Diaries, 6th May 2024, Birthdays, Unsettled Weather

I see there is some blue sky now. I saw some when I woke up this morning, then it fled and we have had rain on and off all day. In a way it was helpful as I had admin tasks to attend to and I wasn’t tempted to cast them aside and go out. Now though I am getting that itchy feet feeling of having spent most of the day indoors. I think a short stroll after I’ve fed the garden cats. It was Celia’s birthday 26th April, mine 1st May. We were both lucky with the weather on our respective days. We were equally fortunate yesterday when we went for a favourite walk and were joined by my cousin Russell. It did drizzle a little during the afternoon in the Surrey Hills, most of the day we were warm and walking in sunshine. Lucky again for me as I didn’t have a waterproof.

We met at Guildford station, walked up the Mount to the cemetery where Lewis Carroll and my great grandmother are buried (not together, their graves are quite far apart) and realised it must have been the Sunday when the Orthodox Church celebrates Easter. We were too early to witness any of the service, but one year Celia and I were invited inside.

Fields spread in front of us. The acidic yellow of field of rapeseed stood out among the various shades of green. In the shaded woodlands there were still bluebells, and the hedgerows were full of wild flowers. Celia and I have done this same walk many times. It was nice not to need to study notes, not to wonder if we had taken a wrong turning, to be able to just enjoy it. We arrived at Watts Gallery in time for an early lunch.

Diaries, 25th April 2024, Shirtsleeves, Arctic April, Flipping Flags, Happy Birthday Shakespeare

It’s Celia’s birthday tomorrow, mine next week. We were both spring babies. Right now though it feels more like February. There is a biting wind, and although some days the skies are blue, it’d be a foolish person who left home without coat and gloves. Hard to believe that just under two weeks ago I enjoyed a walk in the Hampshire countryside with my cousin Russell and we spent the entire day in shirt sleeves. Pictures below, though of where we were, not the shirtsleeves. Look at that wild garlic! I’m very glad my new heater was installed during the mild weather, pleased I know how it works, less glad I am having to use it. I’m wearing a thick sweater and the windows are closed.

Biting winds did not discourage members of the far right from assembling in Westminster two days ago. St George’s Day. St George is the patron saint of England. He always worries me a bit as he’s best known for killing a dragon, a mythical beast, and I don’t know how he made the leap from that deed to sainthood. So I was working with a group of Americans, and about to finish when I saw a line of police vehicles and a bunch of St George’s flags. It didn’t look good. I don’t like nationalism in any form in any country. I was once asked by a Frenchman if I was ‘anglaise, pur sang’. I didn’t know what to say. Or rather I did, that’s there’s no such thing, and even if there were I’d rather be a European mongrel as I am, but not quite how to say it politely. I’d ban all flags. St George’s flag may be mine by virtue of my birthplace, but if so it’s been stolen from me by a bunch of people with whom I feel no kin. And that’s the case for so many people in so many countries. Flags are hijacked by nationalists, the rest of us are told we are unpatriotic. If it’s patriotic to assault a horse with an umbrella, to intimidate people on Whitehall, think Tommy Robinson, aka Stephen Yaxley-Lennon (Tommy Robinson is his pseudonym, presumably he thinks it sounds more common man) – to wrap yourself in a white flag with a Red Cross on it and shout “England ’til I die”, cost goodness knows how much in security – there were vans of police all along Whitehall and down each side street – be taken away in handcuffs for your behaviour, count me out. I’d rather have a flag of a ginger cat. Actually, I’ll be quite happy with just the cat. Just as well.

Diaries, 25th January 2024, Spring, More Shetland, RIP Westie Boy

Today feels like spring. Obviously it’s not actually spring as we’re still in January, which is almost the definition of midwinter. But after the cold cold weather of last week, the ice has melted, the flowers are pushing their way through the earth. There’s a mildness, a lightness that at the very least presages spring even if next month sees us plunged into below zero temperatures once more. That’s below zero centigrade, not Fahrenheit. I can convert two temperatures with confidence from centigrade to Fahrenheit, and neither is freezing point. One is 16C which equals 61F. The other is 28C which equals 82F. You can probably work out how I remember them both. When I was a child, I think talking temperatures in Fahrenheit was the norm. Certainly if you were ill and a thermometer was popped under your tongue it was read in Fahrenheit. I’m still not sure what normal is in centigrade, so perhaps it’s a good thing I haven’t felt the need to take my temperature for a while.

Diaries, 10th October 2023, Rocking My New Look

So phew. Breath released. My foot is healing nicely. My bandage is consigned to history. There was a surprising amount of dried blood. I had no idea. Some quite colourful bruising. And a straight big toe. Fabulous. Not that it’s on public display yet, though I may post pictures tomorrow. I have traded in bandage and post surgical shoe for a big boot. More Darth Vader than anything else in my wardrobe. Again, maybe a photo tomorrow. I wear a very snuggly white sock inside it, and I only need to use one crutch. Woohoo!

Diaries, 27th August 2023, Saving the Planet, Seeing Friends, Poetical Afternoons

Gosh I am not doing very well at this blogging business recently. You’d think, or at least would, that being away and not working would mean more time for such things. Apparently not. There’s been the drama of Westie Boy’s ill health, then I stayed in Belfast for the best part of a week with two further Westies and a cousin whose grasp on recycling leaves much to be desired, back to the countryside and two splendid afternoons of poetry. Tomorrow it’s back to Belfast for a bit more culture and to catch up with a friend I’ve not yet seen his trip. Tuesday is my penultimate day with no plans other than walking Poppy the Labrador, and Wednesday I go home.

Lots of updates from the team looking after Bo’sun. He looks happy and relaxed, he’s enjoying all the company and I fear when I get home he’s going to miss his social life. Helena has adopted two young cats who are currently residing under the sofa. Baby steps.

Diaries, 18th August 2023, Westie Boy Gives Us a Scare

Over the last decade Westie Boy has featured frequently in posts on this page. He’s Cousin’s West Highland White, a busy, affectionate, rough and tumble kind of dog. Or rather he has been. Over the last few months, it’s been clear something is wrong. He’s been drinking a lot, peeing a lot, some of his vim has gone. There have been trips to the vet, blood tests, nappies worn at night to prevent a puddle on the kitchen floor. He’s been banned from any part of the house with carpets or solid wood floors. I reckoned he was about seventy per cent of his normal self. 

That reckoning plummeted to around ten per cent on Wednesday  morning. When Cousin joined me in the kitchen where I was making my breakfast, my first words to her were not Good morning, but Westie Boy is ill. He was shaking. He had tottered outside for a pee, but it obviously cost him some no small effort. He lay in his bed looking miserable. Not a happy dog.

Diaries, 14th August 2023, Family, Funeral, Beachlife, Belfast

The funeral went well. We laughed, we wept. Stories were shared. Some of the names and dates got muddled. We chatted afterwards over hot and cold drinks, sandwiches. There will be a get together soon to see reels of photos.

One story not told concerned my aunt Nessa, Uncle Bill’s sibling and younger by five years. She was in hospital in Belfast where he visited regularly. One day he arrived to find her giggling. What is it? he wanted to know. She’d been talking to the doctor she said. The doctor had told her he’d been speaking to her son. That son being her older brother. He always looked young for his age. I don’t think I’ve inherited that particular gene.

Cousin and I always end up talking about family history. I told her I’d been invited to join a private Facebook group, but as I have so far resisted FB, I’d declined. Cousin decided to apply. She was accepted, but then got a message from the person who’d invited her to say there was another, better group, relating to our branch of the family. She joined, had a look, was impressed. She showed me and I was impressed. Reluctantly I signed up to FB. But it seems FB has not signed up to me. I cannot even locate this site, let alone put in a request to join it. The joys of technology.

Diaries, 2nd August 2023, All Orphans Now

Or we soon will be. My Uncle Bill is in hospital and is not expected to leave it, or rather not leave it alive. The cousins are in contact. We all want to know how he is. There have been moments of hope, but now his sodium levels are up again, he is refusing food and drink, he did not know his daughter-in-law this evening. I say hope, but that hope was probably for us, not him. I really don’t think he wants to live any longer. Since having to move into the nursing home shortly after his 101st birthday as he needed twenty-four hour care which my cousin and his wife with whom he’d been living could not provide as they are working, he’s been bored. He hasn’t wanted to join in with the various activities on offer. He’s always been a private man, and those activities tend to be of a one size fits all type, and they don’t fit him.

The Coronavirus (?) Diaries, 16th May 2023, Another Guildford Circular

It’s ages since I met up with my cousin Russell, so it was great to find we were both free and up for a walk on Sunday. Russell suggested a route which was for both of us a real trip down memory lane, places close to Guildford centre yet ones which I haven’t been to in literally decades.

We made our way up to Pewley Down by a route new to me but which took in the flat Russell lived in with his father, Frank in his mid and later teens. Pewley Down, like elsewhere on this walk, is a place I have walked so many times with my immediate family, and of course that included the dogs. In my mind I can see my black Labrador Tessa hobnobbing with the dogs being walked there, rushing off for a mad game for several minutes, then returning to us, her tongue lolling and her face a happy grin. Our wire haired dachshund was more reserved, and would watch, enviously I sometimes thought. Pewley Down has always been a special place to me, and that was confirmed on Sunday.

The path to Pewley Down

Still on the path

View from Pewley Down

View from Pewley Down

We continued along the narrow path of the Pilgrims’ Way. There were more people, more dogs than I remembered. Then the gradual climb to St Martha’s Chapel, a place my parents both loved. If we ever had visitors from Ireland or Canada they would always be taken to St Martha’s. The horse service, where there was always a donkey, was an annual fixture of family life.

Through the trees

Fingerpost

Spot of beauty

Path to St Martha’s

Path to St Martha’s

Path to St Martha’s

St Martha’s

View from St Martha’s

St Martha’s

View from St Martha’s

St Martha’s

We stopped there for a while. Russell was telling me about his mother-in-law, now in a care home, her body needing that care, and her mind alive and active. I ate some of my lunch. Russell, for reasons unexplained, had left his in his car.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 30th October 2022, in Flight

Up in the air and currently above the clouds, heading home after ten days in NI. In the way of these things, the time seems to have passed in a flash while the day I left home seems long ago. The weather has been kind, Uncle Bill’s birthday tea enjoyed by all but especially the man himself. The autumn colours have been beautiful, the dogs appreciative of their walks, Belfast abuzz.  

On the final walk this morning there was a short shower of very fine rain. We’d left the house in sunshine, so I was doubly grateful it wasn’t a downpour, though a piece in the Guardian yesterday about the benefits of walking in wind and rain, and yesterday was very windy, may make me revise my opinion of wet weather walks (and encourage me to upgrade my waterproofs). Then there was a rainbow, arcing above the house where Poppy Junior lives. We didn’t see her, though we heard her barking in the house on the return leg. She knew we were there.