the time I have drunk my tea the fog has lifted from my brain and I have made plans for the day, which will, no doubt, be cast to the wind as soon as I get downstairs.

Before the extension, my morning shower consisted off a mad dash downstairs, through the cold lobby and into the freezing domain off the downstairs shower room. It was a relief to stand under the warm water but then it took a marathon of will power to get out into the cold, wrap my towel around me and leg it back up to dry and dress in the warmth. Now, our gorgeous new ensuite (which is ensuite to our new bedroom, which we haven’t yet moved into…….) sports a gorgeous Victorian style shower with the biggest drench head and I don’t want to get out for other reasons………

Dressed, windows flung open and bed turned back to air, I scoop up one of my carefully sorted piles of washing (why does that black sock manage to creep into my best white bedlinen pile?) and plod downstairs, dodging the dogs who want to say good morning before I’ve emptied my arms of washing. Once they’ve had their chins scratched and I’ve spoken to each in turn, the girls throw themselves back down on their bed and Alfie lies down with a big sigh in front of the Rayburn.

During our building works, all our tradesmen usually pull up about 8am and we have to co-ordinate vehicles on the drive to make sure mine doesn’t get blocked in at the back in case I need to pop out to Travis Perkins or the plumber’s merchant. I learnt very early on that it doesn’t do to annoy the tradesmen by asking them to move 3 vans when they are a) up a ladder, b) soldering copper pipe or c) on the roof.

Now my day is dictated by endless brews of tea and dashes to the village shop as, horror of horrors, the supply of custard creams and chocolate bourbons is reduced to a few crumbs. I dream of the time when my “old” life comes back and instead of painstakingly keeping spreadsheets of accounts, I can pore over seed catalogues with a mug of tea for one (or maybe two if J is around, instead of six builders). Will I ever get back to the time when I can lay the fire for the evening, flick a quick duster round and run the Dyson over the carpet (those darned white dogs of ours!), shimmy the bathroom, tidy the kitchen and then have the rest of the day to potter in the garden? Or have mum and dad over for lunch? Or take the dogs for a really long walk without being scared I’ll come back home to a doorway being put somewhere “creative” because I wasn’t there at the time?

Lunchtime is a brief reprieve as our workmen retreat to their vans with flasks, packed lunches and radios, and I can reclaim my home for half an hour. I never really thought of the impact having men just walking in and out all the time would have on our life. Your home is meant to be your private world but all that goes out the window when you embark on this kind of project. My “normal” life would see me sat at the kitchen table, lunch before me and the binoculars at my elbow to watch the activity from the bird box in the perry pear tree; now I skulk away in the farthest room to the work – the lounge.

As we are moving along this project, my days have changed a bit to include the excitement of getting paint on the walls. Last week we got window cills and what a transformation – everywhere looks cleaner, instead of plaster rough edges and fluffy bits of insulation sticking out of the cavity under the windows. I’ve got to wax the windows yet, but I’ll get round to it soon. Somehow or other, I’ve got to find time to prepare dinner as well as wielding a brush now that we are eating back at home. For the last few months, we have been eating at mum and dad’s, but when the kitchen was finished it was such a treat to be able to stay in and cook. The novelty is only just starting to wear off as the enormous task of decorating raises its head as we enter the home run. Painting/eating/painting……… decisions, decisions.

By the time our men have gone (4pm) calm descends and we greedily wander round looking at what’s been achieved and can be crossed off the “to do” list. I love a list. I can’t live without them, actually. Lists for shopping, lists for chores, lists of garden plants/pruning times/vegetable crop rotations, lists of birthdays and phone calls………. endless lists pinned or stuck to all available surfaces at the moment. Confession time. I know it seems early to some, but this is the time I like to have a glass of wine. Chilled white wine in hand, I can wander from room to room seeing what’s been done (or not!) and then go back to the kitchen, make another list and then get on with cooking, accompanied by the occasional sip of wine. My second glass is with dinner and then that’s it. Back to the tea! My town mouse friend is always horrified if she rings at around 5pm and I’m drinking. She tells me that it’s WAY too early, but I have to remind her that I’m not like her and that when I start it doesn’t mean that I then drink all night. I’m done with alcohol by 8pm – she drinks until she goes to bed so daren’t start until 8pm!

I keep an eye on the light levels so that I can go and put the hens away. We have one, Willis, (we hatched 3 of our own and called them Freeman, Hardy and Willis. Needless to say, Freeman and Hardy were re-homed as we would have had 3 cockerels!) who always comes back out of the hen house if you go out too early. She is the greediest of our girls and is always on the look out for titbits, even at bedtime, so I try to go out during those last dusk moments when I know she will have hopped on the perch to roost, instead of sticking her head out of the pop hole watching for me to come out as her signal to come charging to the gate. It is a game to her but I want to get on with the dinner!

I love it when J sits with me at the kitchen table, chatting, or helps with chopping and peeling. It’s a good time of day for us to talk properly and I miss it if he is working away. I usually send him off to check his emails and make phone calls while I clear up after dinner and then I’ll wander through to the lounge and sit in front of the fire with a mug of tea. Very rarely is the TV on in our house – J is a news hound and I love a good thriller or period drama, but soaps are definitely out. However, Grand Designs and those kind of programmes have sneaked in a bit as we have been absorbed in all things house renovation – you’d think we’d want to get away from it but it is an obsession at the moment. I think we get a perverse pleasure when we see other couples overcoming the same problems we have and it certainly makes us feel better when they admit to going over budget. It’s not just us then! Lately, this is the time that I do my ironing as there is no way I can do it during the day, but even this is a novelty at the moment as the washing machine has only been plumbed in 3 weeks!

I usually go off and run a bath then come down to make the last cuppa which I will take up to bed whilst J watches the news. This is my book time and I heap the pillows up and read until he comes up to bed too. I hear him let the dogs out for their last wee, call the cat in, put the milk bottles out and lock up and it is my cue to finish the chapter before he comes up.

We like to sleep with the window open and I love it when the lights go out and all is dark and silent, except for the occasional hooting of an owl or the sound of a disturbed animal in the hedges, and you’re warm and snuggly beneath the covers. I love it even more if I can get off to sleep before J breaks the silence and starts snoring……….

For Mum

2008-01-25T09:23:00.000Z

It’s been a while since I have blogged and I have much to catch up on. Trying to remember things to tell you has caused me to sit and reflect on the last few months and how all this started.

I didn’t enter the CL competition but started to blog around the time it was “all happening” in February 2007. Writing an online diary was therapeutic and opened up a whole new world I never knew existed. And I “met” you; became involved in your lives through the good times and some bad times, and even though I have been an infrequent player lately, the warmth of the site ensures I can dip in and out when I can. It’s like coming home to family after long absences and it is this that I am going to share with you – my family.

As many of you know, it was my 40th birthday in November. I thought I was going out with my nearest and dearest for a low-key family meal at the Three Choirs Vineyard restaurant, near my home. But, oh no! My wonderful, fabulous and sometimes exasperating family had plotted and sneaked around behind my back to arrange the MOST wonderful get-together of all my closest family, friends and former work colleagues. They raided my address book and pinched my mobile phone to get telephone numbers – nothing was sacred. The extent of their deception in other circumstances would have horrified me but I forgave them instantly, after I recovered from the shock, that is!

Jimmy was run ragged on nervous exhaustion and, with hindsight, his behaviour had been a little odd. But, as he’d been preparing to work Lincoln Christmas Market and Worcester Christmas Fair, I’d been used to him coming and going and making umpteen phone calls to fellow traders, to check on pitch locations and such-like.

My poor mum, on the other hand, nearly had a nervous breakdown. As we have been eating and showering at mum’s during our extension works, she’d been trying to co-ordinate everyone whilst I was in the shower. I never suspected a thing when she ushered me up the stairs for first shower, nor did I think it strange when they all went quiet when I came down the stairs again for my forgotten towel. They pulled it off with the flair of fully trained MI5 intelligence officers, but it was my mum who pulled it all together.

Mum works at a local B&B the-grovehouse and it is also here that we keep Diamond (a lovely horse I had on loan for a while from a friend but she has taken him back on full time now) and became friendly with the house’s owners, Ellen and Michael. They have a barn there for weddings and parties and they gave my family the free run of it for my party. But this wasn’t all. As we had been eating at mum’s every night, there was no way that any food could be prepared without me seeing it. The fridge was out of bounds too, which was a bit tricky as I am chief tea maker, and there was nowhere to hide the wine either!

This was the bit I found hardest to get my head around when I found out the extent of the military operation of my birthday celebrations. Our wonderful neighbours in the village not only also kept the secret, but provided all the hot food. They made curries and casseroles, in addition to bringing cold platters and the desserts. The farmer’s wife, over the road from us, even made my birthday cake. It was truly the most wonderful surprise of my life.

They managed to get me inside (still unsuspecting, I might add!) under the pretext of picking mum up from work as she’d been “helping at a wedding” before we went on to my birthday meal at the Three Choirs. Now, what I haven’t told you is that as lovely as Grove House is, it has antiquated wiring and it is always having power cuts at inappropriate moments. So when we pulled up, mum came out in a flap and asked if I could help her as the wedding reception was in full flow and the power had gone. Being an old hand at stepping into the breach, I huffed a bit and moaned and got out the car to help with candles and matches while we sorted the trip out. But of course, I walked into darkness that suddenly became light and was surrounded by a sea of my best-loved people in the whole world.

Yes, I did cry. My pregnant best friend had traveled up from London with her partner and 3 year old son; my uncle and cousins had come up from Bath; my brother and heavily pregnant sister-in-law had come from Birmingham; some other friends had come from Kent; my former boss (she was my true mentor at work) and her husband were there; our whole village……. Oh, I could go on. Shock registered on my face as I looked at each grouping of people and I saw friends that I hadn’t seen for nearly 12 months in some cases. The evening passed in a whirl but is filed away in my precious memories box. I’m not usually one for surprise parties, but this was amazing. To be surrounded by my nearest and dearest for my 40th was actually all I could have wanted, and they pulled out all the stops for me that night.

And my mum worked hard all night – bringing out the food from the kitchen, taking dirty plates away and washing up. She did not stop until the last wine glass was washed and put back in the box, except in her toast to me when I blew out my candle (just the one, otherwise it would have melted the cake!!). She spoke of our special relationship; the times when she was bringing me up as a single parent with my widowed Nan helping, but the fun us three girls had as our own unit; her remarriage and our growing into a bigger family and the way our relationship has grown, as I have, over the years. She made me blush, cry and laugh in succession as she told everyone how I was a model baby who hardly cried; a toddler who found an almost empty wine bottle at my uncle’s house and swigged the last bit down and carried it to her saying “Nice!”; her grief when she found out I had Scleroderma and how our roles are beginning to reverse as we each get older.

So, to my mum, today is YOUR birthday and I would like to say that although we are now friends in a different way, I am still your little girl and you are a wonderful Mum who has put your family first throughout your life. I will cherish the memories of my childhood and can still close my eyes and catapult myself back to the little blue chair you had welded into your truck’s cab for me, so that I could come to work with you when you were making ends meet as a lorry driver. I can still hear you singing nursery rhymes with me, until you were hoarse, on those long journeys and remember sharing a packed lunch that Nan had made for us. Those were our special times – the three of us against the world, and I consider myself the luckiest of children to have shared it all with you. XX

We're getting there!

2007-11-17T13:21:00.001Z

It is a beautiful sunny day. J is up the scaffolding painting our new window frames, we have first fix electrics and plumbing completed, the roof is on and the floorboards are due to arrive on Monday. It is happening. But not quite quickly enough now, for my liking! We won’t be done for Christmas, but all our workmen have promised to try and get the kitchen in so that we can at least make a turkey sandwich from the doggy-bag mum and dad will, no doubt, provide.

We sit at night and look, not at our lovely open fire, but at our lovely new slipper bath instead (another eBay bargain!). We can see the TV (just) not that we watch it much anyway. We can also see cardboard boxes of extractor fans, light switches (antique dolly switches also stockpiled from eBay), taps and heat/smoke detectors (all part of building regs!). We can make tea. And toast. Oh! And we can warm soup on top of the log burner in the dining room – it is our only form of heating in the whole cottage and lit 24hrs a day.

I’ve finally killed the Dyson – it battled bravely trying to suck up dust and debris, but keeled over with a groan on Thursday. I’m posting on Freecycle for another one – it’s doomed before it gets here!

And next week I am 40! How on earth did THAT happen? I’ve an awful feeling that my birthday will coincide with the day the builders “do” the knock-through for the new staircase and I will have scuttled back to mum and dad’s out of the way. I’ve only been home a couple of weeks and my bag is already lurking in the corner, waiting to be re-packed!

Has it been worth it? Mmmmm. There’s a question! Truthfully? Yes. Absolutely. Are we broke? Totally. But our dream is taking shape and in the New Year, we will have such fun putting the icing on the cake of this wonderful job our builders are doing for us.

I can’t see out of the landing window as well but still manage to catch glimpses of our Jays, long-tailed tits and glorious bejeweled frosty mornings. We have had to relocate the bird feeders and this has caused a bit of a furore and the blue tits perch on the scaffolding and look in to tell us when they are running low! The wrens also use the scaffolding to peer in at us and the dunnocks tap at their reflections in the glass (although how they can see anything through the brick dust is beyond me).

I miss dabbling into all your lives but, to be honest, at the moment am too scared to even click on one of your blogs or visit the common room in fear of being side-tracked. I do think of you all the time and can’t wait for this all to be over so life can get back to normal. It is taking a marathon of self control to keep off the site, but I just wanted to say hello (yet again), please don’t forget me and I SOOOOO want to come back. And soon.

And next year, I hope the Welsh/Marches lot will come to me for a visit and see the end result in the flesh……………. In the meantime, if there’s a trip to Ludlow on the cards – I do still have Christmas shopping to do, girls!!xx

Two bloggers' days and the roof starts to go on!

2007-10-14T11:56:00.000+01:00

I started off with good intentions……… I really did. We would live in the house as the builders ripped it apart and then proceeded to put it back together, even better than before. (Note the “I’s” and “we’s”). And then the caravan came.

And now I am at my mum and dad’s. Wimp? You betcha. They are only around 15 minutes away so I can shower, eat and sleep in comfort and then return fully charged to spend the day “on site”. Note this phrase – “on site”. No longer, “at home”. I found myself saying to mum the other day that we’d be “home” for dinner at 6pm. Dad looked at me aghast over his glasses, eyebrows raised so far that they were almost on the back of his head and said “er…….. home?” total panic on his face. I grinned sheepishly.

So the bloggers’ day at Elizabeth’s was a wonderful reprieve. I was able to wear clean jeans and put some mascara on, jump into my car and spend a day in delightful company, eat lovely food and gaze at views to die for. Heaven. Jimmy, meanwhile, is in his element shinning up and down the scaffolding and camping in the house like a boy-scout. There is a definite divide in what “I can” and “we can” cope with at the moment!!

But Thursday morning took my breath away as I drove “to site” before heading off to Elizabeth’s. The sun was low and watery, with the promise of a beautiful day to come. The early morning mist floated above the ground and gently rolled up the hills so that the trees just poked out at the very tops and they looked like they were floating in cotton wool. I startled a buzzard as I drove along the lane and he flew from the farm gate up and away, silhouetted against the misty sunshine.

It was 7.30am and already I was smiling. I love days like this when nature makes Herself so…….. I guess “in your face” is the expression that leaps to mind. Everywhere I looked was gentle, rural beauty and the wildlife was there, especially if you knew where to look: rabbits jumping into verges; pheasants running along in front of the car, jumping neither left nor right, but just doing that funny run straight ahead; buzzards and kestrels out hunting for breakfast; squirrels foraging and all supported by a chorus of birdsong. Thursday was definitely one of those days that remind me how wonderful it is to be alive and to rise up above the problems we can all face in our daily lives and that, sometimes, can make us fail to see the beauty all around. Corny to say my heart felt full to bursting? I hope not.

Then, before I knew it, the sun was going down and I was heading back. This time, the night came quickly and on the last leg of the journey, my eyes felt gritty with tiredness. The day was playing over in my head and I smiled at the familiar ease we already seem to have found in one another’s company. An amazing community we have formed here on these purple pages.

It was only just after 8pm when I got back to mum’s and I ran a bath, made tea and was in bed with my book before 9pm. I battled with dry, heavy eyes and gave up trying to finish my book. My call to wish J goodnight wasn’t as long as usual and soon I was away with the fairies.

Friday was spent coordinating deliveries, paying bills and negotiating deals. It was a day attached to the phone, making builder tea and gazing at pages of Kingspan, coach bolts, battens, galvanized nails and breathable roofing membranes. By 4pm we had part of the roof trusses in place and we were skipping around like kids.

Saturday was a day for skiving off the build. No bricklayers this weekend as they have only got the 3 gable ends to finish and they have to wait for the roof to be in situ. So, with nothing to organize, choose, order or buy I leapt at the chance of meeting up with Bodran again (yep, twice in a week!).

We met at the Hop Pocket – a local craft centre with tea room and garden section selling cottage garden plants (we each bought a cranberry plant and have high hopes of home made cranberry sauce!). Nell went off to look around while we drank coffee and talked……… again. I know we have all been attracted to this site and this means we have things in common, but actually meeting up with fellow bloggers never fails to remind me just how much we really do have in common. Especially for those of us that were (dare I say it?) on t’other side before. That living in the country element and the whole lifestyle thing, ties us together and means we never run out of things to talk about.

I didn’t want to gate crash or hog Bodran’s day with Nell, so we parted company after a while but knew we’d probably bump into each other a bit later on in Ledbury. And, of course, we did. Phil Rickman, our local author, was signing his latest book (The Fabric of Sin) in the bookshop by the market house and I had my copy ready and waiting for his signature, in the back of the car. When I walked in, Bodran was already there and it was really nice, if a bit surreal, to see her smiling face 102 miles (she told me) from her home and twice in one day!

We clutched our signed copies and were chuffed to receive a free calendar too, with pictures of locations from the books. When I left, I thought of all the questions I had wanted to ask him about the locations which, of course, had flown out of my head. Next time……. He told us he has just started the 10th book……..

And now, I am back at home (yes, it IS home really – I’ve got the fire lit today and am snuggled on the sofa) waiting for our carpenter to come and measure up properly for the windows and the new staircase. The roof should be finished in 2 weeks at the latest and first fix electrics and plumbing will start straight after that. The quotes are coming in from the plasterers and we can now see the shape of things to come.

The budget has taken a hammering and the pounds are sliding out of our build account at a rate of knots. But right here and right now we don’t care because we can now see our vision starting to become reality. And we love it.

Getting above ground

2007-09-26T16:45:00.000+01:00

Our poor little cottage is sulking. We are living in chaos, rubble and dust. All of our possessions have been boxed up and stacked in every available square inch of space. Making tea demands the skills of a contortionist as we lean over boxes and crates and we are permanently breathless from running up the stairs to fill kettles and wash mugs in a bowl in the bath.

The dogs have been remarkable. Three pairs of brown reproachful eyes follow us around as their bed has been moved and food/water bowls are carefully placed away from dust and bits of brick and mortar. They have soon adapted to the comings and goings of tradesmen and apart from a cursory sniff now, they largely ignore proceedings. Tilly, the cat, is far nosier and inspects everything with her tail high in the air and left her foot prints in the concrete outside the kitchen door.

We got up on Monday morning to 6 inches of water on the kitchen floor as our make-shift tarpaulin roof was no match for the heavy wind and rain. The water had seeped under the door into the dining room and we squelched as we stepped from the stairs.

I am writing this, huddled on the sofa. There are inches of dust everywhere, the carpets are ruined and now I am ready to cry. I gaze around, completely unable to see beyond the here and now. I gave up vacuuming and dusting every two days, at the weekend. It was a pointless waste of energy and I was becoming more and more disillusioned as the dust settled before I had turned my back.

The initial excitement and flurry of activity now seems a lifetime ago as the cold, stark reality of the can of worms we have unearthed stares at us full in the face.
“Never again!” and “Are you moving out?”
Oh how we laughed as our friends shared their past experiences – confident that we were made of sterner stuff and that it would be a breeze. Our laugh faltered slightly, only once, when our plumber asked where the caravan was going.

But things are looking brighter. We now have said caravan: a tiny, old touring caravan from a neighbour who has taken pity on us. This is why we are doing it. Apart from being totally and utterly in love with our home, this wonderful community that we live in is pulling ranks to support us in our hour of need. We have offers of cooking on M’s Aga (we go to mum’s, though, but lovely offer anyway), doing our washing at next door’s house (ditto mum), parking our cars on another’s drive, storing all our building materials on the farm yard opposite – the list goes on. We couldn’t think of living anywhere else and so we battle on with the disruption, trying to focus on the end result.

Yesterday afternoon, the rain returned and halted our joist work. We swept rain water out through the kitchen door into our longed-for “new hall”. The blue tarpaulin flapped above our heads and our wonderful chimney man was up a ladder trying to work out where to re-route the Rayburn flue pipe. After several cups of tea (no sugar, Milla and Jane!) the final verdict was we CAN’T move it. It joins the upstairs chimney and enters the wall at the lowest possible place. The flue can be boxed in and will just fit under our iron bed, but the joists will have to be spaced around it to meet fire regulations and insulated to protect the new floor boards. Technical facts and figures whiz back and forth between him and the builders, as I slink off to do some internet research to find out how hot the flue pipe gets.

And so, here I am, nursing my laptop. Another crisis sorted. But as sure as God made little apples, there’ll be another one on the way until the day finally arrives when Mr Building Inspector signs the build off and we open a bottle of champagne. I hope we don’t lose the box of glasses in the meantime……..

Homework

2007-09-25T17:19:00.000+01:00

Headmistress, I did debate pretending that I'd missed the deadline for handing it in, but I have managed it in between making tea and taking delivery of another skip!

WOOZLE1967

W is for warmth. I love the permeating warmth from the Rayburn. It gently wraps its arms around you and draws you in, enticing you to lean against its shiny chrome bar. The steam gently swirls from the spout of the kettle and crumpets sizzle on the hot plates. The heart and soul of our home.

O is for outside. Living in the countryside, being able to gaze from the window at undulating fields and listen to the uninterrupted sounds of nature. Whatever the weather, there is something beautiful and ever changing as the landscape moves through the seasons, bringing new delights to marvel at. From the first glimpses of Spring poking through the dark soil; the sound of birdsong; lengthening days with the promise of things to come: next is the full-on greenness and colour of Summer; casting off our heavy winter clothes and feeling the sun kissing our skin; the sound of buzzards calling in the thermals above the garden; the scents of cottage garden flowers; dining al fresco well into the lighter evenings: and then my favourite time of year – Autumn. Autumn sneaks up on you but then who can mind that when it brings presents of reds and golds to adorn our trees, followed by the crunching and swooshing of tramping through fallen leaves; the smell of log smoke curling up from the chimney and early morning mists. Then last, but not least, Winter – spiders’ webs glimmering in the frost or early morning dew, looking like they have been decorated with tiny diamonds; the stark silhouette of branches against the sky; crunching through newly fallen snow; being able to peep through lamp lit cottage windows at scenes of cosy country living and picturing the roaring fire, glass of red wine on the side and piles of throws, blankets and cushions. I am a terrible nosey parker and can’t help but glance in through such windows – they tease me and call to me to look in at the hidden domestic delights that only weave their magic at this time of year.

O again and back to outside. Oak trees. I know others have mentioned these trees for all the same reasons as me. These majestic trees epitomize everything English countryside. Living on the Herefordshire/Gloucestershire borders, many of the local houses here are timber framed and we live fairly near to the “Black and White Trail” which joins many Herefordian villages together, such as Weobley, Pembridge, Eardisley, Dilwyn to name but a few. We are using green oak to construct two porches as part of our extension works and I have been stock-piling clippings and down loading pictures of oak porches for our carpenter to get his chisel into!

Z. Oh, blimey. I guess it has to be zeal. I am often accused of being like an over-zealous puppy. I talk too much, wave my arms around and have a terrible habit of interrupting. Or Zester as I couldn’t live without mine and it gets plenty of use in our kitchen. We love to cook and whether it is on the Rayburn, electric cooker or barbeque, this little device has seen its way through a plethora of limes, lemons and oranges.

L is for lavender. I adore this plant and it is my signature scent in my Home Scents cleaning products. If you haven’t heard of this company, visit their website as it is full of wonderful products that do not contain ANY chemicals at all. Their bathroom cleaner is amazing and I can still smell it hours after cleaning.

E is for earth. I love my garden and one of the simplest pleasures is to feel the earth running through my fingers. It never ceases to amaze me that putting a seed or bulb into the earth and then, with the right conditions, it can yield a crop of wonderful flowers, cereals or fruits and vegetables. The earth can nurture and produce our food or, in complete reverse, you can bury something and it will rot away. How amazing is that?

And finally - 1967. No prizes for guessing it’s the year of my birth!

Yes, I'm still here!

2007-09-14T11:17:00.000+01:00

Well, it’s finally happening. Our long awaited extension is under way and our feet haven’t touched the ground.

The floods in July caused chaos in our surrounding area and postponed our build as those suffering from the effects of the flood water were, quite rightly, prioritized for help. However, soon, it was our turn and our builders have not let us down. They have worked like Trojans and we are now above ground level and waiting for the brick layers to come to get us up to first lift: a builder term, I have recently learnt and am bandying around like a seasoned professional! To the rest of us, that’s up to bottom of first floor level for the joists and scaffolding to be fitted.

Our supplies of tea and sugar are vastly depleted; there are crumbs in the bottom of the biscuit barrel; our home looks like a bomb site and I am in my element (for the moment!). Today (Friday) we are having the kitchen lights taken out of the ceiling so that it can be pulled down next week. We are already in semi-gloom as the window has been taken out and a shroud of blue tarpaulin is flapping in the breeze. My beloved Rayburn is lying cold and silent, decommissioned until further notice. The Rayburn really is the heart of our home but the buzz and excitement is, surprisingly, filling the gap that appeared when it was turned off.

Next week, all of our hot water will be gone and the electrics in the kitchen will be disconnected as the roof is taken off in preparation for the new floor above. We will be using the camping stove for tea and coffee and to boil water for washing mugs, spoons and cereal bowls in a bowl in the bath. Oh joy!

My mum and dad only live 10 minutes away and have been feeding us for the last 2 weeks. We go for showers, food and clothes to be washed, and they have been absolutely golden to us. Without their calm and organized back-up, things would be so different and they are helping to keep this an enjoyable experience, rather than the nightmare it could so easily be.

We have had family traumas in J’s family during the last couple of weeks and this has threatened to bring us down. I won’t go into it too much right now – it is raw and hurtful for J, but one of his brothers is seriously ill and the effects are still rippling through the family. We have a long journey ahead but J is throwing himself into our build, although I see the pain in his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking.

I’m keeping this short but posting pictures of our wonderful chaos so that you can get a glimpse of the reason for my brief dipping in and out of the site at the moment. I think of you all lots and miss the rapport but my time on the computer is strictly limited now to keeping the spread sheet of costs up-to-date and pouring over delivery notes and cross referencing invoices. Please keep my desk free at skool and I’ll keep my coat on the peg as it doesn’t go with my overalls at the moment. I hope you are all keeping well and I would love to attend the get-together with the Welsh/Shropshire lot – thanks to Angel for keeping me in the loop. Much love.x

Bakewell Show

2007-08-04T13:38:00.000+01:00

The annual Bakewell Show held in the first week of August is my favourite show. There is something for everyone and I love to see the livestock, heavy horse displays, poultry collection and, of course, the horticultural area. There is a wide variety of stalls with sellers displaying their wares, offering services or just providing information, the atmosphere is relaxed and friendly and all surrounded by the heavenly Derbyshire countryside.

The sun shone, and occasionally the breeze picked up; spirits where high and, despite the glorious weather, we managed to sell a fair few brollies! The only down-side for me was this “robot” that came round twice a day to perform a street act. Even as a grownup (well, I like to think I am!) I found it very intimidating and felt my stomach lurch as it got up off the back of the cart it had been driven around in and started to move in the crowd. It was enormous and looked like something from a Terminator movie. Several young children started to cry and we even had a young teenage girl come and hide on our stall on the second day. I have to admit that it was very clever but I didn’t like it!

On the first day, Grouse came to say hello, along with her husband. She was sporting some very stylish sunglasses that she had just bought and I liked her immediately. Of course, she was nothing like I imagined but as soon as she came up to me, I knew it was her. And no, Headmistress, I’m ashamed to say that neither of us was wearing our skool uniforms! Please don’t give us too many lines! So, we gossiped a bit and giggled (that was me, as ever) and Mr Grouse stood patiently chatting to Jimmy while we girls didn’t come up for air (or was that me, again?). A lovely couple – but what else would you expect from our community? They were on their one day off a year and so they left us to get round the showground and catch all the events going on, but they came back later, on their way home, to say goodbye. (Confession to Snail Beach Shepherdess – forgot the flippin’ camera again as I didn’t get your message ‘til I got home!)

Thursday evening soon came round and we were packing up the stall ready for the journey home. We’d had a busy time at the show and I surprisingly managed to finish my Harry Potter book (I hid in the van, Grouse!) but my niece beat me to it, as I knew she would. Eventually, we were reversing on the drive and the dogs were going ballistic and then the tiredness hit me like a tonne of lead. Working these shows means that you have to be on the showground for 7.30am, as vans aren’t allowed to come in after that. And as I’m not an early morning person, by the end of the show I’m usually shattered. You’re on your feet all day and don’t pack up until 6pm, before driving back to the B&B, grabbing a shower and then going to the pub for dinner. On the last day, you also have to dismantle the stall and load that onto the van too, then drive 3 hours home. Cup of tea, bath and bed and the deep sleep of exhaustion.

Now that we are at home, sort-of-recovered, we have agreed that we would love to go back as “proper” tourists and explore the area. We only ever seem to go there for the show and don’t have time to take in the sights and make detours down tempting looking, dry stone wall edged lanes. We usually stay up at Monsal Head, which has amazing views and has whetted our appetite for this lovely county. Oh! and the natives are friendly too – what more could you want?

And the rain came.

2007-07-30T11:17:00.000+01:00

And the rain came. I watched the news whenever I could and my heart ached in sympathy for those that had lost their homes to the water, and in one case that I saw, a lady had lost her two cats and her grief made me cry.

Tewkesbury and Gloucester aren’t that far away from me and I watched as the water levels rose, from the safety of my own home. Jimmy had to go down to London on the Friday (20 July) and as I was going away the next day, I spent the afternoon doing my housework and getting packed. The sky was leaden grey and I lit the fire when I had finished and sat staring into the flames, hoping that Jimmy was ok. He’d left at 5.30am and I hadn’t heard from him for a while and I felt the butterflies in the base of my stomach that I always do when he is on the road. The flames curled around the logs and I just sat and stared, willing him to phone me.

The sharp ringing jolted through me and I leapt up for the phone and felt the relief coursing through me at his voice saying “Hello, honey. I’m on my way home but it will be late. Probably around 11pm – traffic is hell and so are the roads.” I always say the same thing – it’s a bit of a ritual with me: “Drive carefully, love, please. Watch out for the nutters and stay off your phone!” He’s got hands free but I still think you’re not concentrating if your yacking to someone, and he hates been alone on long journeys as he is such a chatty person, by nature.

I knew I wouldn’t settle properly until he came home, so had a bath and put my dressing gown on. Dinner was an “open the fridge door and gaze inside” kind of affair, as I’d meant to be going to see Jess in her school play and having dinner at mum’s. The weather had seen the play cancelled and I didn’t fancy the fifteen minute journey in torrential downpours and mum had said to stay at home and keep safe. Little did I know how good that advice would be.

There was no letting up in the rain, and I could hear it running through the drain from the guttering into the soak-away at the front, praying that it could take that volume of water. We’re lucky that our cottage is on the brow of a hill and raised up from the lane. I stood at the bedroom window and watched the river of water flowing down the lane and knowing exactly where it would pool into a reservoir at the bottom. Time ticked on slowly and 11pm came and went. There was no way I could go to bed until he was in. I drank more tea and fed another log to the fire.

Quarter past midnight and he rang. He’d started off on the M4 (he usually gets off at Swindon and drives the rest of the way on the A419/417) but the traffic had come to a standstill. He’d found out there’d been a land-slide and managed to get off and go on the M40 to Oxford. More grid-lock. He’d grabbed a kebab (don’t go there!!) and then got on the A40 towards Cheltenham. He had no idea how fast the water was rising around him, and I told him the roads that I knew were closed from the internet and Ceefax. We plotted his journey home and I rang him with regular updates. Sod the “no phone” rule – this was serious.

Eventually, he got to Gloucester but, of course, this was flooded and he had to negotiate the back-doubles to get in the right direction for home. By the time he had arrived at Corse/Staunton he was faced with a sea of water and abandoned cars loomed out of the darkness at him. He turned around and tried to get across country but was faced with a pond of grey, swirling water wherever he looked. There was no choice but to go back to Gloucester and try another way – via Newent.

By the time he had reached Dymock it was gone 2am and I couldn’t face another cup of tea. The fire was holding on by its teeth and I refused to add more wood. He’d be home soon and all he’d want was a shower and bed.

2.15am and he rang again. The Leadon had burst its banks and taken the little hump-backed bridge with it. He’d tried to get into Ledbury to come around from the other angle but everywhere was closed. He’d come all that way and was stranded five minutes from home.

The wonderful landlords at the Beauchamp Arms had got the pub open all night and were serving hot drinks, sausage/bacon baps and offering the floor to anyone who needed it. It was packed with stranded travellers and locals alike, who just couldn’t get round the broken River Leadon. “I’m okay, love, try and get some sleep. Somehow I’ll get home in the morning – even if I have to swim.” Sleep? Yeah, right! But at least he was safe – in the warm and dry.

I was up early and rang mum. How on earth were we going to go to Devon today, with all this going on? I couldn’t leave without Jimmy being home. We couldn’t get out of the village last night, but I had no idea what the local roads were like this morning. Mum, being mum, got her beast of a Discovery out and said she would come out and see for herself. There’s no telling her. She’s ex-army and thinks she can take on the world, even if she is 60!

I was amazed when I heard her pulling on the drive. She told me the top road was clear now but that there were loads of abandoned cars. It was spooky – like the end of the world or some sci-fi film where vehicles littered the empty roads as if some great plague had befallen man-kind. The bottom of our lane was still like a reservoir, but passable with care in a 4x4. She’d spoken to a bus driver on the Gloucester route, and he’d said the A38 was clear so, if we went to Devon, that was the way to go. But there was no way we were going until Jimmy was safe and sound at home. If we could get out to go at all, that is.

Alfie barked and I shushed him, but then nearly fell over when Jimmy walked in. He was ashen but smiling his twinkly smile and we hugged. He’d set off on foot – trousers rolled up to his knees and tried to walk home. The Leadon was running far too fast and he knew he’d get swept away so turned back again towards Dymock. Then, he set off towards Ledbury, wading along the road past the golf club which was completely under water. A huge Somerfield lorry appeared from nowhere (well, Gloucester actually) and offered him a lift into Ledbury. This sized vehicle was probably all that could get through so he thought he’d go to my mum’s but once in Ledbury, he saw a farmer he knew out with his pick-up. To cut a long story short, he got a lift back to the village hall and was home.

We’ve been lucky. So many have lost their homes and some have lost their lives. But the community spirit that has come out from this leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy – a bit like in the war, I’d guess. People pulling together, working towards the same thing and offering shelter and help where they can. How it should be.

The job of cleaning up and rebuilding looms ahead. It won’t happen overnight and the scars will show for a long time. When I was in Devon, we went to Boscastle and saw the rejuvenated village, still being worked on but bustling once more. Jimmy had to go on his bike to collect the van as it was the only way round 2 days later, once the water had subsided enough to cross the broken bridge, with extreme care. The road is closed to motor vehicles so he had to go round to Ledbury to bring it home along the top road. By the time I came back from Devon, a week later, I still couldn’t use the bridge, but was able to get across at the next little hamlet. The bottom of our lane is scarred with silt and debris, but is passable once more.

The sun shone yesterday and is shining today. A simple thing, sunshine, as is the rain. Simple but powerful – too much or too little and countries can be brought to their knees. Whether you agree with climate change or not, one thing is for sure: Mother Nature demands respect and I hope that the “powers that be” take note of this latest reprimand and pull together to look after this wonderful planet.

5 pick-me-ups and a week away

2007-07-29T23:51:00.000+01:00

Ages ago I was tagged for 5 pick-me-ups and what with running the B&B with my mum, then house-sitting for a friend and being away in Devon…………blah, blah. So here goes:

1. Working in my garden and feeling the soil with my bare hands.
2. Having a soak in a hot bath with no light other than candles.
3. Having a foot rub.
4. Taking the dogs for a run over the field.
5. In the winter: curling up in front of the open fire and watching the flames with a glass of wine or cup of tea (depending on the time of day!!) – no music or TV, just the crackle of the flames and scent of wood smoke. In the summer: sitting out in the garden, listening to the birds and remembering how lucky I am to be here.

Five things aren’t really enough, though, are they? So many things can give me a lift – an unexpected visitor turning up for a cuppa and chat; curling up on the sofa and nattering to my best friend from “down south” always leaves me with a warm a fuzzy feeling after we hang up; catching sight of a vole or mouse foraging under the bird feeder when I’m stood at the kitchen sink; hearing the owls at night when I put the milk bottles out; watching my nephews and niece charging around the garden and swinging on the tyre in the eucalyptus tree; going for a cycle round “the block”; watching the buzzards and hearing their cry as they circle above the garden; seeing the flock of long-tailed tits returning to their roosting trees in the evening and listening to their delightful noise. I could go on and on – it really is the simplest of things that make me smile in delight.

I have just returned from my week in Devon with my mum, dad and niece. J stayed at home to do demolition jobs on the house as the extension works are finally due to start (weather permitting!). The weather wasn’t always the best but we got to take Jess to the beach for body-boarding and on the worst weather day, we went to see Harry Potter in Barnstaple. We stayed in a barn near Hartland Point (www.pattard.com) and were delighted with the peaceful location and lovely accommodation. Each night we watched the barn owls returning and once we had a hare run past the French doors! We had a paddock to ourselves and sat out on a few evenings with a glass or two of wine and watched Jess hurling herself onto hay bales.

We went to the usual tourist places – Boscastle, Port Isaac, Tintagel, Instow, Appledore, and ate far too many cream teas (one of dad’s vices!). It was totally relaxing but I missed sharing it with J. We’ve been to all these places before together, but my mind kept straying to home and wondering how he was getting on, and just wishing he was with me. He’d have loved the barn and especially that you can take dogs, as we always leave ours behind with mum. We spoke twice a day (mobile signal permitting!) and he seemed a million miles away.

And then, suddenly, it was time to come home. I’d taken my own car down separately, as mum and co had luggage, body board, food and wine supplies (not much room left there then!) plus their large dog (a Chow), and also because I wanted some independence when we were there. So, we left a little apart (I hate driving in convoy) but the traffic was absolutely awful. I stuck it out for a while, but as soon as I could, I turned off and cut across country, through Exmoor. Familiar place names pulled me along, and soon I was back on the outskirts of Tiverton, ready to head back on the M5. I saw the sign to Dulverton and thought of Jane with a smile, knowing she had mirrored my journey on her way north last week. Eventually, I neared home but had to get off the M5 at Gloucester because it was grid-locked, and then had the fun of navigating around the closed roads, due to all the flooding. (I’ve got a totally separate blog to write about the floods, and J’s night on the floor of a local pub as our village was surrounded by a ring of water and he couldn’t get home.)

At last, I was reversing on the drive and could hear the dogs barking as they recognized the sound of my engine. They all came to the gate and J had to move them out of my way, a huge smile of welcome on his face. And then I was wrapped in his bear hug and he was telling me he’d missed me and I was so glad to be home. He’d vacuumed and done the ironing and the kettle was boiling for my mug of tea. I gave him a watery smile over the rim and sighed a contented sigh. It has been a good week but it's wonderful to be back.

Fawlty Towers - eat your heart out!

2007-07-20T20:57:00.000+01:00

I have always wanted to run a B&B. It has been an unfulfilled dream for many years and when we moved to the country, as much as I adored my little cottage, there was a tinge of regret that it wasn’t a rambling farmhouse that I could open up to paying guests. And so, when the opportunity came, two weeks ago, to help my mum run a local “country house” B&B, I jumped at the chance. It was all arranged so quickly, I didn’t even have time to ask Headmistress for an absence pass!

Mum works there part-time helping the owners to get ready for large house-parties and weddings – preparing rooms, helping with breakfasts and even waitressing of an evening if a meal is provided as part of the package. She could now run the place blind-fold and the owners took the opportunity to slope off for a long weekend, knowing that mum would look after the 9 guests. My job was “support” – running the tea/coffee/extra toast in to the breakfast room, clearing up and making beds.

We arrived on the Friday, an hour before the guests came, and settled ourselves into the room up in the attics. The house is a romantic, 4 storey (including cellars) 15th century dream. There are paneled rooms, creaking, wide elm floorboards, nooks and crannies galore, a “servants’ staircase” complete with green baize door and a huge kitchen with a solid fuel, cream Aga. My idea of total bliss.

There are four letting rooms in the house, each complete with its own ensuite, two holiday cottages plus a further two letting rooms in the grounds. Two of the rooms are four poster and they are all furnished with antiques sourced at Tewkesbury auction rooms. The beds are traditionally made up with sheets, blankets and eiderdowns – just as I like them! And, of course, there is the obligatory tea tray and homemade biscuits or shortbread.

After we settled ourselves, we greeted the guests and showed them to their rooms. They had made dinner arrangements in Ledbury and so mum and I cooked our own supper and opened a bottle of wine (as you do!). It was a little chilly and the huge inglenook fireplace looked stark and empty without a fire, so we lit it and settled down to gossip and flip through the pile of magazines on the table – Country Homes & Interiors, Herefordshire Life, Period Living & Traditional Homes, Horse & Hound (oh, yes, really!).

We were a little perturbed when we heard some of the guests return, what we considered to be, a little too early. They went back up to their rooms and then as we shrugged and settled back down, we were amazed when the kitchen door opened and one of them was stood in the private lounge. They wanted water from the kitchen tap, but instead of coming down the front stairs and knocking at the lounge door, they walked around the back “servants corridor” and in through the kitchen and then into the lounge. We jumped out of our skin! This was to set the tone of the next 3 days.

Whenever we have stayed in B&B’s, it has always been that we vacate after breakfast and then go out for the day and return after 4pm, in order for the owners to do bedrooms, clean and prepare for next morning. Hotels are a different matter, but when you are staying in someone’s home it is polite to give them some space – well, that’s the way we have always viewed it. These guests, however, went out for about an hour and half after breakfast and then came back and hung around their rooms all day. We just had time to make beds, clean bathrooms, tidy up after breakfast and pop back to our own homes for half an hour, when they were wanting more hot water for baths at 2pm!

On our doorstep we have the Malvern Hills, the Wye Valley, the Vale of Evesham, the Cotswolds, Cheltenham, Worcester, Hereford, and a little further on (just over an hour) Stratford-upon-Avon. A tourists dream location – or so you would have thought. But, no, these ones just wanted to stay in, and the weather was nice then too!

Two of the bedrooms were just one night bookings and so on Saturday morning we had to do a full change-over after breakfast. We didn’t stop all morning and just had time to pop into Ledbury for some extra supplies before getting back to the house to be on duty for 4pm.

I knew it was hard work running a B&B, but I really had no idea how hard! By Monday morning, when we had waved the last of the guests off, we then did a full strip out and remake, clean, bedding wash and general tidy up before leaving to go home, eventually, at 3pm. We were both exhausted and felt absolutely no guilt at leaving the ironing for the owners to return to! Well, they do have one of those fandangly industrial press irons and they hadn’t asked us to do the washing, so that was a bonus!

That evening, I told J if ever I banged on about not fulfilling my lifelong ambition to run a B&B, he was to remind me of this weekend. I’m glad I did it. It was an eye-opener and my respect has grown ten-fold for those that embark on this venture. But now I am glad that our home is just that. Ours.

Five go out to play

2007-06-29T22:18:00.000+01:00

Well, we finally did it. Bodran, Elizabethm, Country Craft Angel and Snail Beach Shepherdess and yours truly had our get-together yesterday.

The previous night, I didn’t sleep properly. I didn’t worry, as such, but nervous anticipation probably sums it up better.
Would there be any uncomfortable silences? Not on your Nelly.
Would we get on? Totally, absolutely and terrifically.
Would we have a good time? Didn’t stop giggling.
Would they notice I’m an air-head? Highly likely – I hold the Gold Award for “Dozy Mare”!

Angel’s house is totally gorgeous – a picture of calm and serenity. Just like her, in fact. Considering all she has been through, and is yet to share with us, you just would never know. She has this inner strength that has sustained her throughout her troubles and a graciousness that is hard to match. We were welcomed into her home and served a delicious lunch with home-made scones for afters, and it was all lovely.

I recognized Bodran immediately and no-one could fail to be charmed by this warm and funny person who instantly put me at ease. We giggled, and giggled a bit more and then just didn’t stop talking for the rest of the afternoon. Oh, but that girly car – I REALLY wasn’t expecting that!

Elizabeth glowed as she talked about gardening and you would never know she had been through what she has, to look at her. Yet another amazing woman – a privilege to meet and an inspiration to all who have hurdles to climb. And again, we laughed.

And Snail Beach Shepherdess……… well, one look at her and there were big smiles and our group really was complete. She brought us all a gift – The Snailbeach W.I. cookery book and already my mum is trying to blag it off me! She shares my love of Ludlow and has a wicked twinkle in her eye……..

The staff at Dobbies really did hoover around us, and the upturned chairs and baleful looks was enough to send us scurrying to the Little Chef. The time was passing so quickly and we had so much to say; so many of you other Purple lot to chat about and compare our perceptions of – we’ve probably got you all totally wrong! But it was fun and naughty and we giggled like teenagers.

I think I managed to convince them I was sane(ish) – I’m not sure I’ll get away with it again if, and when, we meet up again. I waved my arms around a lot (a REALLY bad habit) but didn’t actually break anything this time; interrupted too many times and generally had a fantastic time. I drove home with a seriously huge grin on my face – this site has managed to restore my faith in human nature and this lot had done nothing to alter that. I still owe Snail Beach a cuppa though, as I managed to fluff paying the bill. Next time……… if you’ll have me.x

History repeats itself

2007-06-27T16:37:00.000+01:00

History often repeats itself, so they say. Well, whether you believe that or not, I am guilty of hankering after the times of my life when, as a child, I felt more secure. When I didn’t need to make grown up decisions, earn money, do housework and basically just be responsible. And so, I find myself repeating history in my home as I have unconsciously recreated aspects of my Nan’s old house and way of life.

I loved staying at Nan’s house and getting into cool, crisp, line-dried cotton sheets, in traditionally made beds of blankets, Durham quilts and eiderdowns, all smelling of lavender. I loved making toast on the open fire and helping to hang the washing to air on the Sheila Maid. The huge Belfast sink was a feature under the window and used for everything from scrubbing home-grown veggies, soaking white washing or bathing us as kids.

I have drawn the line at the 1970’s floral wallpaper which Nan put up in an attempt to modernize, and have kept to my beloved Farrow & Ball paint, but I did put in an original, overhead toilet cistern and, yes, it is as difficult to pull as my Nan’s was! Oh, and my bathroom is now upstairs and not the chilly replica of Nan’s that made you dash up the stairs with your towel wrapped tight around you.

But those times were amazing. The memories still bring a smile to my face. I remember the old apple tree that I used to climb and peep at the world through the pink blossom. Perched high up on a branch that had formed a natural child-sized seat, I would be a flower fairy, and chat away to my invisible friends. Mum and Nan would have to pretend to “eat” the delicious pies I made in the sandpit, or the boiled potatoes (stones) and vegetables (privet leaves). Their patience was unending and because of them I had the most magical of childhoods. A time of fairies, make-believe, love and laughter in a small little cottage this is indelibly marked on my heart.

At the foot of the lavender edged path was a concrete slab with a dog footprint embedded forever. Rex – Nan’s Heinz57 dog that used to jump on the number 11 outer circle bus, go around the route and jump off at the right stop for home. All the drivers knew him and he would sit upstairs with his paws on the ledge, looking out the window. Mum was still a girl then, so I never knew him, but I would lay lavender flowers in his paw print every week.

I have my own lavender hedge now and my apple trees are probably the same size as Nan’s but, of course, seemed so much bigger to a child. At pruning time, I climb through the centre of the trees and get as high as I can, and for a moment am transported back to those nostalgic times. And I also have my own weeping willow tree – a present from mum and dad for my birthday three years ago, but it is not quite big enough for me to sit cross-legged within and hide from the world.

When my nephew and niece come to stay, they do all the things in our garden that I used to in Nan’s, except they also get to collect eggs from the hens. Mum will bring them over to run riot and give dad some peace and quiet, and we will sit and chat over a cuppa. She always says that Nan would have loved our cottage; that she would have felt right at home and proud that she had inspired the “feel” of our eclectic home. She feels Nan has brought us two closer together now that she is not here, and that mum and I are doing the things that used to be in Nan’s domain.

It’s funny; I miss her now more than ever. She lived to see me married to Jimmy and I know she was ready to leave us. She was frail, tired and worn out. That was only 8 years ago next month but now I feel that, if she were still here, our relationship would have undergone a revival. Not that we were estranged, but I was excited and embarking on a new life miles away from her, down in Kent, and was busy forging ahead with our plans. But now, life has eased to the warm and comfortable pace we plod along at; we have found the place of our dreams and are happy to tweak and prune it to fit our needs. This is the time that she would have been coming to stay with us and kneeling side by side with me in the garden; teaching me and answering all the questions that only she could answer. But she is not here and I find myself talking out loud to her as I wander around the house and garden, making plans or marveling at a beautiful flower.

I read other blogs written by people “in tune” – Crystal especially, and wish I could “feel” Nan’s presence next to me like they do. I went to a highly recommended medium, years ago when my first marriage broke up (how many of us do that!?) and she was so amazingly accurate about so many things. She correctly told me that the “gift” was in my family (Nan had it, and her aunt before her) and that it was strong in me. She said that I wasn’t ready to take it on yet but when I was, it would come. That was 13 years ago and I am still waiting for some kind of sign or intuition. Anything. Maybe it’s because I have always been a little afraid of the “unknown”. Equally excited at the prospect but fearful and squeezing my eyes shut at the same time.

I used to have a regular, recurring dream about an old man in a flat cap stood at the bottom of my bed. He didn’t frighten me in as much as I felt he was going to hurt me, but it was disconcerting to dream I was awake and be looking at myself in bed with him stood watching me. On several occasions, I have woken myself up as I have nearly fallen out of bed, stretching my arm out to touch this man, as if to convince myself he isn’t there. I don’t recognize him – I don’t think I have ever met anyone remotely resembling him – and the dream is not linked to a place. I have dreamed the same dream in my last 3 homes. It hasn’t happened for a while now and I can’t see a particular pattern, although it did happen more frequently when my first marriage broke up. Stress? Very probably, but it has also happened when I haven’t been stressed.

I have no answers but as I have got older, the questions seem less important. Nan was a wise old girl and always seemed quietly in-tune and accepting of her life. A rare gift which would make the whole world a better place if more of us could achieve it.

The extension starts to become reality.

2007-06-26T12:05:00.000+01:00

So much seems to have happened over the last few weeks that my feet have hardly touched the floor, let alone my fingers touch any keyboards. We finally got our planning permission through for the extension and, after a little wrangling with the planners, we haven’t got to “drop” the roofline so that it is subservient to the older part of the house. Hurray! Our architect has been an absolute gem. He is from Kington and has done other work in the village, and he has just taken away all the stress of the negotiations. Wish he could just wave a magic wand so that the extension would be up by tomorrow, but now it all begins in earnest.

As soon as we knew we had permission, I started sourcing some materials (just can’t help myself, I’m afraid) and got our first eBay bargain of the project. We’d set our hearts on flagstone flooring in the new hallway and through into the kitchen but original flagstones would be a) too expensive and b) too thick to match up with current floor levels. The alternative was reproduction flags and there they were on eBay! An over-order at a house not too far off the M4 near Bath and, as luck would have it, we were off down there to visit my uncle for Sunday lunch. The lady was so lovely and took us in to see the finished product laid in her kitchen – all sealed and looking fantastic. They were from Classical Flagstones of Bath originally, so we had a nose on the website and were chuffed to bits when we found that our £100 would have been just over £1,100 if we’d ordered from them!

We’re now trying to sort out the bricks: we need between 5 and 6 thousand red bricks and would prefer reclaimed so that they blend seamlessly with the original part of the cottage. But the problem is quality – so many reclaimed bricks are very rough around the edges and damaged where they have been cleaned. However, reproduction “old” bricks can still look too new, unless the colour match is just right. Oh, what to do! We could probably build the extension just from the samples we’ve got already in the yard! And we need blue highlighting bricks for around the windows, doorways and along the corners, bull nosed, cant bricks and all sorts of things I’ve never heard of! We rummaged around Wye Valley Reclamation on Saturday and came away armed with lists and prices and heads buzzing with ideas.

And then there’s the roof tiles! Same thing all over again, but we’re 99% decided on new “brindle” handmade clay ones as they are such a good match and we had a few new ones mixed in with the originals when we did the roof 4 years ago.

The mess is going to be mind-blowing. I’m psyched up for it but reality is another matter totally. I’m off down to Devon on 20th July with my parents whilst Jimmy knocks down some of the existing structure. We didn’t get our pre-work break together due to unexpected orders for bookmaker’s brollies and so Jimmy insisted I get away to escape the dust and initial mayhem. I found it hard to agree because I know I will hate missing out on anything but I guess this is the boring bit, and at least I’ll be around when the new bits start to go up.

Today is our 9th wedding anniversary - I can't believe how the time has gone. Jimmy came into my life after much heartache had made me very cynical, and he won me over with his easy smile and vast capacity for love. He changed my life the day we met and this morning I lay in bed with my customary cup of tea, curtains and windows wide open to the fresh air and birdsong, and felt the calm and serenity of our home ease me into the new day. Make the most of it, my girl, the builders will be here in a few weeks; there’ll be skip lorries clanking along the lane; concrete mixers whirring; scaffolding and male voices shouting instructions over the radio which will, no doubt, be balanced precariously on a pile of a rubble. We are entering a new phase in our life together : we'll be eating beans on toast as we try to save every penny; we'll be living in chaos, but we'll be doing it together - I can’t wait!

Photo is of the floor as laid in the kitchen of our eBay seller– carefully stored in anticipation in a friend’s barn!

I've been tagged!

2007-06-13T20:34:00.000+01:00

I don't know - I go off-line again for a few days and someone tags me!! I've had to sit and concentrate very hard but here goes........

In the early 1970's my uncle used to be the roadie for Black Sabbath and the whole group came to my nan's house for tea. Ozzy Osbourne sat me on his knee and played with my farm set to make friends with me because I was scared of these strange men stood in the lounge with long hair........

When I was 12 years old, the same uncle was living in New York and was, by now, quite successul in the music industry. He paid for me to go out to visit him for the six weeks summer holiday, and I went with him to the "office" and sorted fan mail for Michael Jackson while he had a meeting.

I was diagnosed with Scleroderma (systemic sclerosis) in 1991 - a rare disease, similar to Lupus. Alongside of this, most patients (me included) get Raynaud's and, although now classed as "stable", I do have severe lung involvement (ILD-interstertial lung disease) caused by fibrosis and have had 2 lots of chemotherapy over the years when this part of the disease has been "active". But this doesn't stop me from enjoying my garden, DIY, cooking, sewing (a bit!), horse riding, bike riding and walking the dogs, as long as I can do it at my own pace!

I met my lovely hubby, J, whilst on a ski-ing holiday with the girls when I was 28 years old. He winked at me in a bar and told me that same night he was going to marry me...... which, of course, he did.

I hate liver, stilton cheese, the coffee and orange fondant chocolates and roll mop herrings.

Since I was a little girl, Father Christmas has always brought me a Terry's Chocolate Orange at Christmas.

I am 40 this year and despite the usual jokes about it, I actually am chuffed to bits to be reaching this milestone. A few years ago, I didn't think I'd make it and now every year is a wonderful achievement and every morning when I wake, I say "Thank you" out loud for another wonderful day.

I broke my third toe on my left foot when I was eleven because my younger brother, who was then only 5 years old, dared me I couldn't climb the hall wall. My parents kept an antiques' shop and we lived in the Victorian flat above. There was a long corridor that joined the living and bedroom areas, and it was quite narrow. My darling brother used to put a hand on either side of the wall, level with his head, then jump like a star fish and put his feet on the walls too. Then he would "walk" up to the ceiling. I forgot that he was only half my height, and when I went to star fish my feet, I stubbed my toe and broke it and was too scared to tell my mum because she would have been cross at us climbing the wall.

Phew! Done it........ now do I have to tag someone else? If so, I'm way behind on blogs (again) and don't know who's been done already!! Wail, wail in anguish................

Sunshine, soil and fate

2007-06-05T12:08:00.000+01:00

Sunshine and warmth – there really is no better tonic. Two weeks of antibiotics have finally shifted my pleurosy but I am still coughing like I smoke forty a day (which I don’t!) and feel like I am hauling a ball and chain around with me, no matter what I am doing. But then the sun shines down and makes the top of my head hot, and the warmth spreads down my back and I feel the energy start to thread through my veins.

My garden is calling me – it always does on days like these. There is so much to do and I feel frustrated that my energy levels are so low. Strategically placed benches beckon as I pause for breath and it is a good excuse to sit back, gaze around and plan.

There are two beds that need to be completely stripped and started again from scratch. The previous owner of our cottage was a keen gardener but his choice of plants was too formal for a country cottage. I have made many changes but this garden needs time to become my “dream” and patience isn’t one of my finer qualities, I’m afraid to admit.

At the weekend, we hired a turf cutter for the front garden and have stripped out the lawn (clover bed really!) and I am going around the edges with a spade to clear the awkward bits before I rake it over, put a membrane down and cover with gravel. The recent rain made this an easy task for J – we thought we’d have to leave it until later in the year again as the ground had got so hard, and I did much foot stamping in frustration that another spring had gone by without this job being done. So, sorry folks, the recent rain was probably my fault but I REALLY needed to get this job done this year. I have been nurturing my box hedging plants for ten months now and they will go in a rectangular shape, with gaps along the long edges, and then a diamond shape filled with lavender in the middle. I’m not going for fancy shapes, like a Tudor knot garden, but using the box plants as structure and contrast against the gravel and hold the shape for the lavender. I’ve got a picture in my mind’s eye of the look I want to achieve, but it won’t be fully complete until the extension is done, as my porch is still on the “to do” list and there is only a sad bit of trellis, at the moment, for my beautiful rose to ramble on.

Back in the rear garden, I have been edging the lawn around the flower beds and that has given an instant face lift. Two of my Camelot foxgloves have failed this year and so it’s a trip back to the garden centre for replacements, and my white delphiniums have disappeared too. The stronger blue ones are standing proud, though, but I confess to liking softer, paler colours – so much more gentle on the eye in this garden.

I didn’t hear the cuckoo this morning – the first time in weeks. Each morning since the beginning of May, it has been the first bird to start the dawn chorus, and as I have been tending my garden, or sitting and drinking tea at the table, I have heard it moving slowly around between the wood and across the lane to the farms. But today, the thrush is serenading me and the blackbirds are trying to compete, and almost succeeding.

The aquilegia have been glorious this year and the penstemons are about to burst forth. And the roses! They all had a hard prune back at the end of last year and are rewarding me with blooms of frothy colour. I thought I’d lost one of my weigelas but it is in flower – just! Even writing the names of these plants is making me want to turn the laptop off and go outside to stand and look and dip my trowel into the earth. Red Herefordshire earth, not dark brown crumbly soil from other areas. But this earth is coloured the colour of blood and I know it flows in my veins now – wherever we have been and we come back home and see the ploughed fields of red earth, it makes my heart lift. And when it has rained, the colour deepens and I love to watch as it dries out and gets lighter and lighter.

We connect with the land if we let ourselves. Our fore-fathers knew so many things that modern man has forgotten as we have become disconnected through technology, urban living and pace of life. But when you take the time to feel the soil as it runs through your fingers, sit back on your heels and listen to the birdsong as the breeze tickles the hair at the base of your neck and along your forearms, close your eyes and breath deeply, the connection is soon repaired and the phrase “life blood” takes on a new meaning.

I have said before that we have put down roots here and this red earth has taken a hold of me and drawn me in tight. This isn’t where I wanted to be originally. No, we were going to move to Ludlow, had found the house around 3 miles outside of town and were set to move. But it wasn’t meant to be – we lost the house and then couldn’t find another one we liked as much in the area. We broadened our search area and ended up on the south Herefordshire/Gloucestershire border – 45 minutes in real time further south. A perfect location for us as we have to get around the country regularly as J is self employed, and we can be on the M5 in twenty minutes.

We go back to Ludlow regularly to visit Dickinson’s Period House Shop and other favourite haunts, to wander around the market and browse the antique shops. It still holds a special place in my heart but I don’t think I could live there now. It’s just that bit too far away from family and friends, that bit too far away for J to commute easily, that bit too hilly, and in the winter that wind blows that bit more coldly. At the time we were hoping to move there, we didn’t yet know these things. Funny how life turns out, isn’t it? For the best, in our case, but at the time we didn’t realize it: we moaned and wailed in frustration. It’s that connection thing again. The earth, the elements, mankind and a melting pot of circumstances - fate, if you like.

Catching up

2007-05-23T17:20:00.000+01:00

Well, I feel like I’ve been away forever! The highlight of our month was, of course, the wedding, but then things became a little more mundane as I had to go down to London for my heart tests.

They weren’t anything awful – just a 24 hour tape to monitor my heart beat throughout the day and night, and a little diary to fill in when I did anything to exert myself and send my heart rate up. These days, because of my lung fibrosis, I do get out of breath when I walk either too fast or uphill. And, of course, the walk to and from Belsize Park tube station always leaves me a little ragged, so that was my first diary note.

The journey down on the Wednesday had been a nightmare – the M4 had been surprisingly good, but the good old M25 that takes me to my friend’s house at Orpington, didn’t fail to trap me, as ever. My journey can take anything from 3 hours upwards, and this day it took me 4 and a half. I eventually pulled on to the drive, slightly frazzled, and unloaded the car. It looked like I’d come for a week – I always do this and don’t know why I pack so much. But I’d also come bearing gifts of wine (several bottles!), home produced eggs and chocolates from The Velvet Bean in Ledbury.

That evening we spent catching up and drinking wine and, as always, it felt like only yesterday we last saw one another. This is my Town Mouse friend, I wrote about on the other site, and we are as opposite as two people can be. But we love each other and are friends in the truest sense – accepting each other for what we are and enjoying every second of each other’s company. We don’t see enough of one another since J and I moved here and, hand on heart, she is the only thing I truly miss from my life in the South East. But we text and email, run up extortionate phone bills and see each other whenever we can. And we always pick up where we left off.

The next day saw my journey in to London to get my tape fitted and then we had the afternoon and evening together, as her partner (also a J) was out with work. We cooked together, drank more wine and stayed up too late, but I also got to spend some time with her son, who is two and half and growing up so fast. The time always goes so quickly and I was due to go home the next day after my “stress exercise test”.

Friday dawned and my tape was returned and then I had to wait a little while for my exercise stress test. This just involved having a heart monitor fitted and then lying down for an echo of my heart while I was at rest. The fun bit came next when I was put on a treadmill and the speed was increased, along with the incline, to get my heart up to its maximum rate when I had to quickly jump back on the bed to have another echo of my heart, while it was at full pelt. Easier said than done! I was pleased that it took a while to get my heart to its full rate, but the problem was the technicians were really nice guys and we were talking too much. I have a problem walking really fast AND talking, purely because my lungs don’t function as well as they should and so fast walking and talking don’t mix! By the time they’d got me at full rate, my mouth was drying up and I thought my lungs were going to explode. And then they just stopped the treadmill and the sudden halt (even though they’d warned me) had me careering off the treadmill into two pairs of waiting hands that were waiting to haul me on the bed for my next echo. I was glad to lie down! They then scanned me and monitored my heart beat until the rate slowed to “normal” – which took slightly longer than it did to get to the peak. And that was it – I was free to go and the doctor would be in touch.

Visits down to my friend’s are always such bitter sweet affairs for me: it sounds so awful writing it down, but I really dislike staying down there for more than a couple of nights. I hate the sirens shooting past my window; the airlessness; the bright night sky; traffic noise; hustle and bustle and the crowds on the trains and tubes, with people afraid to make eye contact. I always want to giggle when I am stood on a tube with my head wedged under someone’s armpit and blowing at the corner of a page from The Times to get it away from tickling my nose – it’s so bizarre how we can be so intimately crushed together but if you don’t look someone in the eye or smile at them, it’s okay. I managed to restrain myself this time as the tube headed back towards Charing Cross for my train out to Orpington and my waiting car.

I phoned my friend to say I was on the train and she told me I should stay another night – she said: “you’re barking. You’ll hit all the Friday night traffic heading west and won’t be home ‘til late. Stay and go home in the morning after breakfast”. This is the one thing about me that she can never get her head around. She doesn’t understand my “need” to get home. When I know I’ve got that journey to do, I just want to get on and do it. What’s one more night? An eternity when you just want to get out of the city. And then mum rang to say she hoped I was staying because the traffic was horrendous on the M25 and the M4. Damn! They were right, of course, and then J rang to put his pennyworth in.

And so, I found myself reversing on the drive once more and unloading my car (bags lighter this time!), feeling like the worse friend in the world who wanted to be going home. She was waiting for me in the hall, arms folded and giving me her stern mother look. Well, trying to but a) she's 4 years younger than me and b) she’s not very good at it. But then, her gorgeous boy came and threw his arms around my legs and warmed my heart.

That night, I read him a story and put him to bed and we talked about them coming to visit us. He wanted to know all about the chickens that laid the eggs I’d brought and about the tractors in the field. Could they come soon, he wanted to know. He loves the countryside, my friend told me, and now he is bigger there are so many more things we can show him next time they come.

We went back down to the kitchen and decided on an Indian takeaway. Oh, and the luxury of it was that they delivered!!!!! Heaven. We got the plates in the oven and cracked open a beer and soon we were tucking in. Later, stuffed, we threw ourselves on the sofa and watched Jonathan Ross but my eyes kept getting heavy and I had to make my excuses and say night, night. I hauled myself up to the top floor guest suite and got ready for bed. A blurry conversation with J and then I was fast asleep. Yes, they’d all been right and I was glad I’d stayed. I was glad I’d fought my “flight urge”.

After breakfast on Saturday morning, we hugged and kissed and brushed tears from our eyes. We promised to see more of each other – proper quality time, not bits squeezed in around my trips into London for hospital. My car soon found the M25 and, of course, it was much clearer than the previous evening. I grinned. I missed her already.

A country wedding

2007-05-06T22:22:00.000+01:00

Saturday was the day the village had been waiting for – the wedding. Friday had dawned grey and cold and we’d all been a little worried at the prospect of partying in a barn. But as I opened the curtains, the sun was glimmering through the high clouds and the air was distinctively warmer.

We arrived at the church as the bells were peeling, and a crowd of fine hats, posh frocks and smart suits stood outside the village pub, next door. The groom was looking handsome in his kilt suit and soon we were moving to take our seats in the church. And then the bride arrived – a vision of loveliness beaming as she walked down the aisle on the arm of the proudest father in the neighbourhood.

Our next door neighbour is also the village priest and he has watched R grow up to become the beautiful woman she is today. It made the ceremony especially touching as he was able to recall firsthand memories to share with us as he conducted the ceremony with pride. R has three sisters and they made such beautiful bridesmaids, along with flower girls who are nieces and a nephew as ring bearer.

The church was decorated with hand-tied posies of flowers and wicker obelisks hung with wooden hearts and cream lilies. The obelisks had been made by the father of the bride, at home on the farm, and were truly stunning.

Soon, we were back out into the warm sunshine and the bells rang out in celebration as we threw home-dried rose petal confetti, collected from wicker baskets held by the flower girls, and wrapped in individual cones of brown paper, stamped with gold hearts. The photographer was wonderfully swift in his work and we were reversing on our drive before we knew it. The dogs had a quick run around the garden and then, after changing into my more comfy shoes (!) we walked across the lane to the farm.

Pink champagne waited at the gate and we moved though the line-up kissing and hugging and saying our congratulations. We emerged into the courtyard and R’s cousin was playing the keyboard softly in the background as we milled around and chatted. There were old wooden advertising crates filled with packets of our local Tyrell’s crisps and bowls of plump, shiny olives, along with plates of the most delicious home-made cheese straws. The whole atmosphere was relaxed and happy and we brushed past terracotta pots filled with rosemary and lavender.

We were called through into the barn – and what a transformation! Two weeks ago, it had been the cow shed and, as such, looked just like …….. a cow shed. Now, it was white-washed and draped with cream muslin – an indoor marquee. An old wooden farm gate was hung on the wall and decorated with wooden hearts, at each place setting was a brown paper name tag, tied with raffia and decorated with rosemary sprigs and dried rose buds and the table was adorned with terracotta pots of young rosemary plants, alternating with thick, cream church candles. Bottles with crock stoppers of home-made cider and perry, from their own orchards, were placed in groups down the table, along with wine and jugs of water.

The hog-roast was fantastic – Gloucester Old Spot (not their own!), with bowls of salad, potatoes, homemade pickles and chutneys, plus a vegetarian alternative of homemade quiche. Afterwards, there was a wonderful cheeseboard (provided by our neighbour – and, yes, there was Stinking Bishop!) and wedding cake. Not your usual wedding cake either. It was a tier of individual sponge cupcakes, decorated with cream icing and topped with a single rosebud. I really can’t describe how wonderful and different this was – and we each received our own individual cake with our champagne for the toasts.

Speeches were made and we alternated between crying and laughing hysterically – a rollercoaster ride of emotions. The best man was, in fact, a best woman and she did a wonderful job (of course!) and R’s father paid moving tribute to his daughter, the bride, as tears coursed down our faces.

Eventually, it was time for the two of them to leave and we all gathered as the bouquet was thrown and we cheered and waved them off. It was 7.30pm and we said our goodbye’s, hugging and kissing new and old friends, and then we wandered hand in hand back across the lane to our little cottage.

We changed out of our finery, put the kettle on and sat outside as the sun slowly sank down behind the trees. It had been a wonderful day. A true “country wedding” – simply stylish and full of honest, good old fashioned love and laughter. The very best kind of day.

New Life

2007-05-03T15:49:00.000+01:00

We had an unexpected phone call on Monday evening, from J’s aunt. It was to tell us that her brother-in-law (J’s last surviving uncle) had passed away last week and the funeral was on Wednesday (yesterday), up in Macclesfield.

Families. Mine is complicated, and has its fair share of skeletons in the cupboard! J’s, on the other hand, is VERY complicated, and his late mother’s paternal side is responsible for this!! That half of the family is not close with the rest of the cousins – they tend to be close to their own immediate units of parents and siblings alone. I suppose, this is quite normal for most families, but I am lucky in that mine is a bit of a “tribe” for want of a better expression. Don’t get me wrong, we are not in each other’s pockets, but there is regular contact, even if it is just by phone or email.

J’s paternal side is also close and in regular contact, but he was a bit taken aback to only find out about this uncle at the last minute. And more than a little sad.

And so, we were up at 5.30am yesterday to make the journey north. Unfortunately, I am NOT an early morning person and so I won’t regale you with tales of how wonderful the morning sunshine felt on my face, nor how uplifting the dawn chorus was. No, I was trying to nap in the front seat without smudging my carefully applied makeup or messing up my hastily blow dried hair. I’d calculated we would be there in 3 hours and so another hour’s kip in the front seat should leave me bright eyed and bushy tailed for giving J directions during the last bit of the journey. That was the theory, but unfortunately the sunshine DID wave its wand over me and so I stayed awake – highly irritating for a girl who needs at least 8 hours!

The journey ended up being a delight. We didn’t go on the motorway after we reached Lichfield. No, we headed to Ashbourne and Leek, rising ever higher and snaking through the beautiful Staffordshire and Derbyshire countryside, the fields edged with dry stone walls (unlike the hedgerows and trees of Herefordshire). And then we arrived in Macclesfield with an hour to spare. Enough time for a mug of tea and bacon sarnie at a café on the outskirts of town. Replenished and revitalized, we met up with J’s middle brother and his wife, and went on to the crem. You know how these things go so, again, I won’t go into it, but suffice to say it was a humanist ceremony and I have only been to one other in my life. Different, but still incredibly moving.

Afterwards, it was back to J’s cousin’s house and we sat in the garden, soaking up the sunshine. Stronger bonds were forged that afternoon between this younger generation – our generation. Maybe things will be a little different for the family now. Enough business cards/telephone numbers and email addresses were exchanged; shy glances became forthright smiles; there was laughter in the air and many hugs were given and received when we left.

I drove home as J sat quietly reflecting next to me. Eleven years have taught me when to leave him be with his thoughts. This man of mine is many sided. He is the joker in the pack; the one everyone relies on to lighten an atmosphere and who can make anyone feel instantly at ease. He is also highly intelligent – not in an academic, certificates out of every orifice kind of way: his knowledge of social and political history astounds me. I am proud when I see someone do a double take at this man they have “judged” as a jack-the-lad. One minute he has been telling jokes or laughing with someone, and then he can turn and seriously debate this country’s history. His mind has soaked up names and dates for almost every event of importance (or not, as is often the case, when he can sprint to the finish line in a pop quiz!). I am frequently bemused that he can tell me who was prime minister in 1854 or who the lead singer of Blah, blah, blah band was and what their 2nd number 1 was, but can’t remember that I have asked him to hang the washing out!

And then there is his heart. The biggest and softest I have ever known. When you receive the key to the lock, it opens and enfolds you into its protective world, just as his arms wrap you in his bear hug. His quietness on our journey home spoke to me louder than he could know: he feels keenly the divide in his family and I know he hopes with all of his heart that those times are now gone. He WILL pick up the phone and reach out to these cousins who have been distant for too long.

As our journey entered its final stages, the Malvern Hills appeared to our right on the M5. Wherever we have been, we know we’re nearly home when they come into view. Our hearts lift and shoulders relax as they keep us company along the final fifteen minutes before they slip out of view as we turn towards the village. “It’s good to be home, love,” he said and he squeezed my hand. I glanced at him and smiled as I scanned his face. He looked tired and his brown eyes held a hint of sadness. I pulled in.

“Are you okay?” I asked him, concern making me frown. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sad. He was mum’s last brother – only auntie R left now and then the siblings are all gone. It’s just us lot then. I hope we do a better job of it. You, know, the family thing. It doesn’t seem so important when you’re kids – you’re just concerned with your mates and all that. Family stuff is just………. well, family. But now, you realize how important it is to keep it going. To get along. You know……” He shrugged his shoulders and looked a little embarrassed.

“Yes, I DO know,” I said and squeezed his hand tight back. He loves my family. I know he does. But Christmas and Easter………. all the major occasions, in fact, it’s always my tribe that gets together. “Let’s get home and put the kettle on,” I said as I let in the clutch and pulled off.

As we sat drinking our tea, watching the sun go down over the trees, I played the answer phone messages. It was my brother. Usual stuff, then an “oh, by the way, sis”…….. He’s going to be a dad again. Another new life is beginning.

An evening walk

2007-04-30T18:56:00.000+01:00

J came home late last night, after a successful London Golf Show. He launched his Caddy Cover umbrellas there in 2006 and decided, last minute, to go again this year. Within minutes of him coming home, there were three pairs of shoes abandoned in the hall, dirty washing in a pile on the landing and opened post littering the kitchen table. Oh, I have missed him!

Today, we spent a lazy morning together and then he took me out to lunch. It was such a glorious day that we made a drive of it and ended up at a country pub near Pershore, serving traditional "Pub Grub".

Afterwards, with full stomachs, we took a leisurely drive home, via "Posterity", a reclamation yard between Ledbury and Malvern, to price up some of the things we'll need when we get planning permission through (!!) for our extension. We made copious notes and fell in love with a few things we'd need to live in a manor house to own, and then carried on home to our waiting hounds.

We quickly changed into our walking clobber and took the JRTs over the field at the bottom of our garden. On the "other site", I took you for this walk and have added some pictures as it has been such a gorgeous day today.

At the bottom of the garden, we have our own private stile into the field. Alfie hurdles it in one, the girls scuttle under the wire and we clamber over fairly gingerly as it is homemade by the previous owners and fairly ancient. We turn immediately right and follow the hedge line as it snakes along towards the farm; a traditional hedgerow interspersed with mature trees. Sometimes after high winds, I come along and collect fallen branches for the fire, and in the autumn sweet chestnuts can be gathered by the bag load.

The hounds races ahead, a blur of white as they snuffle along, scenting out the rabbits. Alfie makes me laugh as he often misses one and then, when he sees it out of the corner of his eye, he’ll turn his head and another one will run just out of sight. It’s like watching a game of tennis! I’m sure the rabbits are laughing at him!

This field is often left to pasture and when haymaking time arrives, the huge rounds of hay become personal look-out points for our mad JRTs. Occasionally we still get the big rectangular bales too, and these are more fun to climb as they are stacked higher. J and I have climbed them too and lain down at the top, soaking up the warm harvest sunshine and breathing in the smell of freshly cut hay. It is one of my favourite smells of the countryside, along with wood smoke curling up from the chimneys in the village, so distinctive from coal.

The field starts to dip down slightly and we come past a natural pond with moorhens and ducks, tucked away and surrounded by trees. Often, the buzzards and crows are flying around here and the crows pick on a lone buzzard, diving at it and calling out in their attack. The path starts to turn upwards once more and the hedgerow is littered with rabbit holes; some disused and swathed in cobwebs, others clearly in use. We come up to the top of the incline again and on the right is a field gate down to the farmhouse, but we go onwards and over another stile towards the trig point.

We have to walk through the middle of the next field, but countless years of ploughing cannot remove that permanent groove of the footpath, walked by so many. Whatever is planted there, be it crops or grass, there is always the mark of the footpath. This year it is rape - NOT my favourite! The farmer does clear the way through when cereal crops grow high, but they are always patchy in this area as if the land is denying them the right to grow on this foot trodden path. Sometimes we find broken pieces of pottery and clay pipe ends; remnants of another era when many hands toiled in the fields.

At the next stile, we usually stop for a breather and to admire the glorious view. Another of our local “big” houses can be seen, surrounded by its own land, sprawling and grey and slightly forbidding. This is The Hall, and when we moved in, it used to be a race horse stable too. We used to love to watch the horses on their daily walk out through the village to open riding, but they moved on shortly after. It is now a private residence once more and horses still graze the fields but not in the same number as before.

We cross the next field, again through the middle, along the mysterious, permanently marked footpath and there is an old abandoned water pump-house over to the right, near the edge of the field. It makes me sad to see it in such disrepair – the old quarry floor tiles are still there, many are cracked, and remnants of rusty machinery.

We enter the final field of our journey. Here there are large, old oak trees standing tall in the middle of the field: three of them in a line. The footpath goes to the left of the first tree, then to the right of the second and then the left of the third; snaking in between them. Here, I lean against the rough old bark and look up through the canopy to the sky. I would love to know just what these trees have seen over the years; how many labourers rested here to drink their cider from crock jugs; to see the teams of oxen or shires ploughing the field. From here we either turn back and return the way we have come, or carry on to the coppice at the end, over the next stile, along a thin wooden bridge (more of a raised walkway actually) and out onto the lane. Directly in front of us is a beautiful old house, dating back to the 1600’s. Local rumour has it that the steps down to the cellar are made from old tomb stones from the nearby church! They grow the most amazing display of sweet peas, which can be seen from the lane in the summer.

But today, we turn around and come home, to a nice chilled glass of wine and bowl of Tyrells crisps!

A trip to the dentist and the magic fairy tree

2007-04-27T23:42:00.000+01:00

Well, by the end of Thursday I was totally exhausted. Up at 5.15am for the 7am train, arrived into Paddington at 9.45am and eventually at the Royal Free at 11am. For once, I got in to see the doc on time, as there is usually a terrible wait – it seems several of us are given the same appointment time and its first come, first served. So yesterday I got to the head of the queue!

I wasn’t there long but I do have to go back on 10 May to have a 24 hr heart monitor tape fitted, and so will have to stay down with friends as it has to be returned the next day. I’m also waiting for an appointment to do an exercise stress test, where they put you on a treadmill and alter the speed/incline while running an ECG of the heart. Great! Now there’ll be no hiding from just how unfit I am. The doctors were all really optimistic though and said they were 95% certain that I DIDN’T have pulmonary hypertension, and that my heart is under more pressure because my lungs aren’t so good.

So fingers crossed they can totally rule it out by these tests, otherwise they’ve got to do something similar to an angiogram where they put a camera into the actual arteries to monitor the pressure. Yuk, yuk and more yuk. I’m a total wuss when it comes to these things and still have to lie down for a blood test even though I have had them every month for the last 16 years! If they have to do that test, they’ll have to hit me over the head with a huge rubber mallet………

I managed to get an earlier train home and saw the muntjac near Charlbury – I see them most times and they look up as the train rattles by, but other passengers are buried in The Times and totally oblivious. Unfortunately, the earlier train only goes as far as Great Malvern and then there’s a half hour wait for a connection on to Ledbury, but the sun was shining and it was good to come home and listen to the birds instead of the throb of the city. We rumbled into Ledbury at 5.08pm and I walked to mum and dad’s, arriving as mum was just getting out of the car. A quick cup of tea, dinner for them (I’d eaten on the train courtesy of M&S Simply Food takeaway salads) and then mum and I came back here for the night. We were both so shattered we didn’t even drink any wine (!!) but managed to stay up until 10pm but then bed called.

Today I had to go for a scale and polish at the dentist in Bournville (Birmingham) and so was out of the house at 10.30am. It takes about an hour and ten minutes to reach the dentist, but we never changed to a local one because a) this is the dental practice I’ve used since I was a child and b) they WERE NHS until last year, but we enrolled on the budget plan and it’s fairly reasonable, so there we are……..

I was born in Bournville, the home of Cadbury’s chocolate, and the dentist is directly opposite a small wood – Maple Wood. As a child, we used to walk along the path parallel with the wood to go down to “The Green”, which is a village green with parade of shops and Post Office. When I came out of the dentist, I walked across the road to look through the fence at the wood – awash with a carpet of bluebells, and I took a photo on my phone for posterity’s sake. The memories came flooding back and I walked along the path to see if the fairy tree was still there.

The five year old Woozle would put a penny into a hollow of a tree and make a wish to the fairies both mum and nan assured me lived in the tree. At first I couldn’t see it but then, there it was! A holly tree had grown so large next to it that it was covering the front of the fairy tree and I moved some branches away to find the little hollow. It was still there and was full of water – just as it always had been. It made me feel funny – a nice funny and a little emotional. The fact that it was now well hidden made me kind of sad that no more little girls would share the magic of the fairy tree – maybe I was the last one who did. But then there was a part of me that felt glad – it was MY secret place and full of my old wishes to the fairies. I didn’t stick my finger in the water to see if my pennies were still there, and now I wish I had. Maybe next time I go to the dentist, I will.

Not so home alone

2007-04-25T16:41:00.000+01:00

Walking three dogs at the same time isn’t easy! We’ve got two of those expandable lead things – one for Alfie and the other has a double connector so that April and Tanzy can share. Usually J and I have a lead each but, as he has now gone down to London, it was just me today.

We set off down the lane opposite our cottage and all seemed well for about 30 seconds. Then Alfie decided he’d go this way, whilst the girls went the other. The leads became entangled and I had to stop and unravel the heap of spaghetti before we could go on. And then they saw the pheasant and so went charging off as the leads unraveled, and unraveled, whirring away and then…… clunk! They came to the end of their length and stopped in mid chase – suspended animation as they turned and looked at me in frustration. Ha, ha you little blighters! That’ll teach you.

After about five minutes, I’d got the hang of the brake system: push and hold = stop; reel back, push and hold (so they stop moving!), then reel back a bit more and repeat until reaching desired length of lead. Perfect. So now it’s like driving a team of horses as I try and keep them all going in line, but then when one stops, I can stop them wrapping around each other by reeling in desired team member. I wonder if I can patent this idea for child control too.

By the time we’re half way down the lane, I can smell the rape even before I can see it. It’s not my favourite crop – the smell is so overpowering and the colour so harsh, plus it sends the dogs loopy. We never let them off the lead in the fields adjacent to it as they go tearing in at full pelt, get totally disorientated and when we eventually get them back, they have skinned their faces below the eyes and are smeared with blood from the hard stalks. So, for now, they’ve got to get used to their freedom being curbed.

The sky larks are out and diving and twittering amongst the crops and it’s wonderful to see their growing numbers. The farmers round here are great at encouraging wildlife: the hedgerows are maintained and clusters of trees allowed to stand in the middle of fields. And the bluebells! Wonderful blobs of blue peeking out from the verges, waving in the slight breeze. Further down the other lane is a wood and it is a carpet of blue at the moment – I would take a picture but J has taken the camera with him down to the golf show.

It is another twenty minutes before we get back and I see an empty mug in the sink! Hmmm. At the bottom is a drop of black coffee – Mum!!! The phone rings and she tells me she’d popped in on her way to her next job (cleaning the Church) to drop off her bag for tonight’s stay, and could see the dogs gone but wasn’t sure if we’d just left or were nearly home. By the time she’d drunk her coffee, she had her answer!

I have to cut her short as I’m taking all the books and paperwork regarding the village hall up to the new booking clerk for the official “handover”. This time next week, I’ll be officially off the committee and, after six years, I’m looking forward to the rest.

We get through the business bits and then sit and gossip until I catch a glimpse of the school bus going through the village and realize how long I’ve been. Things to do and all that………. So I rush back up the lane, grab a quick five minutes to write this blog and then I’ll shimmy through the house with the Dyson and cut some flowers for mum’s bedside table, ready for her arrival at 6.30pm.

Tomorrow I’ve got a checkup at the Royal Free Hospital in London and will be on the 7am train so it’ll be a fairly early night tonight for a 5.15am get-up. I won’t be back ‘til 8ish and mum has said she’d like to stay tomorrow too – I’m not home alone too much, after all!!

I’ll leave you all now and probably won’t get to catch up on your blogs until Friday. But before I go, I’m going to copy an email I had today from a friend called “Beautifully Stated”. It’s about life and I think it does sum it up pretty well. Until Friday, then…….. And don’t drink all the wine while I’m gone!!xx

As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let you down probably will. You will have your heart broken probably more than once and it's harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken. You'll fight with your best friend. You'll blame a new love for things an old one did. You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love.

So take too many pictures, laugh too much, and love like you've never been hurt because every sixty seconds you spend upset is a minute of happiness you'll never get back.

Don't be afraid that your life will end, be afraid that it will never begin.

The Time of My Life - home alone

2007-04-23T22:53:00.000+01:00

J is off down to London (again!) tomorrow to work the London Golf Show. The van is loaded with his “Caddy Covers” and he is staying with our friends G and O, who are now back home following A’s funeral.

O will fuss over him like no-one’s business! She is an amazing cook and he will come home at least a stone heavier from homemade apple pie or sticky toffee pudding every night. He doesn’t get that here! I say it’s because I’m watching his waistline and cholesterol level, but really it’s because I just couldn’t compete. I struggle with pastry – my hands are a bit affected by my Scleroderma; enough to find it hard going, but I have made it and can hold my head up high to a homemade lemon meringue pie the other week!

And so I will be torn away from this site to do the “jobs” J does when he’s about. A good thing methinks, as I am in danger of losing my focus this week, what with damp weather forecast for these parts over the next few days. Otherwise, it would be a perfect excuse to stay indoors and nurse the laptop and a cup of tea, instead of my raised beds!

Mum is coming for a girlie overnighter on Wednesday, so we will eat scrummy food and gossip like girls over a glass or two of wine, and then she will demand Ovaltine to take off to bed for her bit of a read before lights out. I have bought one of those whizzy things to froth it up (off good old eBay of course) so it’s just like the way she does it at home. It’s a surprise, and I can’t wait to see her face!

J will be home late on Sunday night and I will stay up to wait for him. The dogs will only go ballistic anyway when they hear the van reverse on the drive, meaning sleep will be out of the question until he gets in safe. I always worry when he comes home from an event or show, because he has been up at the crack of dawn, worked all day, loaded the van and driven all the way home; totally dead on his feet. It’s a hard life, working on the road, and I’m glad he doesn’t do it so often these days, since he has got his website up and running.

The next one is Bakewell Show in August, and I always work that one with him. We stay in a B&B up at Monsal Head and make a weekend of it; enjoying the scenery of the Peak District and it’s usually good weather (although that’s NOT great when you’re selling brollies, like us!). But I love this particular show because they have livestock, horticultural areas, heavy horse shows, crafts and local produce – a proper old fashioned “country” show. These “Ag Shows” are getting fewer and far between, as the countryside is tweaked and pruned to within an inch of its life. They are changing into glorified markets and the traders, like J, who sell handmade items like walking sticks etc., and offer a good old fashioned service, are being replaced by those that sell disposable, plastic goods that won’t see the year out. But this is the changing face of the world and we are lucky to have the few remaining shows that we work.

I hate it when he goes away. I always think that I’ll enjoy the “me time” and try and plan to do things I wouldn’t if he were here. But the site of the bag on the landing, getting ever fatter, makes me really morose and I flit around aimlessly, totally without focus. When he pulls off the drive, the girls whine for a while (Alfie is an old hand by now) at the emptiness that seems to descend on our home. But then I become a little brisk, for want of a better expression, and tackle things I have put off or take them out for a really long walk. The upside is the lack of mess! How can one man create so much disarray? But by Sunday, I will be eager (ok, so slight exaggeration there) for abandoned shoes and paperwork strewn over the kitchen table – homely mess, as he likes to call it!

The Time of My Life - The Dymock Poets

2007-04-23T13:51:00.000+01:00

Have you ever heard of the Dymock Poets? Sadly, not many people have. They were a band of men who, in the early 1900’s, formed their literary community. I love the area in which I live. The countryside, to me, is “real” countryside – working countryside filled with real people, many of whom have been here for generations. But there is a history too, and these men are woven into the atmosphere of the place and those of us who are lucky to live here are proud that they called this home.

Their names were: Robert Frost (an American poet), Lascelles Abercrombie, Rupert Brooke, Edward Thomas, Wilfred Wilson Gibson, and John Drinkwater, some of whom lived in and around the village of Dymock in the period between 1911 and 1914. The “resident” poets were: Frost, Abercrombie and Gibson and they were inspired by the beauty of their surroundings and encouraged by a succession of visitors, including Rupert Brooke, John Drinkwater, Edward Thomas, and Eleanor Farjeon (called Associated Dymock Poets!). They published their own quarterly periodical, entitled 'New Numbers', from Abercrombie’s cottage and it contained poems such as Brooke's masterpiece, The Soldier. It was despatched all over the world from the little village post office at Dymock.

Their poetry has now fallen out of favour, but during the early 20th century it was considered revolutionary. The poets used simple language and they wrote about ordinary events and people, moving away from the ornate and emotionally restricted style of the time. Lascelles Abercrombie, Rupert Brooke, John Drinkwater and Wilfred Wilson Gibson were contributors to Georgian Poetry and Eddie Marsh, the artistic and literary patron, edited the five volumes, whilst Harold Monro was their publisher. John Drinkwater was the first manager of the Birmingham Repertory Theatre in Station Street, which opened in 1913. He wrote several plays for the company; mainly historical pieces and light comedies.

Their idyllic time around the north-western borders of Gloucestershire was to prove short lived. Within three years both Brooke and Thomas were dead, Frost had returned to North America, and Abercrombie, Drinkwater and Gibson were involved in war work. Their writings, however, continue to form an important literary legacy to this day and an exhibition is to be found in the Parish church at Dymock, St. Mary’s, maintained by a dedicated group of local residents.

There are two “Poets’ Path” walks which link areas associated with the writers and their homes, (which are not open to the public as they are private residences) and my own hamlet is along the route they took as they walked across the fields to visit each other for their literary get-togethers. Lascelles Abercrombie lived in a timber framed thatched cottage (unnervingly called The Gallows) in a neighbouring village to mine and was the first of the poets to arrive in the area; Wilfred Wilson Gibson followed and he also lived in a timber framed, but part-thatched cottage (The Old Nail Shop) at the bottom of my lane and finally Robert Frost rented Little Iddens, a dilapidated 400 year old cottage a little further away at Ledington (also known as Leadington). This area is sandwiched between May Hill and the Malverns, both of which provided inspiration for the poets, along with the woodlands filled with our famous wild daffodils – the Dymock Daffodils.

I shall leave you with two of their poems:

The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam
A Body of England's, breathing English air,washed by rivers, blest by sons of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends' and gentleness
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Rupert Brooke 1887 – 1915

And finally, in the haunting words of Wilfrid Gibson:

...in the cosy cream washed living room
Of the Old Nail Shop, we all talked and laughed -
We sat there in the lamplight, while the day
Died from rose-latticed casements, and the plovers
Called over the low meadows, till the owls
Answered them from the elms, we sat and talked...
'Twas in July
On nineteen fourteen that we talked
Then August brought the war and scattered us.
The figures dissolve. The echoes die away. Ou sont les neiges d'antan? Now the Dymock daffodils, albeit thinner ranked than of yore, nod sagely silent in the breeze, a little fugitive sunlight warms the young bones of a new spring's generation...the lambs skip, the guns are spiked, old tragedies lie crumbling below encrusting coats of tear-absorbing moss.

Should you be interested to learn more about the poets, I have posted a link below:http://www.encyclopedia.com/doc/1G1-72986213.html

The Time of My Life

2007-04-22T19:22:00.001+01:00

As funerals go – it was a good one. I know that ‘A’ would have been chuffed to bits to see how many people came to see her off and pay homage to the wonderful person who, all too briefly, was part of our lives. They came from far and wide – Canada being the furthest.

‘J’ gave the eulogy and moved everyone to tears one minute and then had us all nodding in agreement at his observations and laughing the next. We all returned to ‘A’ and ‘B’s home and sat in the garden she loved, the sun shining down as we shared memories. Wine and beer flowed, food was laid out on trestle tables and we toasted the life of someone special to us all. Their two daughters, ‘V’ and ‘C’, were amazing. They carried their grief with dignity and supported their father, who is a completely broken man. ‘A’s parents, ‘G’ and ‘O’, are in their 70’s and have taken this especially hard.

‘G’ has withered before my eyes over the last few weeks and when we were looking at all the wonderful flowers afterwards, he plucked up a single rose, wrapped in cellophane, and gave it to me. “This is mine and I want you to have it”, he said. I tried to gently refuse him, not knowing how to handle this frail man’s grief. But he insisted and so I accepted with a kiss and told him I would dry it and treasure it.

This family now needs time to heal – the scars of their grief will remain but they will fade with time. Never more so have the words: “Time is a great healer”, meant more to me.

We left yesterday morning after ‘B’ had come back from walking the dog, which had always been ‘A’s “job”. Poor Monty. He doesn’t understand what has happened, but is morose and insecure. For ‘B’, this is a time to walk and think; replay memories and meet up with people in the park who can share this time of day with him, like no others. And as he wrapped me in his big bear hug, I squeezed him tight and hoped that he felt in my hug what no words can say.

I left you all with my final words on the CL site: “make time to smell the flowers”. ‘A’ lived life to the full and her home was always full of flowers. As we laid her to rest on Friday, a peacock (yes, you did read that right!) walked through the Garden of Rest at the crematorium and stood proudly; emerald green and sapphire blue feathers shimmering in the sunlight. ‘B’ and the girls mentioned it later and said that ‘A’ would have said it was a sign. Birds were another of ‘A’s passions and for her leave-taking to be graced by such a magnificent one was surely the biggest tribute she could have had.

The Time of My Life

2007-04-22T16:43:00.000+01:00

And so I returned from Kent and A's funeral, to find.......... you'd all moved on!

I am trying to get the hang of this and not sure how to become one of the team; if anyone is reading this or how to get to everyone's blogs/contact stuff.

I was going to tell you how it all went on the CL site, but then some posts in chat halted all blurb from Woozle and I'm a little unsure whether to continue.........

Hope you guys are all okay and that I crack this purplecoo/www2.blogger thing!

Woozle.
xx