Flowerpot Days

Freebies

2012-01-25T10:41:00.003Z

I recently wrote a piece for Your Dog magazine about how walking had changed my life – getting me out and about, making new friends, and helping me deal with Pip’s death. The editor then asked if I could send in one of my walks as well, which I did.
By the way, it’s in the February issue – out now. See Page 95.

Then I had an email from another member of staff from the magazine asking if I’d like to review some dog friendly accommodation in Devon. I pointed out that I was in Cornwall, not Devon but where was it?

To cut a long story short (stop rambling, FP), this weekend Viv, Titch, Mollie and I are going to the Mill End Hotel – a gorgeous looking country house hotel on Dartmoor. In exchange for me writing a detailed review and taking pictures, the hotel are providing bed and breakfast for Friday and Saturday nights. Also, it looks like the ground floor rooms have doors opening out onto the garden which means we don’t have to get up at some ungodly hour to let the dogs out for a wee in the morning. (Us dog owners have to think about such practicalities.)

Looking at the dinner menu, which is way beyond our price range, I think it will be chips in the pub down the road for us. It will be a lovely break, though, and Mum is coming over on Saturday so we can see her as well.

I have said to the magazine that I am happy to review accommodation for their next dog friendly publication next year (more freebies??). Then Viv said, “can’t you get some restaurant reviews, Sue?”

There’s no pleasing some people.

Second Adolescence

2012-01-18T10:08:00.002Z

I was at Lanhydrock (above) on Sunday taking pictures for a walk, while trying to fight off a vile cold– along with most of Falmouth. As a result of said lurgy I’ve actually had a run of nights in which has been something of a pleasant novelty given my life recently. It struck me that the second part of last year was rather like having a second adolescence (not bad at 53) – given a sudden new lease of life I felt duty bound to grab it with both hands and make the most of every second.

Now that initial rush has passed, I’m finding that because my life is very busy – filled with very pleasant things I hasten to add – I do need time to myself. So I shan’t be going out every night (she says….). There was something very comforting about coming back from a good day out, lighting the fire and making a Thai curry while I went through the next box of hankies.

Looking back, it’s incredible how my life has changed. But I am very fortunate. I have some very special friends, a gorgeous dog, my singing life and work – and on that front, I have agreed a contract for another walks book to do with Cornish writers. Having talked to the publishers, we are all very excited about it – so that will be coming out in 2013. I have to get rid of this cold, get walking and get writing.

A little voice in the background says – what will go wrong? Life doesn’t go this smoothly. And I guess there’s plenty that could go wrong. But I’m not going to worry about it until it does. In the meantime I shall look forward to the good things and enjoy the others that come along.

I hope you do, too.

RIP Barrington

2012-01-11T10:16:00.004Z

On Christmas Eve a much loved member of Falmouth society died. Barrington, as he was known, was the landlord of the Seven Stars pub (Pip’s local for many a year) but was also a priest, though he wasn’t ordained until he was in his 60s.

Barrington’s famous scowl and heavy eyebrows were featured in the Beano courtesy of another Seven Stars regular, Nick Brennan, a very talented cartoonist who has worked for the Beano (amongst many others) for years.

Nick caught his stance perfectly – all of us locals have been subjected to Barrington’s Glare at times, but also, if any of us were in trouble, we could always go to Barrington for help and advice. “Come to the back bar,” he would say, and we could sit there and pour out our woes. He was also adamant about his likes and dislikes - he refused to have mobile phones in the pub and to warn customers, he spiked a phone and hung it up on the wall.

Dear Barrington was a good friend to me – and to many others, though he did have a soft spot for me. One summer evening when I hadn’t known Pip for long, Barrington confided that he'd got a new car. We went outside to look at it. “Want a spin?” he said.

I agreed, hopped in and was taken for a drive by Barrington. When we arrived back at the pub, everyone was intrigued as to where we’d gone. Except my husband, who was onto his third pint and busy talking….

Barrington’s funeral was a wonderfully grand and curiously happy affair – a Requiem Mass at Truro cathedral last Friday with at least 500 people attending plus Bishop Bill, the current Bishop and many other dignitaries. Barrington had written the service out himself and would have loved it. Everyone sang their hearts out, and the wake afterwards, held in the Seven of course, went on for hours. 7 barrels of beer were drunk and they actually ran out. Which gives you some idea of dear Barrington’s popularity.

As a friend said to me at the service, “Trust Barrington to die on Christmas Eve. He’ll know that from now on it’ll be known as Barrington’s Eve.” And so it should be.

Here’s to you, Barrington. To a good and true friend.

Happy New Year

2012-01-03T11:06:00.003Z

First of all a very happy new year to everyone. My Christmas/New Year festivities went much better than expected – in fact Christmas Day was one of the best I’ve had for a long while, and you can see Mollie enjoying the beach on Christmas Day. But Pip and I never celebrated it anyway so I had little to miss.

Several days after Christmas I headed up to London (don’t mention the train journey from hell) to meet some friends and see the Leonardo Da Vinci exhibition. Courtesy of the rail service I was over an hour late and made the 7pm ticket deadline with a minute to spare (wiping sweat from brow) and very glad I did, despite being knackered. It really is a once in a lifetime experience and despite being hot and crowded, worth every minute of the 2 hours we spent there.

We then went for a drink in Covent Garden, before heading back to Surrey to spend the night with Deb’s mum. Next day we spent some time with her before heading back into London and exploring old haunts and then the long trek home. A 5 hour journey seems to take forever when you’re tired, but I got second wind on receiving a text from a friend to say that some friends were doing a gig at our local pub. No wonder I’m tired now.

On New Year’s Day evening I went to the Cornish shout at a pub near Redruth which was terrific. Everyone seemed to be suffering new year blues and a good sing among friends was a fantastic way to cheer ourselves up. Since then I’ve met several other friends, all feeling down. There can be so much pressure at this time of year to be having an amazing time – or think that everyone else is having an amazing time – when many people aren’t.

But I hope 2012 brings all my friends – cyber and real – happiness, love, peace, fun, productivity/creativity and good health. And whatever else you may desire.

A Cornish non-Christmas

2011-12-21T11:08:00.004Z

The above is us singing Gaudete at Truro Cathedral last week with many thanks to Tina Wheeler.

This has been one of the most exhausting – and fun – run-ups to Christmas I have ever had. Not that much of it has had anything to do with Christmas itself, other than the singing, and for that I am grateful.

The gigs have been brilliant – the acoustics at Truro Cathedral were incredible, ditto Tremough, and singing in the Mediterranean biome at Eden was quite an experience. The last two days we’ve sung at Trelissick gardens round the courtyard fire, near the donkeys, and then I’ve gone on and had drinks or dinner with friends. Yes, I’ve been burning the candle at both ends and I don’t apologise for that.

I shall be glad when Christmas is over, but I am aiming to go for a walk on the beach with Molls and a friend who is also not looking forward to Christmas. Then I go to Sheila and Richard, who frequently look after Mollie for me, for a meal early evening. Boxing Day – the day Pip died – I’m walking with my friend Andrea, and hope to see my brother in law in the evening.

This last year has been a huge emotional rollercoaster, to use that old cliché. There are times when I wonder if I dreamt the 14 years we had together, for my life has changed so much in the past year.

But next year brings my first walks book out in June, together with all the associated publicity and talks etc., and I’ve just received the draft contract for another walks book for 2013 which is very exciting. I need to work on the novel and send that off, and there are the walks for Cornwall Today. So workwise I have a lot to look forward to. There is also my singing which has proved a wonderful source of strength and friendship, and I am so grateful for the fabulous friends I have made.

It would be lovely to think that perhaps 2013 might bring happiness of another kind without too many complications. But perhaps that's too much to ask for. Who knows?

Christmas Run Up

2011-12-14T09:47:00.003Z

Molls hasn't featured here for a while, and of course is a very important part of my life, so I felt she should make an appearance.

Last weekend I met my dear friend Av in Devon and we stayed with my mum, taking her to the pub on Friday night and Christmas shopping and walking on the Saturday.
Av and I go back a long way and it’s wonderful to catch up with the news and have a good cheer up.

She headed back to Dorset full of Christmas festivities whereas my run up to Christmas is a musical one (though I must remember to get some presents).

Tonight we sing at Truro cathedral, then at Tremough university’s new Performance Centre on Friday evening, then another gig at the Eden Project on Saturday. (And a quick gig on Saturday lunchtime).

Oh, and two more next Monday and Tuesday. So I will either be hoarse by this time next week or unable to stop singing, which is more likely. Either way I will be pretty tired but in a pleasant way.

Last year Christmas passed me by and I was unable to do any of the gigs for obvious reasons, but this year I am more than making up for it, and it’s wonderful to have the freedom to do it, and with such a lovely bunch of people.

Our musical director, Claire Ingleheart, is an incredibly talented musician but also a teacher who manages to get the best out of everyone and inspires us all. Music has played such a big part in my life this year and given me a huge amount of strength.

So think of me, as you curl up in front of the fire with that glass of mulled wine. I will be singing my heart out, and no doubt collapse into bed with music ringing in my ears.

Awards and Friends

2011-12-07T09:24:00.004Z

The above was taken by my mate Sally on our Boscastle walk a few weeks ago - a lovely day. Thanks Sally!

Last Thursday was one hell of a day, but we got to the awards for 6.30 having changed in the pub over the road. I have to say I was not at my best. My throat was so sore I could hardly swallow, let alone talk, I felt shattered, and all I really wanted to do was crawl into bed. But I had a glass of wine, made myself talk to some of the other shortlisters and one of the judges, then the awards began.

I didn’t win, but got £100 for being shortlisted, and right afterwards another of the judges came up and said how much she’d loved my novel – she wanted to know what happened in the end, and she adored Mungo (AKA Mollie). “Please don’t give up,” she said. “One of the other shortlisted people last year sent hers in and got it published, so you must do the same.”

That was such a boost, I can’t tell you. So I went and talked to the MD who asked me to send my novel in next year when I’ve finished the editing process. So that’s a real incentive, and in fact next summer is going to be busy with promoting the walks book in June and July – book signings and talks etc., so this could be better timing.

Afterwards I talked to Elaine, Luke Bitmead’s mother who has had a terrible time since Luke died. Last December Pip was so ill it was the worst time of my life, and while I try not to dwell on that, it’s obviously in my thoughts. My experience has been nothing like Elaine’s, but it was still good to compare notes about loss and how to move on.

Afterwards, Emma and I went to the pub (a Wetherspoons, which I frequent in Falmouth, so it was like home from home). Coming back with drinks, wearing my new jacket, I got a tap on the shoulder. Turning round, I saw a young man (late 20s?) who smiled and said, “I like your coat,” before disappearing in the crowds. I was stunned, and looked at Emma. “He’s old enough to be my SON!” I said.

“That’s your Pulling Coat,” she replied with a grin.

After a few drinks we headed back to Paddington where we got on the sleeper which looked rather romantic, sitting at the station. Until we got inside and we realised just how tiny the berths are.

“Maybe not so romantic,” I said, having been involved with men who are mostly 6 foot or over. “Unless you’re very small and very thin.”

“Or flexible,” suggested Emma.

Later, I lay curled up in my berth thinking of those who’d helped make the day such a good one. A good luck phone call from a friend while I was at Truro station, lots of texts on the train, Emma’s fabulous encouragement and support throughout the day, and the new contacts I made at the awards.

This morning I walked Molls along a deserted beach where the tide was out. Seagulls squawked and fought over grubs in one corner of the sea, the wind whipped my face and the sky was a bluey grey, with storm clouds gathering over Stack Point.

I thought of an email I was sent recently, entitled “Keep your friends close”. It doesn’t take much time to text, email or phone just to let friends know I'm thinking of them. So that’s what I try and do.

Gareth Malone and London awards

2011-11-30T11:49:00.003Z

Picture of Minster Church, near Boscastle - a truly beautiful spot.

I was watching Gareth Malone’s The Choir the other night and thought how lucky I was not to be married to someone in the forces, having to live in temporary accommodation, rarely making friends and never knowing when or if you may see your loved one again.

At the moment my mum is not having a good time healthwise but at least we are in regular touch over the phone and I’m seeing her soon. One of my best friends is away and while I miss them at least I know they’re not in danger of being blown up, even if communication is patchy.

What struck me about Gareth’s programme was his realization of how isolated these women were. They literally didn’t have a voice. And while it was hard to get them to believe they could sing, once he did, they were off. You could see the joy in their faces as the music took hold, and the sense of unity that singing together can bring.

That’s what singing does for me, though unfortunately I will have to miss our rehearsal this week as I’m off to London for the Luke Bitmead Bursary Awards – for those of you that missed the news, I have been shortlisted for this novel writing award which would mean getting a bursary but also – more importantly – a publishing contract with Legend Press.

Life in Falmouth has not been without its ups and downs over the past few weeks (as ever), so I haven’t had much chance to think about Christmas and my stomach is currently swirling just thinking about the trip to London. Unfortunately I have also got a sore throat – one of those ones where you feel as if you’ve swallowed crushed glass – and lost my voice.

I know I won’t win it – that would be too much to ask – but I’m hoping that they will agree to look at the novel in its entirety when I’ve finished editing it, and may even publish it – who knows? If nothing else it will be a good experience and networking opportunities.

We’re getting the sleeper back, which gets into Truro at some ungodly hour on Friday morning. I really don’t fancy returning with a terrible hangover, so must remember NOT to have that last glass of wine. You know, the fatal one……

And yes, you bet I’ll will be wearing my lucky knickers.

Flashmob

2011-11-23T09:50:00.005Z

The above is – if my technical skills are up to it – a video of us doing a flashmob in Truro – or three, to be precise. For those of you who don’t know, a flashmob is a group of people who get together in a public place to perform for a short time, then disperse. The whole point is that it has to be a surprise, though, so we weren’t supposed to tell our friends.

This video is of us in Lemon Street Market, our last venue, but to start with we all gathered in Marks & Sparks, scattered around the clothing department and waited for 2.30 when our musical director, Claire, had said she would start the singing. Claire was positioned by the bras (the men loved that) and we had to keep an eye on her but look as if we were browsing.

My heart was pounding, my mouth went dry as I kept looking at Claire, idly inspecting a stack of Christmas presents, then she turned around and started singing. We sang a four part round where the basses come in first, then the tenors, altos and us sopranos last. This means each part has to concentrate hard on when to come in (each part sings each line 4 times before the next part comes in) which sounds easy but when your teeth are chattering, it isn’t.

However, as soon as we started singing I forgot my nerves, and M&S has surprisingly good acoustics. It is impossible to describe the sense of spine tingling magic – I felt as if someone had injected me with liquid adrenaline. I shivered and shimmered, it whirled round my head, and I just wanted to sing and sing, more and more. This was the Red Shoes of music.

We did that flashmob in two other places and the last was enjoyed so much the shoppers all clapped so we did an encore, not wanting it to stop. One of the other lovely things about it was the inclusivity – people brought partners, friends and husbands, children and dogs. Everyone was welcome and everyone enjoyed the sense of thrill, of fun, and the spontaneity of it all.

Of course the downside is that we all felt incredibly flat once all that adrenaline had worn off – sadly several good friends were away, but we will be doing another one soon. Watch this space!

The C Word

2011-11-16T09:54:00.006Z

(This is actually the reflection of the sun in a puddle in case you're wondering and has absolutely nothing to do with this post.)

The other night I was wide awake (sleep is somewhat disrupted at present) thinking about the C word. Christmas. I’ve never been a great fan, to be honest – I’m not religious, I hate all the commercialisation and overindulgence associated with it, and not having children or grandchildren makes a mockery of much of the festive season.

As Pip died on Boxing Day last year, I am looking forward to Christmas less than usual this year, as you can imagine. But what to do?

Well, much though I love them, I feel very strongly that I don’t want to be with my family. They will be far too aware of This Time Last Year and I am aware that they could be treading on eggshells. I don’t want to be treated like porcelain. I want to be able to howl if I want, have a cuddle then go for a long walk and have a few drinks without worrying about anyone else.

There are a few people I would very much like to be with but most of them are taken up visiting their families. I’ve been invited by several other friends, so have a few possibilities and was reasonably happy with that until I met a close friend the other night for a drink. When I told her what I had vaguely planned she frowned.

“This Christmas I think you should get right away,” she said. “Do something completely different.” And as soon as she said it, I knew she was right.

The trouble is a) where to go, b) with whom (I don’t want to be on my own but I know instinctively who would be right and who wouldn’t, and c) there’s Molls to take into account. She either has to come with me or I need to find someone who can take her over Christmas.

This afternoon I was out walking Molls by the side of a field full of cauliflowers. I looked out over the grey winter landscape, at the blokes with battered coats picking muddy cauli after cauli. Rooks swooped in the distance over Rowland Hilder trees and I thought, “really, it’s only a few days. I‘ll get through it.” And I will get through it. But now that seed has been planted in my mind, I want to do more than just get through it. I’d like, if possible, to enjoy some of it.

What I need is a magic wand and a magic carpet. Failing that – any ideas?

Lastly – and this is connected, I’m not rambling - I’m reading Daphne du Maurier’s The King’s General. The plot is basically that some things in life have to be fought for – happiness, love and ambition in this instance, which reminded me that we all need to believe in what we are doing, and fight our corner, however hard this may seem.

And then I read this Cornish quote, as said to D du M, which I find very soothing: The sea is itself a symbol of the uncertainties of fate. “You will embark on a fair sea, and at times there will be fair weather and foul. Never lose courage. Safe harbour awaits you in the end.”

So regardless of what happens over Christmas – if I end up in far flung snowy wastelands, overheated houses or wave tossed beaches in Cornwall, I will think of the safe harbour awaiting me and those that I love.

Emotions

2011-11-09T10:02:00.014Z

I’d been planning to write something else, but was wide awake at 3am thinking about my visit to Godrevy last week and emotions. This is not a post about grief, but about those emotions that we all have. Love, hatred, desire, jealousy, to name but a few of the stronger ones.

Being oversensitive, I’ve always been swallowed up by my emotions. They’ve tended to rule my life, like a greedy dictator, so I always ran from them. When Pip was very ill, and it latterly became clear that he wouldn’t make it, I was terrified, not least because I’d watched my mother endure my father’s death at a similar age.

But after he died, and I wept my way through those early days, I began to realize that grief is not to be feared: it is nature’s way of helping us deal with loss. Instead of running from it, I took a deep breath, as if I was diving underwater, and swam into it. To my surprise, it was much easier to deal with loss head on.

It is so easy to be overwhelmed by these rollercoasters of feelings that we all have. Some are marvellous and catapult us joyously into the air, so we soar like seagulls. Some fill us with a steady, contented glow. Others leave us stranded and gasping on a lonely beach. I see emotions as being like the sea: they need to be respected. If we can befriend our feelings we can enjoy them and make the most of them, instead of being frightened by them.

In my case I write about them. (The happy ones too.) I sing about them. Or, like the wave above, take pictures of them. Others – who are more visual - may paint, draw or sculpt them. Some dance them (though I only tend to do that after too much wine these days). I find the important thing is to do something with them, and remember that life has crap times and much better ones.

Joy often comes suddenly, as it has recently. An unexpected phone call. A spontaneous visit to the beach when the tide’s out and the surf’s up. A clear sunny day. An email from an old friend.

Over the past few weeks I’ve noticed a fleeting feeling - as if I’m sitting on a sun dappled lawn. Or basking in front of a fire. A sensation of inner warmth.

I wondered what it was at first. And then I remembered. It’s little sparks of happiness.

Happy Birthday

2011-11-02T10:21:00.003Z

This was taken yesterday at Godrevy where I had a lovely afternoon - went on to Hell's Mouth and then tea at Portreath (you know I have to eat about every 3 hours).

Today would have been Pip’s 71st birthday. And while the rest of this year will bring back memories of a very sad and difficult time last year, when I look back over this year I am amazed at how my life has changed.

Pip gave me confidence and love in abundance. He enabled me to become the person I am becoming. I don’t know who she is yet – the process is ongoing – but his absence has made me grow stronger. I am no longer protected by him and have to do things myself – like driving long distances – which I was frightened of.

I went to a fabulous singing weekend at Prussia Cove last weekend where I met new people, stayed in incredible gothic location and walked Molls along a new stretch of the cliffs. I learnt the joy of singing with strangers – outside. Of relaxing on the sofa on the Sunday afternoon while someone strummed the guitar and we all sang along.

I have learnt that I am a singer and that music is a huge source of strength. I am learning photography and how to compose pictures. I am becoming stronger, and able to help others with this strength. I have made several new friends who have helped me hugely. I am learning to live and to love life.

And lastly, I have been shortlisted for the 2011 Luke Bitmead Bursary Award from Legend Press for my novel FOUR LEFT FEET that I am currently editing. I have been invited to the awards ceremony in London on December 1st and hope to go to that, though unlike one good friend, who is convinced I will win, I am not holding out any great expectations. To have got this far is amazing and gives me the boost I need to get on with editing the novel.

So get on with it, Flowerpot……

Sing, sing, singing

2011-10-26T09:42:00.003+01:00

This is a singing blog today, because tomorrow I am taking part in a workshop with the Pearl of Africa Children’s Choir. There are about 20 members of the Choir which was founded in 1983, and they’re here from September to November touring all over England raising funds for schools and homes run by the Molly and Paul Child Care Foundation. This is a Ugandan non-government organisation which provides education, food, shelter and healthcare to orphaned and destitute children in the Kampala and Massaka Districts. They have an amazing itinerary, with an appearance at the Eden Project and the Respect Festival in Plymouth, as well as an appearance on BBC Spotlight.

Later, they are giving a performance on the King Harry Ferry, with those who have been to the workshop joining in. At least, that’s the plan – given the weather forecast I’m not sure whether an alternative venue has been booked.

The other big singing item is this weekend when a member of our choir has booked several houses at Prussia Cove for several days of singing, music making, eating and drinking, walking – whatever we feel like doing, with a knees up on Saturday night when anyone can perform – songs, music, poetry, stories, plays, madness – who knows?

There will be about 50 of us staying in a selection of several houses and we all take food and wine etc. Even better, Mollie’s allowed to come. So by the end of the weekend I will be all sung out. And much the happier for it.

Last Day of Summer and Blood Sugar Levels

2011-10-19T10:06:00.002+01:00

On Sunday I arranged to go down to Zennor with a friend, something we’d been wanting to do for months but never quite came about.

Planning a day out, for me, needs careful preparation as I need to eat regularly or my blood sugar level crashes. So the glove compartment of the van is stacked with cereal bars. We started with cooked breakfast at Sainsbury’s - for those of you who are interested, I had cheese and mushroom omelette with hash browns and baked beans. Then we went to a car boot where I got a whole wardrobe of very good quality stuff for £5. Very satisfying indeed. And the sun came out.

After that we headed down to Zennor and en route I realised it was time for ginger cake from Stones Bakery at the bottom of the High Street in Falmouth - deliciously light and moist.

By the time we reached Zennor the sky was a clear blue and the sun beat down like a hot summer’s day - as we sat outside the pub with a glass of wine and crisps I could feel my arms burning. (Note – Mollie thoroughly approves of outings to the pub as she loves crisps. In fact she loves anything edible.)

Having refreshed ourselves we had a quick look at the Mermaid's Chair in Zennor church, then set off to find Zennor Quoit. The lady in the pub gave us directions but we didn’t quite manage it as I’d left the OS map on my kitchen table, but we found Lanyon Quoit later (after more cake) and I managed to take some pictures – see above.

We then returned via Marazion and a scamper along the beach, and as we drove back, with the sun setting, we both felt as if we'd had a mini holiday. Which I suppose we had. Back home it was time to feed the animals and then time for me to eat again - fishcakes with chips and salad.

Cornwall is beautiful in all weathers, to my mind, but given the weather we had on Sunday it transformed it into a really magical place. We were so lucky to have that last day of summer and thanks to Pip's camera, the photos will keep me going through the cold, grey days of winter.

What will you use to keep you going through winter?

Holidays

2011-10-12T10:33:00.004+01:00

This is the Jubilee Pool in Penzance which sadly was shut when we got there. But I couldn't resist taking some pictures.

Absence due to a holiday in Penzance which was much needed, though I could have done with another week to be honest. The first weekend two close friends came down with me and we made the most of that glorious hot weather, swimming at Marazion, walking over to Lamorna from Mousehole and attending various pubs.

They left on the Sunday night and my mum arrived on the Monday morning. We were invited to our cousins for supper on the Monday night, had a lovely day together on Tuesday and I put her on the train on Tuesday afternoon. Wednesday morning my dear friend Viv and her dog Titch arrived and the rest of the week was a lot of fun. Which isn’t to say that the first part wasn’t, she says hastily. But Viv is very easy.

It was lovely having a few days to unwind, walk the dogs, potter about Penzance and have someone to cook for – though Viv’s lovely partner Paul bought us wine and a takeaway the first night. We did several walks for Cornwall Today, got lost (as we always do) and laughed a lot (as we always do).

In amongst all of this, I discovered that a close friend of mine was feeling really low. Then another whose husband is ill so she is feeling really low. Then to top it all, another close mate had a suspected heart attack.

But the first friend is coming out of his period of reclusion and talking again, my friend’s husband is improving and my third friend has had loads of tests and they can’t find anything wrong.

Phew. But you can see why I wanted another week’s holiday.

In the meantime, I was sent this wonderful caption this morning. “Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem make sure you are not, in fact, just surrounded by arseholes.”

Had to send it to Friend #1. Thank God he hasn’t lost his sense of humour.

Another One Bites the Dust

2011-09-28T11:01:00.004+01:00

Last weekend couldn’t have provided more contrast – a great gig on Saturday night followed by scattering more of Pip’s ashes on the Sunday. But let me start with Pip first of all.

I was determined to scatter the second lot of Pip’s ashes at Polly Joke, his favourite beach on the north coast of Cornwall and one where we both had very happy memories. Luckily Sunday was a sunny if windy day and so Deb and Molls and I set off for our favourite spot with camera and hankies.

As we neared the car park, I put on a Queen CD and guess what the first track was? Another One Bites the Dust. Deb and I laughed – it was just as if Pip was running the day, which he probably was.

The beach wasn’t too crowded as the tide was coming in and I took pictures on the way down, then Deb said she’d take over as cameraman as I scattered the ashes over the sea. Trouble was, I couldn’t get the tin open. (Pip’s sense of humour no doubt.) Then once open, I shook him free but suddenly Deb shouted, “Sue!” The tide was rushing up the sand, roaring over my feet as we both ran backwards, trying to avoid the incoming waves.

We had a big hug while Mollie danced in the shallows and roared up and down the beach, then walked up to the Bowgie pub where we sat outside with a glass of wine each, a packet of crisps for Molls and felt that Pip would very much have approved.

I’ve kept a few ashes in a tin which is still on his side of the bed. When I told Deb she said, “When you get together with someone else and take him back to bed, you’d better move Pip,” she said. “They might be put off if they know your husband’s watching.”

But back to Saturday’s gig at Miss Peapods in Penryn where Joshua Caole started playing and singing and that got us in the mood. He was followed by Chris Woods, an incredible acoustic guitar player who uses ‘string slapping’ to produce amazing percussive effects by finger tapping, rapid drumming and ordinary finger picking. Well worth a listen.

Last on was Cole Stacey, a great singer and guitarist who, after a few numbers, asked if anyone was up for a sing. Well, of course I said YES! which astonished most of the audience. Cole was delighted, and asked me to sing lead vocals (in fact a few choruses) which was a good warm up for the rest of the audience to sing along.

I had a great time and you know, the nicest thing was, as we left they were all standing outside. I said thanks for a great evening and hoped they would come back for another gig. They turned and said, “Oh it’s Sue! Thanks, Sue – you made the gig!”

Like my other friends, Pip would be bursting with pride.

Food, glorious food

2011-09-21T09:16:00.003+01:00

I’ve been suffering from a bad attack of frozen shoulder which has been agony and meant not being able to type or write – bit of an occupational hazard for a writer. Today it’s feeling a bit better but as I have to transcribe an interview I did on Friday, and am interviewing Ian Rankin on Monday (a phoner, sadly, not meeting the man in person), I am saving my energies, so here is something I was asked to write some time ago. About food.

About 15 years ago I developed an intolerance to caffeine which means that tea, coffee and chocolate turns me into a hyperactive lunatic incapable of sitting still. My heart pounds, my hands shake – it’s like having a panic attack. A high price to pay for a few moments of indulgence.

So now I drink decaff coffee, Rooibosh tea and pass on chocolate. Occasionally the odd bit is tolerated, but only a little.

But oh, I do miss it. Looking at a piece of chocolate cake the other day, I could taste the rich velvety sweetness on my tongue. The seductive way it would stick to my teeth. I would sample the dark heaviness for minutes, hours later. Chocolate should be made by kings and queens for royalty, I think. When indulging in chocolate, it should be eaten slowly, every mouthful savoured, lingered over.

I long for the rich bitter taste of freshly brewed coffee that goes so well with bacon sarnies or buttery croissants. When I smell fresh coffee drifting out from someone’s window I sniff, like a Bisto kid, and the smell of it invigorates me, even if I can’t drink it. If other people have a cup, I grab it and inhale, like a glue sniffer. I can imagine the seductive way it slips down my throat, seeps round my system like a snake, winding up the parts that other drugs can’t reach.

I remember, years ago, having friends over for a meal and someone brought a home made tiramisu. This was a way of combining all our favourite foods in one. A smorgasbord of secret delights. A marriage of two powerful families: the rich, powerful coffee with the sensuous, fecund chocolate. Their union resulted in a dish of previously unimagined decadence with an ermine lacing of cream, topped with teasing shavings of chocolate.

Who could resist that?

Last To Go

2011-09-14T09:39:00.003+01:00

Life continues to throw up surprises. Some of them good, some not so good, all of them emotional right now, but what’s new?

On Saturday we sang at Newquay Fish Festival which was a great gig with unexpected sunshine, cheerful, welcoming audiences and sardines barbecued on the harbour front, crab pots being made of willow, good cider and a van stuck on the beach with rapidly incoming tide.

On Sunday I joined some friends at Falmouth’s Princess Pavilions where Gweek Silver Band was playing, and this reminded me of Pip’s cornet, sitting unplayed and neglected by his side of the bed. My brother in law and I had discussed the cornet months ago and agreed we’d much rather it went to someone keen who would play it regularly, preferably in a band, but I’d had no response to previous emails.

So on Monday I emailed the Cornwall Youth Band and have had several phone calls from very keen cornet players. All of them female, which Pip would approve of. One is so keen that her mum is driving down from Devon this morning to come and pick it up and pay me cash.

So far I’ve been really lucky – everything of his with emotional value has gone to a really good home which means far more to me than any money. So fingers crossed for this one. In between bouts where my tears drip like an ongoing tap, I have a good feeling about it, and this will complete the list of things to be sold.

Unless anyone fancies a sausage maker?

Another Wave

2011-09-07T10:32:00.005+01:00

Last Saturday I finally got round to inviting several friends round who I’d been wanting to get together all year. So it was arranged that everyone would bring something to eat as well as wine so all I had to do was make two cottage pies and move the tables and chairs around before they arrived.

Darling Pip would always get in a fluster before we had people for a meal. I would be banned from the kitchen - “get out Pop. Go and lay the table,” while he created dish after dish of wonderful food with the aid of a few glasses of wine. Or whatever he was currently drinking. Our visitors always had a great time, were very well fed and watered and reeled off into the night at some late stage.

This time it was much more laid back. I'd done everything by late morning so I could relax in the afternoon – just as well as I get exhausted spells and this was one of them.

I wore The Dress – which has been christened twice now, and much admired by everyone. It’s also very comfortable, warmer than I’d thought and one of those dresses you put on and feel really good in. The first christening was at a brilliant gig in Falmouth where a friend’s partner tipped Tribute down my left boob. But no matter. It gave me something to sip at while I waited at the bar.

Pip would have loved the dress, and would have approved of the evening (though not the fact that other people brought food). But we all had a lovely time, everyone helped me clear and wash up, so there was very little to do the next day. But oh, how I missed him. Sitting next to me round the table. Sharing the evening. And the post mortem, lying in bed the next morning having a cuddle.

Mollie and I sat on my steps the next morning in the sunshine with a cup of tea, looking out to sea. Where he is and is not. And I wondered about life. How you can so easily take people for granted, and suddenly they’re gone.

This time last year we were about to go on holiday. Shortly after that he became very ill, a month at home and then the last two months of his life in hospital. So I'm aware that the rest of this year is going to be tough. Full of memories I would rather not have. But as Pip once said, “life is about how you deal with setbacks, Pop, not successes.”

This is one setback that I hadn’t envisaged happening so soon. But I do believe that life throws things at you and you have to deal with them. Somehow. One of my ways is by writing down my journey.

So thank you for reading and thank you for your support. You make all the difference.

Unwrapping my husband

2011-08-31T10:29:00.002+01:00

On Sunday evening I unwrapped my husband.

He’d been in a green cardboard box and I’ve kept him beside my bed (on his side) since 7th January. But now it was time to decant him and scatter some of his ashes on the Carrick Roads. For those of you unused to Cornish ways, this is actually a river where he used to fish for oysters.

I have to say I hadn’t been looking forward to this outing, but after a delicious lunch provided by two friends, Molls and I went with them on their boat, up the river. The sky was a deep dark blue, there was just enough wind for a sail, and so many other boats out there also enjoying the Bank Holiday weather.

We halted just near the boundary between Truro Harbour and Falmouth Harbour (marked by a granite post) and Michael read Masefield’s “Sea Fever” as well as Brian Patten’s “How long does a man live?” (I knew I couldn’t speak I’d be gulping too much.) Then, checking the direction of the wind, I said, “Goodbye darling,” and emptied a tin full of Pip into the river. Andrea had bought two bunches of flowers which we threw onto the water, and with each one I shouted one of Pip’s favourite sayings – including “shoot the bastards” and his made-up German swear words.

Just then a wind caught the sails and the boat sped forwards. It was as if Pip was saying, “Come on, enough of that. Let’s go for a sail for God’s sake!”

I laughed then – it was so typical him. And as the boat gathered speed, I felt the wind in my hair, the salt on my lips and a thrill ran through me. “I see what you mean, darling,” I thought. “This is what sailing’s all about!”

So two unexpectedly good things came from that day. One – my Pip is where he should be – out on the water. And two – I can now really understand his passion for sailing. And maybe, one day, do more of it myself?

Wherever I go, it seems, Pip will be there, somewhere. Just keeping an eye on me.

Film Stars, Music and Eggs

2011-08-24T10:14:00.001+01:00

Last Friday Molls and I set off to be film stars.

I’d had a phone call the previous week out of the blue, from a freelance film director who was doing some work for Visit Cornwall. He had read my blog and said “you have described Polly Joke so beautifully” that he wondered if I would take part in his film. Well, as any writer will tell you, those words are magic to the soul. Of course I said yes and we fixed last Friday as the date, dependent on the weather.

As luck would have it, Friday afternoon revealed skies of a perfect Wedgewood blue, streaked with mare’s tail clouds. I met Gareth in the Bowgie car park and we headed down towards the beach, him stopping to film en route. The tide was far out, so we had a clear expanse of golden sand which Molls adores, and he interviewed me by the waterline, then filmed me and Molls walking and running along the beach. We then had a paddle, walked back up to the pub and had a drink in the sunshine. Overall it was a fun afternoon and getting paid petrol money to spend the afternoon on your favourite beach, particularly if it might lead to some publicity, can’t be bad.

There have been a few disappointments recently - as there always are in life. But life is full of ups and downs and one particular disappointment could be, I am guessing, a blessing in disguise. Who knows? At the moment life has a habit of throwing the unexpected at me so I can only go with it. And enjoy what there is to enjoy. Learn from what there is to learn.

Tomorrow we start singing again having had a summer’s break, and I can’t wait. I’m off to a gig of All the Fires on Friday night (which is where I will give The Dress its first outing) then my choir are singing at a gig on Saturday afternoon in Penryn. Music is back in my life!

And dear Joe from upstairs rang this morning to say he’d been down to the pub last night and got me a dozen eggs which he had left outside my back door. “How much do I owe you?” I asked, very touched that he’d done this.

“They were a pound but I don’t want the money,” he insisted gruffly.

Recently I’ve been more aware than ever that I am incredibly lucky to have such a wonderful bunch of friends.

Good news and - A Dress....

2011-08-17T09:28:00.002+01:00

Last Friday I went to a book launch of a walks book by a publishing company who are interested in publishing a(nother) book of my walks. I was nervous beforehand, but when I met them, got on very well and they said how much they loved my writing. You can imagine how I felt about THAT.

They’d said they were at the end of their marketing tour and would be shattered, so I offered them Rescue Remedy or brandy. “Both please!” they replied. Of course I couldn’t find any miniature brandy bottles so ended up getting a can of G&T which they left on the display table, thereby attracting more interest as the punters thought they might get a free gin.

Anyway, I left there having provisionally agreed to do a walks book with them in 2013 (subject to contract of course) and so delighted that I went into Monsoon and tried on a dress. Now, the last time I wore a dress was 12 years ago for my wedding. Before that – I can’t remember. So a dress is a big thing. And I fell in love with this one which, of course, they didn’t have in my size. But having got the bit between my teeth, I went home and ordered it online. Yes, paid good money for a dress. Me. I still can’t believe it (but then it hasn’t arrived yet).

As I sat, reeling with the tremendousness of the morning, the phone rang. Long story short, it was from the creative director of a film company making films for Visit Cornwall. He’d come across my blog while researching a beach called Polly Joke and thought my writing so beautiful, would I consider taking part in one of his films?

Well, anyone who says nice things about my writing has me for a sucker. Of course I said yes. So stunned was I, I didn’t think to ask about money though he did say he’d pay travel expenses, and we may film on Friday depending on the weather.

I was so excited I thought I’d burst, and frantically sent emails and texts. No one at home on a Friday lunchtime. So I went round the corner to see a friend, jumped up and down and had a hug and felt a lot better.

The next day I felt very strange. As if this was happening to someone else. Having been used to things not going so well, a bit of good news is very difficult to take. I’m waiting for something else to go wrong – which it did in the shape of the Times changing their mind over a piece.

But the good bits remain. And I’ve had an email to say that my dress is on its way. Quite where I shall wear this dress is a mystery. But where it I shall, if only to the pub.

Lucky Knickers

2011-08-10T09:44:00.003+01:00

The above picture is of my dear mate Viv cuddling Molls on one of our walks for Cornwall Today, taken at Roundwood Quay.

I’m not a superstitious person but where I do look for help is from my knickers and jewellery. That could be entirely misconstrued so stop snorting. I’m referring to the colour – or patterns – of those items of undergarments, to bring me luck or strength.

I have a favourite pair which is (or should that be ‘are’?) red with black spots and are used for occasions when I know I will be tested and need some courage. For instance, on the day I knew would be Pip’s last. The day of his service and last party. When going to interview Bill Bryson. No, actually I was wearing lemon coloured trousers so I had to wear white ones for those. But I wore my red spotty ones for a busy day with meetings and then giving a talk at Penzance Literary Festival. Or when I just have those wobbly days when I need a bit of secret support.

I also have some lucky jewellery – a lovely swan pendant that Pip made; some of his lovely Cornish tin pendants, and a lovely ring of my grandmother’s that I didn’t wear for ages as I was worried about losing it. Then a friend said, “Seems a shame not to wear it. Why not put it on when you go out?” So that’s what I do, and it means that wherever I go, she can come too.

Talking of superstitions, I don’t actually walk under ladders right now. Don’t want to tempt any more bad luck.

Any else have any superstitions?

Past, Present and Future

2011-08-02T14:48:00.003+01:00

Dear Av took this picture of me on the beach near Noss Mayo. It was a bit dark that day, so thankfully you can't see me that well but as ever Molls looks good.

This is written from a thick cloud of fluey fog. One that had me confined to bed for several days – an almost unheard of occurrence, and has left me with a delightfully rasping cough, which feels as if someone is grating my throat with a cheese grater, and sounds as if I’m smoking 60 Players a day. However, I am on the Up…

Dear Sheila walked Molls for me and other friends have been great at seeing how I am. I am up but my brain, fingers and legs are not cooperating. Thank God I have no deadlines this week. However I am determined to be better for Falmouth carnival on Saturday or certainly the Cornish singing night in the pub on Sunday.

Last week, after the excitement of Port Eliot, to my astonishment I received an email from the director of Ways with Words (one of the oldest literary festivals) booking me for a talk next year and also asking if I’d take a walk. Would I? I nearly burst with excitement…..

That was followed by a meeting in Truro which resulted in some really interesting commissions and then I had to leg it down to Penzance (or rather, sat in a visitor-inspired traffic jam for nearly 2 hours) to meet Fi prior to our talk on Writing for Magazines at the Penzance Literary Festival. Despite not having a huge audience, those that attended were very keen and asked loads of questions which is much better than having lots of people who nod off, so we were pleased.

I looked at my diary last year, and realised that life was much quieter then. It seems a million years ago, for I have had to adjust to this new life so quickly, that I sometimes wonder whether I ever was married. Did I dream those 14 years? And that got me thinking about The Future – you know, if there is someone that determines Partnership Fate, what is in store for me? I am very grateful for the years Pip and I had together, but sometimes I look at other people and think how lucky they are to be celebrating 30 or 40 years together. Something I will never now have. Well actually I suppose if I get a move on I could. Just :)

But life is full of enjoyable things. As a friend said the other day, “It seems that life doesn’t want you to be quiet right now”. At least being ill forced me to lie in bed, sleep and read. Bliss. Perhaps I should try and aim for a rather better balance - the thing is, there are many lovely people to meet up with and so many interesting things to do….. And let’s face it, life has been somewhat short of Fun over the last few years.

And who knows what, or who, is round the corner?

Love, Port Eliot and Penzance Literary Festival

2011-07-26T17:31:00.005+01:00

I am in love. You know - that heart racing, toe tapping sensation that lifts you several inches off the ground. Sharpens all your senses. Leaves a beatific smile on your face and gives you a warm, Ready Brek glow that touches everyone you pass.

But before you get excited, this is due to no man. This is because of the Port Eliot festival which I went to for the first time on Sunday. As it’s fairly laid back, I thought I’d enjoy it but was unprepared for the sheer depth and scope of the place. The setting is wonderful to start off with – a hidden estate nestled next door to the mystical-sounding Menheniot, yet not far from blustering, sprawling Plymouth.

We arrived by train and followed others to a doorway in an old stone wall. Port Eliot Estate, it read, and we entered a world of magic. There was so much to see – first in the Walled Garden, then we stumbled through a fairytale garden with whirls of colour and books. The scent of cooking wafted towards us tingling our taste buds. Next door clothes of all kinds were displayed in rows of jangling colour, next door to secret stalls of jewellery, and short wellies called Spats. A Flower Garden; a maze, a Hulaboloo play area for kids. Around every corner was a different exploration that roused and bombarded, soothed and seduced the senses.

Further on we found a path through elegant beech trees winding down to the river, watched those jumping in, cavorting with glee on the mud banks. Emerging shivering, wrapped in towels, by a stall selling Bellinis. The house itself was straight from a fairy tale – quiet, turreted splendour with towers for Rapunzel. A Round Room with amazing murals by Lenkiewicz. And who knows what else? I ran out of time to explore.

“I had Kate Winslet for breakfast,” said Phil longingly – for Kate read from the book Mr Gum to a rapt audience (of mostly men, for she was wearing black shorts, revealing muscular thighs, and shiny, pristine Hunter boots). Even Jilly’s rapacious mosquito bites didn’t deter her enthusiasm as we sat in the sunshine with a well earned beer.

From a bench we watched as a horse drawn cart conveyed luggage to and from the campsites, gypsy caravans snuggled next to a horse box where you could discover a New You, and we sampled a selection of eateries on the lawn by the stunning house offering everything from Pimms, ice cream and falafels to pork baps, haloumi sarnies and Thai curries.

Us music lovers were drawn to the Big Top where we listened to all kinds of bands under hot lights that rotated green, blue and pink, while the music pounded against my breastbone like hot adrenaline, making even my cup shake.

I emerged pixillated and speechless, longing to share my experiences with those friends that would have loved it but couldn’t make it. But how? I sat on the train scribbling, texting, but mere words couldn’t convey my experience of this amazing day.

Now I need another music fix – fast – and unfortunately our choir is having a summer break. Then I remember it’s our lovely musical director’s birthday this Saturday, so we are all meeting for tea, cakes and a Big Sing. So think of us with crumbs on our laps and music in our heads, singing our hearts out for Claire.

And back to matters literary - if anyone is in Penzance this Thursday 28th, Fi Read and I are giving our talk for the Penzance Literary Festival at 2pm at the Acorn Theatre. Come and give us some moral support!

Holidays and Absent Men

2011-07-20T09:26:00.003+01:00

This is me and Molls on a wonderful walk round Noss Mayo last week. My holiday was all too short – 4 days not nearly long enough to recharge my batteries – but wonderful and the drive to Devon went well. Dear Pip was very protective of me and as I don’t enjoy driving, he would do it for me. Now I decided it was time I did it myself, sang most of the way, even enjoyed part of it and have a sense of achievement. A friend had checked the van over for me before I went which also gave me confidence, so that’s another box ticked.

I had a great few days walking and nattering with my dear friend Av. We also hit the charity shops and for those of you interested in Acquisitions, I found a pair of denim cut offs (Per Una) that could have been made for me, plus t shirt at combined price of £5.50 so I was well chuffed with those.

My contact lenses also got the thumbs up from both Av and my mum – “I can see your eyes again,” said my mum in bewilderment. “You look amazing.” Though I think that was more down to the fact that my face is brown and I was wearing a bright pink t shirt…

Poor Mum hasn’t been having a good time of things recently but I think we cheered her up a bit, took her to the pub for supper and had a meal with my good mates John and Annie another night, all of which meant I had fish pie three nights running but who cares? I didn’t have to cook which was a great bonus.

The only down side was coming home to an empty flat. Bussie (the remaining male resident of Flowerpot House) was absent. Now this is a bloke who likes his food. Who wakes me at 5 every morning yowling and demanding his breakfast. I called and called. I searched the neighbouring streets. Asked the neighbours. Rang local radio station. Still no Bussie. Several years ago he disappeared when he was injured in a cat fight so I figured he’d either been in (yet another) fight or been shut in somewhere. Like most of the men in my life, he’s frequently in trouble.

On Sunday night I came back and there sitting in the hall was – “Bussie!” I cried. He was very thin and found it difficult to walk. His back legs were creaky and he was filthy. He could hardly eat but since then has been eating and is more mobile but I’m keeping a close eye on him for the next day or two. A trip to the vet might be on the cards (though given the last bill I’m hoping to avoid that).

Tonight I’m off to the Poly in Falmouth for a friend’s private view and on Sunday I’m going to Port Eliot festival, so next week I will fill you in on that – oh and tell you about my unexpected meeting on Dartmoor with a pilot. Sometimes you never know who you’re going to meet, where….

Holiday Time

2011-07-06T09:11:00.005+01:00

As of next Monday I am taking a holiday. One that is overdue by a month, so it will be very welcome. Molls and I are off to Devon to meet my dear friend Av and go walking on Dartmoor and in the South Hams. (Cue here for torrential downpours over the next week.)

We will be staying with my mum who’s not had the best of health recently so we can take her out and about a bit as well which will be lovely. Av is reeling with shock as over the past few months I have started to take an interest in my appearance. After 15 years of living with darling Pip who said “I think you look wonderful whatever you wear,” I have realised that frequently I don’t so it’s fun taking an interest in clothes again – in a limited way.

A friend, having seen our wedding pictures, asked why I wore glasses when I used to wear contact lenses. “Those glasses suit you, but you don’t make the most of your looks,” he said. I was furious but it made me think. I asked mum what she thought about me going back to contact lenses. “Oh definitely,” she said.

I sat and thought. And as I needed an eye test anyway, went along. I now have soft lenses and I hate to say it, but I feel very different. They do suit me.

In amongst our stomping over Dartmoor, I have asked Av to come shopping with me. It will be charity shops or somewhere cheap but she has excellent taste in what suits whom, and I’m really looking forward to our Spree.

Pip has settled into a good space. He is nearby when I need him but comes everywhere with me, which I think is as it should be. I miss him – of course I do – but I have had to adapt – fast – to life without him. I am becoming a different person and life is full of Firsts. Driving up to Devon by myself will be another first, but I know I will feel a huge sense of achievement having done it.

I am also learning how to deal with the many practical problems that arise and am extremely fortunate in having three very trusty and protective men I can call upon for help. Given the circumstances, I think I am very lucky.

See you all in a couple of weeks.

Cawsands Walk

2011-06-29T10:31:00.002+01:00

This is one I did with Viv on one of the coldest days in January - or was it February. Twas b*** cold anyway but one I would love to do again in more clement weather.

I was intending to come to Kingsands and Cawsands for a holiday this March, but without Pip, it didn't seem right. However, Viv had been waxing lyrical about the two 17th century fishing villages, so I was looking forward to this walk, intrigued by the fact that Kingsands was once in Devon, with Cawsands in Cornwall. Ever one for useless detail, I also liked the idea that in days gone by, life for the smugglers of Kingsands and Cawsands was a constant battle with Customs: girls apparently took brandy into Plymouth under their petticoats.

Back to the present day, and minus petticoats, we took the A374 and followed signs to Millbrook, then headed into the picturesque village of Cawsands, where we parked in the car park in the middle of the village. From there, Mark, who ran the car park, gave us directions and a map, and we turned left up the street, past the village shop and turned right, past the Rising Sun Inn. Lost already, we got instructions from a friendly Welsh builder to go up the hill then turn right into Mount Edgcumbe Country Park.

Ahead lay Minadew Brakes, a wide grassy area with fabulous views stretching out over the huge expanse of Cawsand Bay, and Plymouth Sound further up. Fort Picklecombe could be seen ahead, and woods up on our left: this is a popular walk for walkers and dogs, who were both soon covered in the brick red mud typical of this area.

It was a raw grey winter's day, but beautiful nonetheless: a kestrel hovered overhead, and waves crashed angrily on the rocks to our right. But spring showed promise with daffodil buds shyly peeping out from walls of dried bracken and gorse flower the only colour on this scowling day. “Gorse in flower, kissing in season,” said Viv optimistically, though there was no one en route on which to try this out.

Heading for Maker church, we passed what might have been a quarry where huge trees hovered over us with bare roots like tortured arms, and branches like belly dancer's limbs; supple and bendy looking.

At the end of Minadew Brakes, we came to a kissing gate where we turned sharp right onto a lane which led in front of a large house and Hooe Lake on our right, then first left through an iron gate. Ahead of us were three paths – we should have taken the left hand path which leads straight to Maker Church, but we started off on the middle path – luckily two German walkers put us right and we found ourselves at the top of what looked like a grassy, incredibly steep canyon, which we had to cross.

Sliding down was one thing, but half way up the almost vertical bank opposite, I looked nervously back at Viv, who has a heart condition. She was puffing but was alive which was a bonus. Reaching the top, I looked back over Plymouth Sound and noted two Navy destroyers coming in. Rain clouds loomed on the horizon and above us, in the middle of miles of gracious parkland, a helicopter hovered: at any minute I expected machine guns to rain down on us, forcing us to flatten ourselves to the ground. But the helicopter moved on, and we continued our walk towards Maker Church that peeped out of the winter gloom like Rapunzel's tower.

Passing woods on our left, with dead branches waving ghostly grey fingers, we reached the top of the hill which must be one of the highest points of Cornwall – there is such a feeling of space here, looking out over Plymouth Sound, the River Tamar and Plymouth Docks, with Edgcumbe Park stretching magnificently in front of us. Behind us were fields and fields of emerald green with hardly a house in sight.

We decided to pay a quick visit to the church, the tower of which was used as a naval signal station, but it was locked so we turned our attention to Edgcumbe House and Park. Sir Richard Edgcumbe of Cotehele built the original house in his deer park in 1547-50. It was largely destroyed in the Plymouth blitz of 1941 but has now been restored and houses paintings by Sir Joshua Reynolds, Gerard Edema and William van der Velde, 16th century tapestries, Irish bronze age horns and 18th century Chinese and Plymouth porcelain. In the 18th century the family created formal gardens, temples, follies and woodlands with Californian Redwood trees sheltering a herd of wild fallow deer.

Setting off through the park once again, we headed along a path towards Harbour View Seat. The path disappeared and we were concerned that we would end up in Cremyll when we'd only got 6 hours of car parking time. Unable to find Harbour View Seat, we headed right, past the impressive Grotton Plantation on our left, and a herd of delicate deer gazing at us in the distance. “Is it rutting season?” said Viv, stumbling over the rough path. “No, I replied stoutly, “that's April isn't it?” I had no idea, but walked faster just in case.

The paths on our map bore no resemblance to the parkland we walked through, but we headed back towards the sea where Viv was determined to find Fort Picklecombe, which was hard enough to say when sober. We found ourselves on the seaward side of the canyon we traversed earlier, and a very steep path roughened by sliding hoof marks led us back to the iron gate near the road and we retraced our steps past Hooe Lake, with Kingsands and Cawsands nestled in the cliffs ahead of us.

“If we'd turned left, do you think we'd get to Fort Picklecombe?” said Viv hopefully. Seeing my frozen face, she added, “I don't want to do it today. Perhaps another time?”

From here we reached a sign saying Kingsand 1 mile and retraced our steps along the Minadew where we sat on a bench and ate the last of our sandwiches. This walk is full of beauty - the sheer size and scope of the parkland, the water and the woods – but wrap up warmly, for it is exposed on all sides.

We'll definitely come back to this forgotten area of Cornwall: we want to explore the villages, which boast several pubs and art galleries, as well as the many and varied walks. “Though we'd better get in training,” said Viv, sharing a biscuit with the dogs. “With the SAS.”

FACTBOX
OS Map 201 Plymouth and Launceston
Length: Approx 3.5 miles
Time: 2 hours
Grade: - some very steep hills, can be extremely muddy.
Refreshments: Rising Sun Inn and Cross Keys - www.crosskeyscawsand.co.uk
and plenty of other pubs
Mount Edgcumbe House and Garden – 01752 822236 www.mountedgcumbe.gov.uk
A passenger ferry operates between Cawsands and Kingsands and the Barbican in Plymouth.
www.cawsandferry.co.uk
Whitsand Bay, the longest sandy beach in England, is nearby.
Parking in Cawsands: £1 for 6 hours at time of walking.
Public Toilets next to car park in Cawsands.
Galleries - www.westcroftgallery.co.uk
www.panachegallery.co.uk

The Big Sing

2011-06-22T09:53:00.005+01:00

I apologise for yet another post about singing, but I have to tell you about The Big Sing. Next week I promise I won't even MENTION singing....

Last night being the summer solstice, the Suitcase Singers and Claire’s other two choirs headed off to Watergate Bay on the North Coast of Cornwall for the Big Sing. A midsummer’s evening of music, art and dance. Given the weather recently we were prepared for the worst with brollies, thermals, scarves and all manner of warm keeping stuff, but we got there at 6.30 to brilliant sunshine on a clear beach miles long, albeit with a stiff onshore breeze.

We all laid down picnic rugs, opened bottles and stood and chatted while we did a quick warm up, then the first dancers did a wonderful dance barefooted on the sand. This was followed by several other choirs, then us. Standing on the stage there, looking out over a sea of rapt friends, with the sea crashing behind them, was an incredibly moving experience. We all shared picnics, drank rather too much wine in our case – it’s strange how it seems to go down very quickly on a beach – and had to retire to the bar to wait for our taxi. 8 of us shared a lift home and sang, to the bemusement of the taxi driver, all the way back.

MollieDog went to stay with my friend Sheila, round the corner, as I knew I would be late back, and as I have to go to Truro this afternoon, she is keeping Molls until I get back which is very kind. Though it is Very Quiet without my little girl.

I’m somewhat short on sleep now so forgive me if this doesn’t make much sense. There was an incredibly pagan, earthy, Celtic feeling over that, the longest night. And sharing it with some of my dearest friends as well as a whole beachful of singers, made it one of the most memorable nights for a long time.

Telephone Singing

2011-06-15T09:56:00.001+01:00

My Bill Bryson week ended up struggling back by train in a heatwave. This I do not recommend, particularly with one hot dog and a very heavy case (how had it got so heavy overnight, pray?) and having to change trains three times. I was extremely hot and bothered by the time we reached Falmouth and desperate to get home.

Unusually for Cornwall, it was even hot in the evenings: living by the sea tends to mean cool breezes after about 6pm, but when I finally got home it was warm enough to sit outside my local in shorts and a t shirt.

The following evening was our gig in Flushing, part of Flushing Arts Week. We sang for an hour in their church, which has the most incredible acoustics, as well as stained glass windows, and then trotted down the road to the Standard pub. The service here left a lot to be desired, but we finally managed to get drinks and sat outside (how often can you do that in this country?) with the river on our right, the boats bobbing up and down, and a family of swans parading up the slipway.

As Mum’s foot was playing up again and she was stuck in Devon, I said I’d ring her so she could hear us singing down the phone. I mentioned this to Claire, our musical director, who said straight away, “What would she like to hear?”

“Something cheerful,” I replied.

So we settled on “Freedom Train” and I rang Mum, got her ready, sitting the other end of the phone on her sofa.

Claire made sure she’d got the audience’s attention and announced, “This number is for Sue’s Mum!” and we began to sing.

There really is something very special about singing outside, by water. I was hoping that some of that would come across, albeit down the phone, but you never know, so I held my breath when the number had finished.

Mum was a bit quiet, but finally said, “I was so touched and moved. It made my day!”

Which made a magical night even better.

Bill Bryson and train lag

2011-06-07T17:34:00.001+01:00

If it’s possible to have jetlag from trains, by last Friday I had it, having spent nearly every day on a train journey. Though I suppose that would be train lag.

Molls and I took the train up to see mum in Devon on the Tuesday and spent Wednesday with her, thankfully nowhere near a train. On Thursday I got the 8.30 am train to Paddington and apart from a points failure at Reading, the journey was uneventful. Except, of course, that I was on a rather Tight Schedule and it meant we were 15 minutes late arriving at Paddington.

I therefore had 19 minutes before I was due to meet Bill.

“How long will it take to get to Langham Place?” I said as I threw myself into the taxi.

“Should be about 20 minutes, ma’am,” said the cab driver. (I can only assume he called me Ma’am because I was wearing my Smart (Wedding) Jacket. Normally people call me ‘love’.)

“I’m interviewing Bill Bryson at 12,” I said. “Can you get me there for then?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, and pressed his foot on the gas.

14 minutes later we arrived at the hotel, I shot up in the lift to the top floor, hurtled out of the lift and told the maitre d’ who I was meeting. “He isn’t here,” he said helpfully.

I stared at him, muttering silent expletives and looked around. No Bill. Or no one that looked like Bill, but then I’d never met him before. What did he look like in the flesh? I was just pulling my phone out to ring Polly from Transworld, when she and Bill stepped out of the lift. Phew….

From then on it was fine. He’s a lovely man to interview – very self effacing and ironic. Taller than I expected, and quieter. The sort of voice you could listen to a lot. Very intelligent in an interesting way. Of course we all know about his sense of humour. And he came out with some great one liners – such as, “I wouldn’t like to talk to me!”

All too soon it was over and we said our goodbyes. I hurried into the Ladies and sampled their posh hand cream, made use of their mouthwash (?!) and relished a glimpse of How the Other Half Live. Aren’t I lucky, I thought, to do this for a job. (Not so much fun at the moment as most freelancers I know, including myself, are having rather a Lean Time, but still.)

It was good to go to London, it was a privilege to meet Bill, and apart from a hellish train journey back home, last week was good for me.

Those are the sort of interviews I love doing. Need to try and rustle up a few more….

Singing, rejections and Bill Bryson

2011-05-31T09:56:00.001+01:00

Singing plays an enjoyably large part in my life at the moment. We have several big gigs over the next few weeks, the first being last Saturday where our three choirs took it in turns to sing in the courtyard at Trelissick Gardens near Truro. In between Seamus played the accordion, there was a bar and if the weather had been a little warmer you might have felt you’d wandered into some Mediterranean walled garden.

Then at 9.30pm we all (audience included) set off down the narrow winding road to the King Harry Ferry which takes cars over to the Roseland. When the last cars were off, all 100 of us singers piled onto the ferry, followed by audience with blankets, hats, thermos flasks and all manner of warm stuff.

Then we all sang as one choir. It was just amazing, singing into the still of a May night while the water lapped around us. The inky darkness was soft and welcoming, carrying our voices with care. If it was half as good to hear, as it was to sing, that can only be a wondrous thing.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget that night. 100 singers together is quite something, but on a ferry in the middle of the river made it just magical and everyone sat, transfixed. The evening cast fairy dust over all of us and really did make me believe that in Cornwall, just about anything is possible.

Back to normal and I am trying to get an agent for my memoir of Pip and another walks book. Three rejections but all such encouraging ones about my work - and all saying that publishing is so difficult right now….

This week, on a completely different tack, I am off to interview Bill Bryson in London. That sounds so blasé but in fact I’m still pinching myself over this one.

“What are you going to wear?” cried my mother last night over the phone. “And what about your feet?” – she is clearly concerned that, at the age of 53, her daughter is unable to dress suitably for interviewing such an Important Author.

One advantage in having a small wardrobe is that there is little choice, so I had the clothes bit sorted some time ago. I am more concerned with having spare batteries for my tape recorder, making sure I have my questions and notes. (I sorted the clothes bit long ago) and getting the publicity lady’s mobile number in case my train’s delayed.

I know I will be extremely nervous beforehand, but it’s good to have nerves. It ensures that you do the job properly. But I am really looking forward to the interview. Someone who can write as magnificently as Bill Bryson does must just be a real pleasure to meet. So think of me on Thursday…..

Bristol visit, sweet peas and trees

2011-05-25T09:16:00.003+01:00

As I write, a bunch of sweet peas sit on my desk, their sweet scent drifting towards me making me think that summer is on the way. I wish....

My Bristol visit was wonderful. I despatched Molls round to my friend Sheila’s at 8.30 and Molls bounced in to greet her without a backward glance which, although somewhat galling for me, meant that I didn’t have to worry about her.

The trip by train meant leaving Falmouth at 9am and getting there at 2pm but it was a treat to have all that time to do nothing. I read, dozed, stared out of the window and ate my sarnies. Av met me at the station, and we walked to the theatre for the matinee of Matthew Bourne’s Cinderella which was the best ballet I have ever seen.

Being Matthew Bourne, his Cinderella was different. He based it on an old David Niven film of a fighter pilot who crashes his plane and narrowly escapes death. He is given a second chance at life – and love – through his (male) guardian angel and the woman he loves.

I am a real groupie of his, but this ballet was quite amazing: the costumes were carefully researched, the sets were simple yet deceptively complex and incredibly effective, the lighting atmospheric, the surround sound worked perfectly and swept us all away for the next two and a half hours. At the end of it, we stood and cheered, our hands were sore from clapping so much. We looked at each other with tears running down our cheeks and said, “I want to see it all over again!”

To cheer ourselves up, we met my lovely niece, Luce, and had a great time with her. She showed us around Bristol and we went for a few drinks, had something to eat and for some reason ended up telling her how Av and I met and our complicated love lives at the time. (This was on the second glass of wine.) Later we wandered around Bristol and then crashed into bed, though I tend not to sleep well away from home.

A 4am there were drunken shoutings in the corridor. I had been awake for a while and found it quite funny, but someone was bashing on his mate’s door trying to get in, to muffled responses of, “Shut up. Go away!”

Eventually Av rang down to reception, they sent security up and the police arrived, who arrested the fellow who appeared reluctant to accompany his new, sober buddies. “Listen mate,” I heard the cop say. “You’ve been thrown out of the hotel. Just come with us, will you?”

Some time later he was persuaded to go with them and all was quiet again.

On our way down to breakfast later, we mentioned our disturbance and by the time we’d eaten, they had refunded our accommodation costs. “Great!” I said. “That’s our next weekend!”

So next time you want a freebie in Bristol, arrange for some drunken friends to pay you a visit….

Spreading my Wings

2011-05-18T09:08:00.004+01:00

Living with someone who’s depressed, or ill is difficult. Obviously. If they’re ill AND depressed, it’s even more difficult, but you get on with it. Life goes on and you have to go with it. I hadn't realised just how much Pip's ill health had affected me for it had been going on for 5 years and he had been depressed for a long while before that.

Five months on, I feel I am beginning to emerge from my shell. I have met new people and am able to do so many more things without worrying about Pip or feeling guilty. Over the past few weeks I have stayed out till midnight, gone singing all morning or afternoon and am going to be interviewed on Radio Cornwall on Friday. As long as Mollie is OK (and I make sure she is), I have - to my amazement - had a wonderful time.

I have started a photography course with Pip’s camera. Unfortunately the tutor assumes you know a lot about digital cameras to start with, which I don’t, and I’m finding it difficult to catch up. It’s a huge challenge so I am going to ask a couple of people to help. A friend, who has lent me a whole lot of his photography books, suggested I ask to go out with a photographer and learn on the spot which is a great idea. Life is very busy right now with work and rehearsing for a big gig on the bank holiday weekend, but when that’s over I will do just that.

This weekend I am going up to Bristol to see Matthew Bourne's ballet Cinderella with my dear mate Av and my lovely niece Lucy who’s at university there. Molls is staying with my friend Sheila round the corner and while it’s her first time staying overnight without me, it will do us both good. She and Sheila adore each other and Sheila is wonderful with dogs so I have no worries on that score.

While of course I miss my Pip, he is everywhere around me when I need him and I know he always will be. But now I can see a life opening up. And while there are bound to be many more tough times ahead, it’s good to see the prospect of a life with possibilities. Pip would be delighted, I know.

Last weekend I went on a Bulgarian singing workshop in Marazion. Over 100 men and women sang with this incredible woman for over two hours. As a result I can now sing suggestive songs in Bulgarian. Or I could just be singing “can I have a cuppa”.

Men

2011-05-11T10:14:00.008+01:00

This is actually Titch, as often featured in Cornwall Today walks, but he is a bloke, after all....

This year has been one of constant surprises, but one of them is that I have noticed that men have a different attitude towards me now. It’s almost as if I’d been a shadow and now I’ve been fleshed out. I am a person – a woman - rather than just Pip’s wife.

I am very lucky in having made some good friends. Every Friday in Pip’s local is a group who get together to celebrate the weekend. I often join them, usually as the only woman there, and it’s fun to be with men. I like the banter and the way they include me and it does me good.

Some men like to look after me. Dear Joe upstairs took it upon himself to paint the garage and the door over Easter. He wouldn’t take any money so I bought him cans of Bass, which he loves. This week he has borrowed a pressure washer from the pub and hosed down all the outside areas, right down to my back yard, which was badly in need of doing. Again he wouldn’t take any money so I nipped down to our other local and stuck some money behind the bar for him. I feel saying thank you is so important but a gesture is always appreciated.

My dear brother in law is always at the other end of the phone and sorts out all kinds of problems, including my hoover, was there for me when I sold Pip’s boat, and is coming next week to look at one of the tenant’s windows.

One of the editors I work with asked how he could help. I said, "just carry on giving me work". But he has also written a fabulous endorsement of my work to send to agents for the memoir I'm writing.

Another friend put my new windscreen wipers on last week (something that had defeated several other people), fixed Pip’s penknife and makes me cups of tea. He’s easy company and we make each other laugh.

Richard helped me over Pip's Will, comes for walks and always sends me a text on Friday nights to say what time he will be in the aforementioned pub. He also has lent me history books that help with my CT walks and we sometimes go to gigs together.

There are other male friends, for which I’m extremely grateful, but one of the kindest things is that though everyone treats me with affection and fun – we might flirt a bit but nothing serious – they are all aware that I’m vulnerable.

Statistics show that widows who’ve been happily married tend to form relationships again relatively quickly – it makes sense that having had a happy relationship, you would want to repeat it. Many of my friends are convinced that someone special will come along before too long. (Though the man in question would, of course, have to love animals.) It’s a nice thought but at the moment it’s too soon.

If and when someone does, I know that Pip will smile and those blue eyes will twinkle. “Look after my Flowerpot," he will say.

Sofe the Loaf and That Wedding

2011-05-04T09:15:00.005+01:00

This is one of my neices, Sofe, on the Mall last Friday with - look who's behind her....

Well as a romantic and one who was married to one, I have to talk about The Wedding. I have to say I loved every minute of it, helped by the fact that I was with friends of a similar ilk. My dear brother in law came to fix my hoover that morning and we were having a coffee when Lyn rang. "Come on Flowerpot," she said, at 10.30. "I need you to get in the mood."

So I went over there, was handed a glass of pink fizz and a Union Jack stetson hat and we sat and scrutinised the dresses, the hats, the celebrities and Who Knew The Words to the hymns. And of course The Dress - or in this case, both sisters' dresses.

Lyn provided smoked salmon and cream cheese sarnies, then strawberries and cream and we wept through all the weepy bits and cheered at The Kiss(es) and I got a text from my little brother who was on the Mall, taking pictures and terribly excited. (See above picture of Sofe)

Later that day, I walked down to meet friends in the pub and the air was warm and a salt breeze blew on my face as I walked into town. Around me people laughed and joked, sat on pavements with their beers and glasses of wine. Everyone smiled. We were a nation united by pageantry, but a realisation that this is what we Do Best. What other nation could have put on such a spectacular show?

But most of all, we were a nation united by love.

Easter Bunnies

2011-04-27T09:10:00.003+01:00

I often think Molls looks rather like a cross between a rabbit and a sheep when she's in full flow - this is her on Maenporth beach a few weeks ago.

For someone who can’t eat chocolate, Easter is very much a non-event though this has never bothered me. So I was amazed to find myself the recipient of several unexpected gifts:

Joe painted the garage for me and is now painting the door as well, dear of him.
Richard turned up with several books with historical background for my latest walk;
Mel gave me a bunch of bluebells from her Dad's farm;
Andrea gave me two of the most beautiful geraniums I’ve ever seen with frilly leaves and stunning, dark pink flowers. Definitely the Prince Charming of geraniums;
Viv gave me several aquilegia – their purple and pink nodding heads smile at me every time I walk up the steps;
And Paul promised me a chicken from his farm.

The weather has been fabulous which always helps - I sold Pip's BlackBerry on Easter Monday which wasn't easy, but having good friends with me helped a lot. We then went for a walk around the Lanhydrock estate which turned into one of those How Many People Does It Take To Read A Map walks. Despite (very bad) written directions and Richard reading the map, on which I had highlighted the route – which looked very simple on paper – we spent an inordinate amount of time getting lost and asking other people.

It didn’t help that my camera battery was flat so I couldn’t take a single picture, when the bluebell woods were stunning, but everywhere was so beautiful that it’s stored on the hard drive in my head. At one point I was telling Richard about someone Viv and I had worked with. Evidently my storytelling skills are sublime, for the next minute his lunch box shot out of his hand and tumbled down the riverbank. Luckily he rescued it before it sailed downriver, but by this time we were all laughing so much none was capable of doing much.

We arrived back several hours later, with Lanhydrock house basking in the sunshine, and outside the Yew tree topiary stood proud like a chess set out of Alice in Wonderland.

It was a day I will never forget. For all the right reasons.

A Close Shave

2011-04-20T09:33:00.002+01:00

This is Restormel Castle, where Viv, Titch, Molls and I went for a wonderful walk on Sunday.

On Monday I got back around 6pm to find an answerphone message asking me to call the automated department of the Santander Fraud Prevention Scheme.

It’s a scam, I thought. Surely if it was real, they wouldn’t ask me to ring an automated service? But I rang one of my brothers, who’s into this sort of thing. He said, “Shall I ring it for you and find out?”

So he did and reported back that they weren’t asking for any bank account details. So I rang. Pressed the 1 of this and 2 for that to answer security questions. And then I was asked if I’d made a payment of nearly £2,000 to a stranger. Press 1 if you have, Press 2 if you haven’t and need to talk to an advisor.

I pressed 2 quicker than you can bet, and talked to someone who said they would freeze my online banking and make sure the money was back in my account within 48 hours. Could I run a virus scan on my computer and ring them back?

I did that, but talked to Niki, my brilliant computer man who snorted. “No point in running a scan on your computer,” he said (with a Russian accent). “You ‘ave no virus on your computer.” There was an intake of breath as he inhaled his ciggie. “These people are stupid,” he continued. “Nowadays they get caught straight away. Ees waste of time.”

Somewhat mollified, if not confused, I did run the scan, rang back the bank and held on. And on. Until an automated message said they would ring me back when an advisor was free. I went to bed.

Next morning, repeat of last paragraph, without going to bed. I put the phone down and at 10am got a phone call from the bank. No one had made notes on my account so the bloke didn’t know what had happened the day before. I told him about the virus scan, about bank account being blocked, and having rung but no one getting back to me.

“Oh, you need to ring another number,” he replied.

At this point, not having slept too well, I exploded. “My husband has died, I have already rung three times and I am not ringing any other numbers. YOU sort it out,” I cried.

There was an infinestimal pause and he said, “Of course, Mrs Jackson. Absolutely.”

At this point, for some reason, I burst into tears. Relief I think. “So I don’t need to do anything?”

“No, of course not. We’ll sort this out Mrs Jackson, and I do apologise.”

I don’t think he probably knew what he was apologising for by this time, but that didn’t matter – the problem was being sorted. And thank god Niki was right and the bank were alerted to this amount of money whistling out of my account in time. And, more to the point, will replace it.

So while that was a near miss, I’m very fortunate. Even better, my dear brother in law came round last night with a boot full of wood he’d chopped up for me. We spent half an hour unloading it and stacking it and then retired to the kitchen for a glass of wine or two.

You know me – give me wood and wine and I’m happy.

Time Travel and Walks book

2011-04-13T09:57:00.004+01:00

This is Rosemullion Head, taken last week in the glorious sunshine....

Last weekend Molls and I went up to Devon see one of my older brothers and my nieces, who are both at university and a joy to be with – intelligent, thoughtful and attractive young women. We don't often meet so it was wonderful to spend time with them and hear about their views on life, what they're doing and wearing. We placed bets on the National (no, won nothing) and went out to the pub for a meal.

Unfortunately I had several sudden and totally unexpected waves of missing Pip that knocked me off my feet. (At home it's more manageable somehow as I don't have to worry about other people.) A resurgence several hours later erupted like a volcano – just after we'd finished eating in the pub – and I shot off into the dusk with poor Molls for a howl and a Long Walk. (It's not always advisable to let family witness what you're really going through, particularly younger members.)

Next morning, I checked myself over gingerly. I was scarred and scraped, bruised and battered but alive. My sense of myself bubbled up to the surface and I smiled at the warm spring sunshine. Outside I could hear the tap tap of a woodpecker, the whinnying of a horse. A dog barking.

Around me life was going on as normal. My family were happily dozing in different rooms, Molls snoring on my bed. All was well. I had been gone for how long? Weeks or months – days or minutes – seconds or a lifetime? It didn't matter. I was back.

And that's enough of the difficult stuff. I have two bits of good news: the first is that, having got Pip's new camera out and practising with it (see above) I'm loving it and have booked myself on a photography course starting in a few weeks time.

The other thing is that, having had several disappointments on the work front this week, I have signed a publishing contract with Sigma Press for a walks book. I'm delighted to be working with them, and look forward to its publication next year.

Unexpectedly Happy Days

2011-04-03T10:33:00.004+01:00

I had the most amazing week – Regent Cottage is lovely with a wonderful secret garden, and going somewhere on our own (me and molls) with no former associations was just what I needed. I felt happy and secure there and fine on my own – in fact relished the time I had to myself.

I missed Pip, of course: we had been to Penzance on many occasions, but it felt fine to be there without him. Partly what made the week so good, I realised, was that I wasn't constantly worrying about him. Whether his cough was bad, was he OK on his own, should I hurry back to be with him. Did he want to go for a drink, had he got a video to watch, enough to read etc. Was he feeling down, was he too tired? What did I need to do? Going away made me realise how much of a strain the whole of the last year was - not just the last few months.

For once all I had to do was look after myself and that made life so much easier. Freer. I bumped into all sorts of people I knew – all to do with writing – including Peter, who's organising the Penzance Literary Festival which he's asked me to take part in again. I met another journalist who belongs to the same journo forum as me. I visited the wonderful Book Cafe in St Just and got talking to more writerly, book loving types who were fascinated to hear that I write walks.

Viv and Titch came and we did three wonderful and very long walks, getting lost along the way. At one point we met this red haired sprightly fellow who was also pounding the coastal footpath – we'd bumped into him the previous day but he seemed to have shed his girlfriend and gained two walking sticks.

“How come he's so sprightly?” said Viv as he whizzed up and down the granite strewn path.

“He doesn't have two dogs, three guide books, a map, a tape recorder and a camera,” I muttered. As Viv has just had a Significant Birthday, I didn't add that he was also 30 years younger.....

So the week was productive, exhausting and fun. Coming home was tricky, suddenly hit by an avalanche of emotions that crashed over me like the waves at Land's End. And since then I am beset by sudden plunges of grief that hurtle me down like a tombstoner. But that's bound to happen. I take a deep breath and swim underwater. Go with it, don't fight it. It passes and I reach dry land again.

When I went to pick up Bussie from the vets they said, “You can't have him back! We love him!”

Needless to say, His Lordship has been horribly spoilt but has become very affectionate and has taken to sleeping on the bed as well as Mollie. So there I am squashed somewhere in the middle: a Flowerpot Sandwich. I was wondering about getting a smaller bed now, but have decided it's just as well we have a King Size bed......

Cheers!

2011-03-23T15:24:00.002Z

(This is Himself, Not Entirely Sober, which befits the ending of this post.)

There is better news this week, I'm glad to say, after The Week From Hell.

Poor Bussie (large black and white moggie, sole male resident of Flowerpot House) had to have a second operation to stitch him up following a bad cat fight. He's been in the vet hospital for a week now but hope he can come home soon although Molls and I are away in a few days – my dear brother in law will be looking after Bussie though. I am trying not to think about The Bill which has reached £200 and add on that another week of vet hospital fees plus food and flea stuff etc......

But I have two bits of good news: I have got a commission to interview Bill Bryson in June. And I have just been to have a meeting about a possible project with Cornwall & Devon Media.

The third thing is that Molls and I are going on holiday on Saturday. While I know I need the break, I am a little apprehensive about how I will manage. Here, at home, Pip is all around me. Where will he be in Penzance?

But I have deliberately chosen a cottage we've never been to before and it sounds ideal. It has a garden, parking for two cars and is close to the sea front. Near the pub where we went last time we stayed there. It is round the corner from a friend of mine and from our dear cousins.

So I have a support network in Penzance which is good to know, and a very good friend is coming to stay, as is my mum for a few nights.

And I do have this very strong feeling that Pip is with me. It's nothing as clear cut as walking along beside me, but he is around – on the outskirts of my emotionally peripheral vision. I can neither see him nor touch him but he is definitely there. A friend who came to stay the other weekend commented on it, unprovoked, so it's not just me.

Life is full of Firsts right now - the first time I do things without him. Now it's going on holiday. Bill Bryson. First trip to London in years.

So Molls and I will go to Penzance and Pip will come with us. He will even come walking, which he would never do normally. But I think I will take a photo of him with me just in case.

A few (good) things are happening, and as Helen Keller said, “When one door of happiness closes, another opens: but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us.”

I can hear Pip rejoicing at my good news. “Come on Flowerpot,” he will say opening a bottle. “Push the boat out!”

This rollercoaster called Life

2011-03-17T08:27:00.004Z

Three months on – how have I managed that long without him? Though in fact it's six months since Pip was here and we had what passed for a 'normal' life.

But life goes on. I get good days and bad days. Tears are never far from the surface. On good days they recede, like a low spring tide. As I write, they spring to my eyes like leaks and dribble down my cheeks – just as well I don't often wear make up. And yet people say I'm brave, have courage. What does that mean? All I do is get up every morning, though sometimes that is a feat in itself.

Just when I think I am used to him not being here, I get a bad run of Life which makes me acutely aware of my vulnerability – on these days I feel as if I have shed several vital layers of skin. I am aware that I see the world differently. I feel it in another way, but I'm bound to.

This week has been One of Those Weeks. A promised commission from a glossy mag fell through – the editor changed her mind. My youngest brother sent a picture of me and Pip outside a pub in the sunshine last year looking so happy – so unaware of the future. Then my computer got a virus and I couldn't find anyone to fix it for days. And now, just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, Bussie has come in with blood pouring off his haunches – a cat fight I suspect - so I am just about to take him to the emergency vet.

But I am also aware of the good things in life. A beautiful day with a pale promise of sun. The unexpected kindness and thoughtfulness of another new friend who makes me laugh and only lives round the corner. "Come in for a cuppa," cries Colin, and his huge beam can't help but make me smile and lifts my spirits. A commission – for work is normal and I badly need that.

My computer is now fixed by a lovely fellow who patiently stayed for hours running scans, told me what to do in future and charged me very little. I have sold Pip's boat to a lovely couple and I know Pip would approve. And always there is my Molls, who patters alongside me and sleeps, glued to my hip. (Right now she is dozing on the bed behind me after a long walk.) For that I am most thankful of all, for she provides me with the love that I need to get through each day.

Last weekend I was privileged to meet a very enterprising man who runs The Chicken Hotel. He has a maths degree, did Finance in the city, became a cabinet maker, got made redundant and retrained as a maths teacher, and now he combines that with his Chicken Hotel. His mind is just like Pip's – inventive, imaginative, flexible and a great sense of humour. Meeting him, and those lovely chickens, was a real tonic. So you see? There's often something unexpected round the corner.....

And just when I had another of Those Days – my dear brother in law rang to say he'd chopped up six bags of the wood I'd collected. Some women like chocolate. Some like bags, some shoes.

Give me some wood for the fire and I'm a happy bunny.

Stylish Blogger Award

2011-03-09T11:29:00.005Z

Debs has kindly nominated me for this award, and in return I have to tell you 7 things about me. Well the ones that are printable are minimal so after a lot of thought, here they are, in no particular order.

1. Despite years of depression when I was younger, I am by nature a fairly cheerful person.

2. I have Raynaud's disease so when I'm cold my fingers and toes turn an attractive purple colour. When they get chilblains, they swell up and look like undercooked sausages. So attractive, though they're not as bad as they used to be when I smoked.

3. It was my birthday last week and despite the circumstances, I had one of the best birthdays for a long time. Sunshine and friends did a fabulous job. The downside was that I had my first hangover in I can't remember how long...

4. This flat has a name plate outside saying Flowerpot House.

5. I envy those who believe in an after life. It sounds such a comforting idea. But given what I've seen of life so far, I think that's far too simple. However, I do believe that those you love never leave you.

6. I am hopeless at exams. I have avoided them ever since school.

7. I have few regrets – I don't think they help in life. But I do wish when I was younger, that someone had said, “You must sing. Write. Dance.” That would have saved a lot of years of angst. Still, on the bright side, I can appreciate it all the more now.

And as you are such a discerning lot, the first seven people to make comments are entitled to this award. Go for it!

Who am I?

2011-03-02T10:36:00.002Z

Last weekend was supposed to be a relaxing one – taking the train up to Devon to see my mum for the first time in six months. So my dear brother in law, Pete, dropped me off at the station on Friday afternoon and offered to see me off. “Don't worry, Pete,” I said, giving him a hug. “We'll be fine.” And Molls and I set off to check the train and get a ticket.

It wasn't until I was standing in the queue for tickets that I thought – where's my bag? My stomach plummeted and I checked – got Molls, got my holdall and my wellies – but no bag.

I shot out of the ticket hall, ran outside, heart thumping, to see if Pete had gone. The February drizzle dowsed the afternoon but there was no sign of Pete's grey Fiesta. I walked back with a sense of utter disbelief. I stood there shaking, and realised I had no money, no phone and no keys. Nothing. No form of identification (though this didn't hit me until later). It was too far to walk home (12 miles) and I had no wherewithal to get a train or bus back.

But I have great faith in Pete, was convinced he'd see my bag lying on the back seat of his car. He'd swear, under his breath, and turn round and bring it straight back. So I thought. I knew I'd be OK – I just wasn't sure how.

As it happened, Pete didn't notice my bag until 8pm that night – this was 2.30pm. But after various phone calls from borrowed mobiles, a dear friend roared down to the station, paid for my ticket and gave me some cash for a cup of tea, and Molls and I got the 3.30 train. Dear Nancy also rang my mum to tell her what had happened and that I'd be on a different train, and left a message on Pete's answerphone.

Once on the train, I relaxed – though I could hear Pip saying, “have a brandy Pop.” If there had been any form of refreshment, I would have grabbed it, but typically there was nothing – not even one of those little trolleys. However, someone had left a half empty can of fizzy orange so I downed that.

In the middle of that night I awoke feeling very unsettled. The next day the feeling of dislocation continued and I realised that losing your identity is a very scary thing. I was no-one and nothing.

Although I don't use my mobile much, it has a lot of numbers that I can ring if I need to. Without it, I had no recourse to many of my friends. My diary is full of reminders and work dates. Without that I'd be lost. My keys were in my bag too – so I couldn't even get into the flat even if I did get home. I had a bottle of water for me and Molls, biscuits for my low blood sugar (which was also plummeting) – also in my bag. I have my trusty notebook and pen for when I think of things that I have to remember – which is about every five minutes. Lastly, I have an envelope where Pip wrote, “I love you,” which is my talisman.

One thing's for sure – I will never, ever, leave my bag in the back of someone's car again.

But I was fortunate that I hadn't actually lost the bag, and that I had friends and my mum to lend me money. I was struck by the kindness of many people – one lady in particular who let me use her phone for countless calls. I will not forget her, and if ever there's a time when I can repay her kindness, I will do so.

Uplifting News

2011-02-22T09:52:00.003Z

First of all, I have some good news on the non-fiction front. I can't say what yet because I don't want to jinx anything, but it sounds promising – so keep your fingers crossed and I will update you when I can......

And moving on to the second piece of Uplifting News -

Tears take me by surprise, caused by the most innocuous of events – a piece of music, a chance comment – but I'm relieved to find that my sense of humour is still intact. Last weekend one of those free brochures fell out of the weekend papers, so I flicked through it while drinking my mug of tea.

“Repairs leaks instantly!” announced one product. Having discovered damp walls near the washing machine, I read on. Decided that for £12.99 I could get something half the price from Trago which would do the trick.

Then I looked down the page and read, “Stronger/larger erections.” I blinked. Thought scaffolding. (This was a DIY magazine, after all.) But no – this vacuum pump has “satisfied thousands of customers”. Apparently.

Now who, I wonder, would volunteer to give that information? And who would buy one of these pumps? Actually - having lived with someone with prostate cancer, I can think who - but in that instance, there are various things available on the NHS. But I digress...

It's not the sort of thing you give for Valentine's Day is it? Neither would a mother buy it for her son (I would imagine). Nor a father for his son. Etc. You can imagine the conversation - "I thought you needed a bit of help in this department, darling......" and the response that would get. So who are these supposed customers who have been satisfied?

Reading on, I learned that this product also comes supplied with an exercise programme and is available in three sizes....

When I finished crying (with laughter this time), I began to wonder who I could give one to. If you pardon the expression.

Happy Valentine

2011-02-16T10:10:00.004Z

Several years ago, Pip designed and made these swans as a love token necklace. For some reason they didn't sell too well – a shame as I think they're a lovely piece – but being the generous soul he was, he gave them away to our friends, and I wore mine whenever we went out.

I don't know what happened to my swans, and unfortunately, he was in the middle of hanging some more on chains when he got poorly, so I was left with none to wear and lots in bits. I didn't discover this until the morning of his service, which meant the air was black with fury and blue with misery as I cursed his generosity. “What about me, Pip?” I screeched, angry tears splashing down my face, blobbing my glasses (I'm a very messy crier).

As you might imagine, I was feeling somewhat Bah Humbug over Valentine's Day. I kept thinking Pip would send me a card – or something – though I hadn't quite worked out how, or what. But no cards arrived, not even a bill.

I closed my eyes to the endless messages on facebook, ignored the repeated emails read out on radio and TV and reminded myself that we never did anything on 14th February anyway. We bemoaned the commercialisation and decided that we didn't need a date in the diary to remind us how much we loved each other. But still....

On Sunday I was rummaging in a tray in the kitchen full of bits and bobs. I discovered his wallet that makes my heart lurch every time I see it. Old photos that I have to cover up. An ancient bottle of nail varnish. Then – buried at the bottom of this muddle I found one of the Swans, on a chain, nestling in a polybag.

Just in time for Valentine's.

The second thing happened on Monday itself as I was leaving the house to meet a friend. One of the builders from next door gave me a shout. “We've got some wood for you,” he said. “I'll chop it up so it can go in your woodburner. You'll have it later on today.”

It's now Wednesday and I still haven't got it, but the thought of that wood cheers me up no end.

So all in all, I had two lovely surprises for Valentine's. Thank you, darling.

Six weeks on

2011-02-09T11:43:00.002Z

This has nothing to do with today's post, but I felt like a bit of sea. This is Bedruthan Steps, taken on a walk last summer.

I have managed 6 weeks and 3 days so far and I think Pip would be – is – relieved. I have not starved, I have not drowned myself in wine nor a sea of self pity. I have continued to work (thank god for work), walk Molls, go to singing and meet friends.
I have started to collect my own wood.

My metabolism has changed. I am nearly always cold, and have chilblains on my little fingers. Contrary to what everyone thinks, I am eating hugely, as I'm constantly hungry. Don't ask me where all this food goes.

Some people ask me, nervously, if I'm all right. But often, if I'm not all right, I can't tell them, for at the first sign of my incipient tears, their eyes flicker like a startled horse and they start to cry themselves. So I end up consoling them.

Alternatively, there are those that rush to console me when I want to be left alone. These friends mean well, but sometimes I just need to deal with it by myself. Grief is difficult for all of us to manage.

I have discovered that sometimes, I really don't want to be with my nearest and dearest. Anyone over-emotional is a no-no. Whereas people I don't know well, or new friends, turn out to be just the right people to be with. It's an intuitive thing and one that the great writer Joan Didion has written about, to my relief. It's not just me! I thought, when I read her book, A Year Of Magical Thinking.

My friend Anne at the Farmers Market is a great source of comfort. Before Christmas, when Pip had just developed pneumonia, she said, “You'll be in my thoughts and prayers over Christmas.” Ignoring the growing queue at her veg stall, she declared, “I'm going to give you a Christmas hug,” and enveloped me in her cosy arms.

I met someone from singing at Anne's stall yesterday, and asked her if she was OK. She shook her head and tears sprang to her eyes. She told me what was the matter and we hugged each other, weeping over the polyanthus. We laughed, shakily, and compared notes on grief. We decided to go for a drink and cheer each other up. And we both went our ways with tears in our eyes and a smile on our faces.

Grief is a private matter, and not always meant for sharing. A close friend asked me how I felt, as she wanted to empathise. It varies from minute to minute, I said. Sometimes, when I think of the last three months, a great foot presses on my chest so I can't breathe. At others, I wonder if I've dreamt the last 14 years.

When I looked at Pip's watch the other day, my stomach plummeted, as if I was descending in a very fast lift. Walking Mollie the other day I felt as if my heart had slipped – and then I realised that this is exactly what it's done.

Yesterday, I saw light over the sea and my heart lifted. That's my Pip, I thought, out on the horizon, waving to me. Later I played football with Molls and I giggled like a child. On Friday we had a gig at the Poly in Falmouth and I stood on stage and sang my heart out, and I didn't miss Pip because he was right there with me, cheering us along.

Aaaagh.......

2011-02-02T11:19:00.001Z

I am writing this to Calm Down, having spent about an hour trying to sort out Claims.

The first concerns two payments from Paypal that were taken from Pip's bank account in January. Admittedly they were only of £7.81 but it's the principle that matters. It's taking so long to close his bank account (nearly 6 weeks so far) of red tape that I am about to explode. Now I have to ring Paypal and try and sort it out. You can see the fume coming out of my ears, can't you?

The second concerns an application for Bereavement Benefit that I completed over the phone 3 weeks ago but haven't heard anything about. (It used to be called a Widow's Pension. At least I think it did. I've got so confused now, I could hardly tell you my name, though I can tell you my National Insurance number as, in the last half hour, I have run 7 different numbers to do with the Job Centre, and had to recite it every time. Now, why would the Jobcentre handle Bereavement benefits? I have to say that stumps me.) It turns out there is no record of my claim, so they are having to send all the paper work once more.....

But on a lighter note, I was out with my friend Viv and her dog Titch the other day having a breather, sitting on a bench, when Titch bounced on Viv's lap. “I could marry you, Titch,” she said happily.

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I don't know what I'd do without Mollie.” I stroked her thoughtfully. “I suppose I could marry Mollie now.”

“Well, you could,” said the ever practical Viv. “But it'd have to be a civil partnership. And you couldn't wear a white dress.”

Since when has tradition ever stopped me? So watch out - I will be sending out invitations when I have allowed a decent interlude to elapse.

Versatile Blogger

2011-01-26T09:34:00.005Z

Many thanks to Debs Carr for this - now I have to list 7 things about myself and pass it on to 7 other people. As I have a deadline to hit, I will pass this on to the first 7 people to comment. A cop out but a necessary one I feel.

So - here are 7 things.

1. My real name is not the one I am called.

2. Both Pip and I have had a succession of nicknames in the past. Mine have included Rabbit, Kit Kat, Sex Kitten (don't ask) and of course Flowerpot and Pop.

3. I never knew I was a dog person until Molls came along. (Don't tell Bussie - I'm a cat person too.)

4. I don't think regrets are a good thing in life, but I do wish we'd had I'd started writing professionally earlier.

5. I also wish I'd discovered singing earlier, for these two things keep me sane at the moment.

6. I have recently acquired friends from all over - Sweden, Norway, Denmark, France, New Zealand and Australia. What does this say about me?

7. In my bag, in a plastic cover, is a torn envelope. The day before he died, Pip wrote, "I love you."

A Romantic Walk

2011-01-19T09:18:00.003Z

(The Pandora Inn, now famous as being Our Pub While Courting.)

This is the walk that is in the current copy (January) of Cornwall Today - quite by chance as I should have written another one. But this is all about my Pip so I was able to take it in on Christmas Day and show the nurses. Boy was he proud....

A ROMANTIC WALK from Mylor Quay along the creek to the Pandora Inn,
returning via Mylor Bridge

I met my husband, Pip, when he was living on an oyster fishing boat called White Heather, moored near the Pandora, so this thatched pub at Restronguet was our local – a very romantic place to do our courting.

To start the walk, take the A39 Falmouth-Penryn road and at Penryn, take the road signposted to Mylor and continue until you reach Mylor Bridge. At the first roundabout go straight over, then take the first sharp turning on the right, and drive down past the post office to park on Mylor Quay.

It was low tide when I did this walk with John and Annie, and bath time for a party of ducks, splashing and squawking as they dived into pools of water like over-excited children. As we walked along the road following public footpath signs to Greatwood and Restronguet, several swans glided past, looking down their noses at the riff-raff. Just past a circular mirror on the right, we took a footpath parallel to the creek and, being a boating man, John was fascinated by the selection of boats at Tregatreath boatyard opposite.

The path curved round to the left, by a concrete block wall, then we crossed a private road and took the footpath sign ahead on our right, through a squeaky gate which led to a large field. There are often cattle here – and bulls have been known – but thankfully there were none today and we crossed the field, weaved our way through a kind of metal kissing gate and found ourselves on the foreshore.

We turned sharp left along the path that follows the creek; this next bit can be extremely muddy and slippery. On the opposite side of the creek I pointed out the houses along Church Road – a selection of houses in varying shapes and sizes of grandeur. We walked past a ploughed field on our left, full of rich brown earth like chocolate fudge, and noted the very last of the blackberries, and branches coated in feathery fingers of lichen. “Is that pronounced liken or lichen?” I asked.
John and Annie voted for lichen, and whichever it is, it is supposedly a sign of pure air so we breathed that much deeper as we walked.

Passing through another kissing gate, a winding path led us down to an overgrown quarry and on the shore, a couple of tired old boats, lapping up the sun in their last resting place. The path continued round to the right and another five barred gate into another field, then through that, to another little inlet with yet more decaying boats and a carefully positioned swing hanging from a tree over the beach. Being a painter, Annie was cursing herself for not having brought her sketch book, but as the sun made an appearance, took photographs so she can paint them later.

Passing through another wooden kissing gate and a muddy quagmire, we crunched our way through autumn gold leaves and up into another field, following a path diagonally uphill past a massive oak tree with branches trailing like a dowager's dress, through which the creek sparkled like diamonds.

At the top of this hill was a dead tree, branches grasping their way skywards. The path now tumbled down the other side of the hill and as we looked out to sea, saw moorings, in lurid shades of pink and green, like gobstoppers perched on the foreshore. Passing through another wooden kissing gate, we continued along a path strewn with acorns until we reached Greatwood Quay, where we stood looking out at the waters of Carrick Roads, the Roseland Peninsula, and Mylor Harbour, where there used to be a naval dockyard. The remaining boats of the season were bobbing on the waves and the nearest of these belonged to BATS – Blind At Sea – who often sail on these waters.

Greatwood Quay is a listed building built in the 18th century, of vertically-set dry slatestone with dressed granite copings linked by iron staples. This beautifully built quay was a landing stage for Greatwood House, further along this path.

As we continued along the path, we counted five oyster fishing boats out in the Carrick Roads: because oysters breed in the summer, fishing is restricted to October until April only. The Cornish have dredged for oysters in this area of the river Fal for over a century, and some of the boats, built at local boatyards, date back as far as 1860. Ancient laws were put in place to protect the natural ecology of the riverbeds and oyster stocks, stating that oystermen fishing in the Port of Truro Oyster Fishery are banned from using engines. Only sail power and hand-pulled dredges are permitted, although boats are allowed to motor out to the oyster beds. This is the only oyster fishery in Europe, if not the world, where such traditional methods must be used, and watching a fisherman at work is a real art.

Pip has owned several of these splendid wooden boats (known as “working boats” locally), one of which we did our courting on. The year before we met, his brother took over their business to enable him to have a season oystering, fulfilling a lifelong ambition. “It was incredibly hard work,” he said. “I lost over 3 stone, but I learnt so much from the oyster fishermen, and I was lucky to have such an incredible experience.”

We continued along the path, uphill through the woods, and turned right, from where we could see Greatwood House, once a vast turreted mansion but now converted to flats with fabulous views out over the Carrick Roads. Further on was a row of small cottages, and the path continued past some old stables under renovation. There used to be several Shetland ponies that grazed here: it always amazed me that they could graze at such an angle.

Further on Gunnera leaves towered over us, like huge plants from a nightmare, but we crept past, my imagination working overtime, and continued until we reached Weir Beach, where Mollie loves chasing the swans. Until they hiss back. There is often a solitary heron here, and a black swan that became quite famous. Today we spotted a lone egret, curlews and a cormorant, perched on a buoy, drying his wings.

Leaving Weir Beach behind, we continued along the path until we reached the Pandora where Pip was waiting, drinks at the ready. After a brief interlude we climbed up Restronguet Hill, which is extremely steep and narrow. Towards the top where it flattened out, I pointed out a telegraph pole where, not long after we met, Pip stuck a notice there announcing, 'Pip loves Curls'.”
Gossip was rife among the local community, wondering who owned said curls.

We reached a crossroads shortly after this and headed down the hill, through Mylor Bridge. Being ravenous by the time we reached the foot of the hill, we paid a visit to the butcher, then turned left and arrived back on the quay. The tide was coming in fast as we sat on a bench, eased off our boots, and tucked into excellent home made pasties.

John pointed out some swans gliding serenely past. “That was a lovely walk - I really enjoyed seeing your old stamping ground.” He paused and looked at me. “Though I do think you should put a blue plaque on that telegraph pole.”

FACTBOX
OS Explorer 105 Falmouth & Mevagissey
Length: 1.5 -2 hours
Duration: 3 miles
Grading: easy going, though can be very muddy. The hill up from the Pandora is very steep.
Refreshments: Pandora Inn www.pandorainn.com 01326 3726768
Lemon Arms, Mylor Bridge 01326 373666
Various shops in Mylor Bridge

The next step

2011-01-12T11:48:00.004Z

On Monday I went shopping. My list read, “Veg, echinacea, ashes.” And so I went to collect my Pip and bring him home, a task I found very comforting. En route, I met a friend and her dog to go for a walk and she looked at the green box on the passenger seat. “It's Pip,” I explained.

“Oh fine,”she said, unfazed. “Shall I have him on my lap?”

As he had always fancied her, I had to smile....

Many of you have asked for an account of Pip's memorial service and while I do not wish this to be a blog about bereavement, this is obviously what occupies a large part of my time at the moment. So bear with me for a moment.

Grief is, like death, a strange, private business and we all do it differently. I have Wet Days when I howl and rage and weep at the fact that he is gone. At how quickly it all happened – though of course those last 3 months didn't seem quick. Sometimes I can't even bear to think of him, or look at any pictures, for the gut churning pain is too raw, too intense.

And then I get Dry Days, where my energies are higher and when I walk Molls on the beach in the morning, he is there beside me and that is a huge comfort. I come home and instead of an empty flat, his presence is all around me and I talk to him, hear him call, “Flowerpot!”

But yesterday - his memorial service - felt very unreal. I felt as if I was in a play, waiting for Pip to walk in and comment on the jazz band, or sit and take my hand as he always did. The jazz band were wonderful and when Ruth got up to sing, her voice melted the sternest of hearts.

John the Fish, the humanist celebrant who knew Pip, Pete and me, read my words out and those of others, my friend Nik gave a lovely funny talk about Pip, and my older brother and his wife gulped through a tribute. We started and finished with Pip's favourite songs and the shared love in the room was amazing, the room packed so that people were standing outside.

Afterwards, in the pub, the band continued playing and the party continued. I talked to as many as I could, went home to get Mollie and have a breather, and returned to the pub later. Then my youngest brother and I went home for more talks, wine and some grub.

It was a day of laughter and tears, of shared memories and a sense of disbelief. Now it's another rainy January, I put Ben on the train first thing and then had to take poor Molls to the vet where she is now having some glass removed from her paw. I'm to pick her up this afternoon (she said, trying not to think about what might happen under the anaesthetic).

Several widows (I dislike that melodramatic word) have warned me that now the service is over, I will feel terrible. Well, I haven't been feeling wonderful so far, but I guess we all react differently and if I hit the skids, then I do. What will be will be.

I'm embarking on the next chapter of my life – and who knows what will happen? I intend to write my way out of this and if I can help others who are suffering as well, all the better. The last few months have shown me what an incredible bunch of friends I have and I will need them all, I know. (SO does Molls – I hadn't realised how much we would both miss male company.)

But as Pip wrote in his last card, “I will always love you, Flowerpot,” and I will try and hold on to that to give me strength in the coming months.

Coincidences

2011-01-06T14:57:00.001Z

I don't intend to bang on about it, but I wanted to tell you about a series of very strange coincidences concerning my Pip's departure that seem to somehow fit together in a comforting jigsaw.

The first occurred when instead of the walk I was scheduled to write for Cornwall Today, I did another one nearer home. (With Pip being ill at home I had much less time.) The walk I wrote about was near the Pandora, and detailed how we met, where we did our courting. His exploits oystering. And how we fell in love. That was the one in print when he died – I'd taken it into hospital on Christmas Day and showed the nurses – boy was he proud.

The second coincidence was that one of the nurses on HDU had lived next door to us about 10 years ago. “I remember you!” she said, her eyes crinkling up in a smile. “Drinking red wine round your kitchen table!” The day before he died, we had a chat in the kitchen when I was looking for a plastic cup. I told her about Pip, how he wasn't expected to live long. It turned out she'd lost her 21 year old son to bowel cancer. He died 10 days after his wedding. “I can talk about it now,” she said, “but the most important thing to learn is to accept death. Don't try and pretend it hasn't happened.”

The third coincidence concerned Pip's love of jazz. He used to play the cornet in a jazz band and Louis Armstrong was his hero. Pip died at 3pm on Boxing Day, and at precisely that time, High Society was on TV. At the beginning of this legendary film, Louis Armstrong and other musicians are playing – so Louis played my Pip out of his life. How very fitting and how very delighted he would have been.

The fourth was that the editor of Cornwall Today, who is currently on maternity leave, sent me a message saying that her mother and partner were inspired by my walk and they all did it – guess when – on Boxing Day. “I thought of you and Pip as we walked,” she said.

The fifth was that the Registrar who registered his death has a relative who lives at the end of our street, whom she calls in to see every day. When she heard what I did, she asked what I wrote. I told her and said that I also write for Cornwall Today. “Really? She said. “My copy's just arrived this morning. There's a piece on a milliner called Holly.”
“I wrote that,” I said.
“Oh!” She laughed. “There's also a walk around Mylor I want to read – my husband drove the ferry there in the summer.”
“I wrote that walk too,” I said and pointed to the death certificate. “It's all about him.”

If you put that in a novel no one would believe you.

Goodbye My Darling

2010-12-29T14:46:00.004Z

(Picture taken by our friend Claire Wilson last year.)

JONATHAN RODDA JACKSON
2.11.40 - 26.12.10

On Boxing Day my lovely Pip died. It sounds such a cliche to say that he fought for his life, but he really did, and was so brave and so funny at a time when most people would have given up long ago. And he never ever forgot to say, "I love you, Pop".

Deathbed scenes such as those written about or filmed may happen but in my Pip's case, he elected to die alone. He wanted to protect me, as he always has. Being me, I said nonsense (to the nurse, not wanting to distress him), and waited until he was further along the line before I crept in and held his hand. There were no vows of eternal love, no gazing fondly into each other's eyes, but silence as his breathing slowed. Every now and again he gave a sigh, then carried on, just as he did when asleep. I kept waiting for him to open his eyes and say, “Pop? What are you doing? I told you to go home.”

The minutes ticked past, and I looked at his watch. The curtains around his bed were dotted with gaudy flowers, and I started counting them. I kissed his hand, wishing it to respond to mine. My dear brother in law, sitting awkwardly behind me, stroked my back. Outside the curtains the nurses were trying to track down another nurse who hadn't turned up for her shift, were trying to find her number. “I've got it, it's under Bet Mob!” came a triumphant cry.

And finally, my Pip stopped breathing. I expected to feel some momentous wave of grief, to sob loudly and noisily, as I have been doing for the past week. Instead there was a sense of shock, of disbelief. For the man lying there looked nothing like the vibrant husband that I love so much.

We collected his things; I took his wedding ring and his watch. The nurses provided us with a booklet entitled What to do following a bereavement, and my brother in law and I staggered disbelievingly down the now-familiar overheated corridors out into the grey gloom of a quiet Boxing Day.

As we walked back to the car, Pete put his arm around me, I snuck mine round his. Awkwardly, for there is a considerable distance in height, we walked back to the car, sharing stories of a very special man. “You gave him an inner contentment that he'd never had before,” said the generous Pete. “You've made such a difference to the family.”

My Pip gave me love in abundance, confidence, pride and a sense of right and wrong. He was unfailingly generous, courteous and incredibly brave. His wicked sense of humour, his ability to charm any woman alive, and his quick thinking will be remembered by all, and that is one of the things that I shall hold onto on those days when everything is too much.

I feel privileged to have loved, and be loved by, such a very special man.

Survival Plan

2010-12-22T09:43:00.002Z

Dogs know when something's up, they really do, and little Molls often sits in the window looking out - for her dad? Yesterday a friend volunteered to look after her whenever I want if I'm going to be out for a long hospital run, so I took Molls round to meet her. You know people who love animals and Sheila adores them, cuddled Molls and I know that she would be much happier there having a cuddle with Sheila on the sofa in front of the fire than sitting in the cold at home while I'm out.

I am constructing a Survival Plan for Christmas which I have been dreading but everyone has been so kind and supportive that I feel a bit better about it now. The current plan is that my brother in law and I will go in and spend time with Himself on Christmas Day itself and he was very pleased about that, as am I. Then after I've walked Molls, my dear mate round the corner has invited me round there to eat with her daughter and grandchildren – and to bring Molls – so that will be lovely for us.
In the following days I am hoping to do a walk for the magazine (weather permitting) and see various friends.

This is such a strange situation – I have to take one day at a time and keep strong and positive for both of us. He is so incredibly brave and funny that I wonder how he has kept so positive for so long. The nurses and doctors all appreciate how special he is which makes a big difference, too.

So wherever you are, and whatever you do this Christmas, I hope there are moments of happiness.

Carn Euny - a muddy walk in West Penwith

2010-12-15T09:26:00.003Z

This is a fogou (see below) - it seems amazing to think that Viv and I did this walk when it was warm and sunny - aah those days...

A friend of mine sadly died last year and asked that his ashes be scattered at Chapel Carn Brea, adding, “but if it's raining, don't get out of the car.”

Carn Euny is well known for its large underground passageway or fogou (Cornish for cave) which was possibly used for storage, living or ritual. Just below the sign to the fogou is a dark little lane leading off to the right: we walked round the back of a cottage on our left and continued until we reached a fork where a barn was being rebuilt. We turned right here, then immediately left, where we met a bunch of serious walkers clutching maps. “It's extremely muddy,” they said, looking at my sandals and Viv's trainers.

“We don't mind,” I said cheerfully, eyeing their sensible walking boots, caked in mud. Minutes later, wading through ankle deep mire, I began to wish I'd worn my boots. Behind me, Viv squelched and skidded along the narrow lane, muttering. The nettles were vicious too – I'd never been stung through jeans before.

Looming ahead was Carn Euny Well – there are two, apparently, though we only found one, and slightly eerie it was. Hung from the trees nearby were festooned all kinds of 'cloutie' – strips of rag, a key, a scarf, the letter Z and a teddy bear. Legend has it that if you wish to be healed by St. Euny's Well, “you must come and wash upon the three first Wednesdays in May”. Another method of healing is to tie something that had been in contact with the affected part to a tree: as the rag rots, the illness should pass away.

“Look here's a candle,” said Viv. “Oh – it's black. Do you think my fingers will drop off?” To be on the safe side, she decided to wash her evil fingers, but “it's Monday – it's probably bad luck,” I said. “And you might fall in.”

Disturbed by her new-found superstition, Viv heaved herself out of the well and we followed the footpath round to the left towards Tredinney Common. “I have to say, this walk is very interesting, but very inadvisable,” Viv said. “I can't believe how un-muddy you are. Were you a goat in a former life?”

Soon we reached the end of the track, crossed a road and turned right then immediately left where we walked through a car park to see Chapel Carn Brea which is the most westerly hill in Britain and where a beacon is lit every Midsummer's eve. The hill is 657 feet above sea level and looking out to the horizon we counted three layers of blue, where it met the skyline.

Climbing a dry path to the summit we gasped, looking out at distant waves breaking off Longships, then further round to Stone's Reef. St Just lay to the north, Sennen and Lands End to the west, and Mounts Bay to the southeast. Land's End Aerodrome was nearby, distinguished by a red wind sock and tiny planes that buzzed above us like friendly bees.

We were going to be adventurous and try a different route back but Viv wanted to be back before dusk, so we retraced our steps. All too soon, it seemed, we arrived back at Carn Euny and looked back, over the moorland and fields.

You can almost feel how very ancient the land is here: rugged and largely untouched by human hands. The only buildings visible were farmhouses, barns and a church tower on the skyline, their exposed granite walls weathered from endless Cornish winters. So many of us spend our lives rushing around, while here the world stays still. Here, you can think and breathe.

Is that a lemur by the fire?

2010-12-08T11:16:00.005Z

I was looking at our pictures of Fowey from March this year, and this is one of my favourites taken on the Hall Walk - this is of a boat at Pont Creek. Take a deep breath and let go of those worries. That's better...

I finally got to the Porfell Wildlife Park and Sanctuary yesterday with my mate Viv, and what a beautiful (if freezing) day we had. Arriving, we were shepherded into the farmhouse and found ourselves in a room crammed with photos on the walls (rather like Flowerpot's flat). At the far end of the room was a large cage with a white cockatoo standing on top. Nearer, two elderly black labs reclined on the sofa, giving us a rousing welcome. A black and white cat was curled up on one of the chairs, and then - I blinked - warming his hands (paws?) in front of the woodburner was a lemur.

For animal lovers like myself and Viv this was sheer heaven. John and Joy Palmer, who run the sanctuary are two of the most generous, intelligent and warm people you could ever meet, and seeing round the park later I was amazed at the huge selection of rescue animals in huge enclosures, so they all have plenty of room to run around, and are evidently extremely happy. If ever you're near Liskeard, do take a look, it is more than worth your while.

I did a hospital run on the way home, as Viv lives very nearby and was able to look after Molls while I popped in to see Himself. Seems he won't be out for another few weeks yet which is a shame, but at least he is being well looked after, even if he is longing to come home. His highlight today was managing half a Weetabix for breakfast. It's amazing how such a small thing can lighten a day.

But I was able to tell him about Porfell and hope to take him there next year. Meeting a couple like the Palmers and seeing the wonderful work they do with those animals can only enrich anyone's day.

More Upheavals - don't mention Snow...

2010-12-01T09:31:00.006Z

Well, I'm sorry to be a spoilsport but I am so sick of the word SNOW I could scream. But here in Falmouth we have had extremes of weather that I've never seen before all in one day. We woke to snow. Half an hour later, we had a huge thunderstorm with lightning flashing ahead. That calmed down and gale force winds blew up, with lashing rain.

A half hour reprieve, during which I dashed out with Molls and realised just how incredibly cold it was – got back and looked out of the window to see huge golf ball sized hailstones, followed by snow. All of which took place in the space of two hours.

While we've all been disrupted, I had to put off an interview with Porfell Wildlife and Animal Sanctuary which I have been trying to get to for some time. First time Himself was starting to be poorly, then they were going away and this time we were snowed in, so I am hoping to go next week – or at least before Christmas.

The couple that run it are now in their 70s and came to Cornwall in the 1970s with the idea of running their own smallholding. They arrived in an old minibus containing a pony, rabbits, budgies, two dogs, and a horsebox with their daughter and her pony. Joy followed in an old Triumph Herald with yet more animals including the cats.

Their dreams have multiplied, and now they aim to “provide a safe haven for elderly and problem exotic animals for the rest of their lives. The work of our sanctuary is recognised nationally by zoos, wildlife parks and other organisations.

Here at our animal sanctuary you will see groups of single sex animals, such as Ring-Tailed lemurs. Elderly animals like our dear old meerkats in retirement in a nice heated enclosure. You will see some who can breed, like the White lipped tamarins. Mother, Tammy had twins last year, they look as they have just drunk a large glass of milk, with milk still on there lips.

Not forgetting old favorites like zebra, capybara, owls, ocelot and lynx. All enjoy environments created to suit their individual needs. New to the park are Black lemurs – we have registered to become part of the E.E.P. European Endangered species programme; to help these very rare lemurs, ours are past their breeding prime at the age of 27 but are helping us to highlight the plight of the Black lemurs of Madagascar.”

They sound such an inspirational couple, I am longing to meet them. So hurry up weather and warm up so I can get there!

Best Made Plans

2010-11-24T09:42:00.001Z

Or is that best laid plans?

It's not often that I plan ahead, but there have been two events in November that I have been looking forward to for months.

The first was Matthew Bourne's new version of Cinderella. I am a huge fan of his and seen almost all his ballets as a) my mum is also a fan and treats me for birthday/Christmas and b) he premieres his shows in Plymouth which means I can get up there by train for the day.

The second event was seeing my oldest friend, Lin, who is over from Australia (where she has been living for some 30 years). I'd got the whole weekend organised – Friday interview in Callington on the way up, stay with my mum, ballet on Saturday, see friends on Sunday and Lin on Monday. And then Pip got poorly and that scuppered that.

Never mind, we'll go for Plan B, I thought, being a great believer in Plan B. So I did the interview by phone. Sadly I couldn't find anyone to look after Mollie for the day so I could go to the ballet, but in fact I got the most horrendous fluey cold and felt so ill that frankly getting out of bed was a major achievement, so I'm now hoping to see the ballet next year in Bristol.

As for Lin – she was hoping to drive down for lunch this week. But they've been roaring round and just got back from London, she needs to spend time with her family and she goes back on Friday so sadly it isn't going to be possible. And for once in my life I can't see a Plan B, let alone C. And it will be another couple of years before I see her again.

But the best news is that she is engaged. I haven't (obviously) met him but if he makes her happy – which he does, very much – and they love each other – which they evidently do – then that's good enough for me. And even if I can't be there for the wedding I shall be there in spirit. So here's to them – three cheers and may they have a long and happy marriage!

Update

2010-11-17T09:49:00.002Z

This picture has absolutely nothing to do with the post, but was taken after a walk in Penwith - I was convinced the cow was going to land up on top of the car!

Many thanks for all your kind thoughts and wishes which mean a great deal.
Himself is making progress but it's going to be a long old slog – they reckon he will be in hospital for probably another 4 weeks (though he insists it won't be that long).

It is heartening to see him improve, and fingers crossed that will continue apace. The care that he is receiving is wonderful: the nurses couldn't do more and the consultants have also been terrific. Hearing that 25,000 frontline jobs are to go in the government cuts makes my blood boil – those poor nurses are rushed off their feet as it is. And how can those jobs possibly go without affecting patient care? Stick a politician in A&E or the Medical Admissions Ward for a day or two and they'd soon revise that bright idea....

At first, living by myself, after 14 years, was one hell of a shock. I'm not used to cooking for starters as Himself took over that chore years ago. Luckily, seeing my increasingly baggy trousers, friends dropped round food parcels which kept me going until I remembered how to actually make a meal again. Oh, and eat it. My dear brother in law has checked the van over for me and brought me a huge bag of kindling as well as generally being there for me over practical matters which makes a huge difference. I seem to spend my whole time thanking people...

But I am adjusting to being sort-of-single – Mollie and work both enforces a morning routine and the afternoons are taken up with visiting Pip most days and walking Mollie. I see friends for dog walks or in the evenings if I have the time and energy but have found to my surprise that most evenings I am content curling up in front of the fire with Molls, a glass of wine and a good book or the telly. Who wants to go out in this weather?

BUT something terrible happened recently. Downton Abbey is no more. What on earth are we going to do on Sundays now?

Poorliness

2010-11-10T10:06:00.001Z

Poor Himself is currently ensconced in Treliske hospital, having become very poorly over the weekend. I feel very strange, as if I'm living in some parallel universe ruled by doctors and nurses speaking in a language I don't understand. My husband has seeped away, and is replaced by an old, frail man.

It's difficult to keep sane at the moment. But I know I must keep doing the things I always do – work and walking Mollie – and my friends have been so wonderful and supportive. Several have provided food so I don't have to cook (eating is difficult when your stomach is constantly lurching as if on a cross channel ferry) and sleep is a bit hard to come by.

But I know he's in the best place and just hope that he responds to his treatment very soon. Keep your fingers crossed.

Happy Birthday by Tottering

2010-11-02T10:01:00.002Z

My mum sent this card to Himself and comes from an amazing collection called, appropriately, Tottering. Give the reclining figure a beard and substitute the labrador for a scruffy Jack and you have a true indication of The Sick Bed.

Many thanks for all your good wishes. He is improving, albeit very slowly which is good news. I'm shattered but nothing that a bit of rest won't cure.

But it's a big day for Himself - a Big One. Rather too big for us to mention in fact.

He has managed to haul himself out of The Sick Bed and, weather permitting, we will go and have a drive somewhere in the sunshine – or that's the plan. Then a quiet night in with a DVD.

Reading this makes me laugh. His other 14 birthdays since I've known him have all been somewhat energetically enjoyed in the pub and then with more liquid refreshment at home. Every year he says he doesn't want to do anything, and every year I secretly phone a few friends and we agree to meet in the pub – just for an hour or so. And every year he thoroughly enjoys himself.

This year will be a more sober affair, as we're postponing celebrations until he feels better. But as a friend said in an email today, he has turned very chic. My husband has been called many things in his life but chic is not one of them. It came about like this.

He has decided, since the GP said that he could drink alcohol if he wanted, to try vermouth. (The antibiotics seem to have done something to his taste buds so he no longer enjoys wine, beer or coffee.) So for the last few nights, as his health improves, he's been sitting up in bed, with a glass of vermouth to hand.

So picture us on the eve of his birthday, settled on The Sick Bed. Himself and I lying in (or on my case on) the bed, Mollie sprawled luxuriously over the duvet, watching telly with a glass of vermouth to hand.

I should add that Himself has the glass of vermouth, not Mollie.

Cheers!

Ups and Downs

2010-10-27T12:18:00.000+01:00

Life continues to be full of ups and downs. On the upside, I had a fascinating interview behind the scenes at Truro Cathedral last week where I met the Head of Music there, three Head Choristers and one of the gap year choral scholars.

I felt very privileged indeed to talk to them all: they share a profound love of music that is very uplifting, and hearing the boys rehearse brought tears to my eyes. Even better, I have been offered tickets to the carol service at Christmas and will take my mum who is over the moon.

The down was that Himself, who'd been doing so much better, suddenly had a relapse and went down with another high fever. Luckily I got the emergency doc out on Sat morning and he gave more and stronger antibiotics – it's another lung infection. The poor patient is back in bed feeling incredibly weak and miserable but after another home visit yesterday, the doc said that the infection seems to have gone, so hopefully once he's finished the anitibiotics, he will start to feel much better.

He needs feeding up but has no appetite so Nurse Flowerpot is standing over the poor fellow saying,” Eat this!” I'm not quite that bad, but a dear friend who is a fabulous cook offered to cook whatever he wanted and bring it round (she knows my lack of vision in the culinary department). Himself smiled when I told him this and he said, “ooh, cottage pie catches my imagination,” so I put an order in for that. So thanks Izzy!

Her partner is also recovering from being very poorly, so we are both doing nursing duties. Himself's eyes lit up when he thought of Izzy in a nurse's uniform. Didn't do his heart much good but it sure as hell cheered him up.

Updates and paddleboards

2010-10-20T09:57:00.002+01:00

This was also taken in Lerryn - I couldn't resist it.

Many thanks for all your kind thoughts from last week. I am glad to report that, first and foremost, the patient is up and about again, albeit a bit weak and wobbly, but much recovered.

Secondly, following your comments and those of other friends, I've written a letter of complaint to said doc about his highly unhelpful comments. As a physician I have no truck with him – it's just when he opened his mouth that time, and unfortunately the two tend to go together.

I have the utmost respect and compassion for anyone who is a carer and/or has a sick partner or member of the family. I really don't know how they keep going, long term, except that I suppose you do if you have to. I only did two weeks of it but that was more than enough. That sick terror in the base of my stomach, the long dark nights of fear, wondering what was going to happen – or rather, when. Whereas now I feel as if I've come out of a long tunnel and seen sunlight at the other end.

On a lighter note, work has come up with some very varied jobs. This afternoon I'm off to Truro cathedral to interview the head chorister, one of the student choristers and one of the lay vicars. Then next week I am interviewing an author of historical thrillers, and on Friday off to see a wildlife animal sanctuary. It won't make me rich but it's so varied and love meeting so many different people. And animals are an even better bonus.

Lastly, I saw the most wonderful sight this morning. Imagine - the sun dazzling as it rose above the sea when I walked Molls on the beach, and silhouetted against the bright sun was a boy and his dog on a paddleboard.

(I'm kicking myself I didn't have the camera but I'm sure you can imagine in.)

Madder than Spit

2010-10-13T11:00:00.006+01:00

“In the back of my mind I'm thinking the cancer might have spread to your ribs,” the doctor said chattily, as if we were discussing the weather. “But I think it's more likely it's pleurisy.”

These comments came on a house visit on Monday, when I'd had about 2 hours sleep the night before, had to drive to Truro to do an interview, then raced home to be in time for the doctor. As you can imagine, his words didn't exactly provide the wisdom and comfort I had hoped and provoked a wonderful email from my sister in law entitled "Madder than Spit".

(The another picture above is of Lerryn, designed to calm all troubled thoughts, particularly Shelagh's.)

It's been a bit of a week for poor Himself who has suffered high fevers and then thought he'd broken a rib he was in such agony (this could be the pleurisy). But at least the antibiotics have kicked in and so have the heavy duty painkillers. When Himself woke up yesterday looking and sounding a bit better, I was so relieved I burst into tears over my toast. And last night I had the best night's sleep for a long while.

On the day that the Chilean miners were released, my husband decided he might get out of bed later. For someone who has never gone to bed when ill, a week in bed is quite something, but he's still too weak to do much more than doze. I think it could be another week in bed actually, but at least he looks much better and is no longer in pain so fingers crossed.

The last week has been hell, but has shown me several things. Firstly, how much my husband means to me. We don't actually have much in common but we do share a sense of humour and we have a steady companionship which means so much. In the dark hours of the night, when I thought this was the beginning of the end, it was the companionship that I realised I would miss the most.

Secondly, I have the most amazing friends. You know who you are so thank you so much for your love and support. It means the world.

Thirdly (the list could go on but I won't bore you), thank god for my job and for lovely Holly Young, milliner and great talent, who unwittingly kept me from turning into a weeping, terrified wreck on Monday because of our interview.

Lastly, I think we'd both forgotten what a lousy cook I am.

Lerryn, feverish husband and tumble dryers

2010-10-06T08:31:00.002+01:00

Another picture of Fowey - actually Lerryn - as requested by Ellee.

A week of not being at home much due to doing a magazine walk on Monday over at Penwith. A day of rare and glorious autumn sunshine and a very, very muddy walk. “I have to say, this walk is very interesting, but very inadvisable,” Viv said half way round. “I can't believe how un-muddy you are. Were you a goat in a former life?”

That excursion took most of the day as we had to pick up something in Truro on the way home, and today I was supposed to go up to the wilds of St Mabyn to interview an author for another magazine. Unfortunately poor Himself had a flu jab yesterday and has been running a high fever – freezing cold then boiling hot and shaking - since yesterday afternoon. Not much sleep had by yours truly so I will have to rearrange the interview or do it over the phone. I don't want to leave sick husband for 5 hours (which is what the round trip would take).

Talking of poor husband - while in Fowey I decided to do a wash and use their tumble dryer as there was nowhere to hang washing up. I've never used a tumble dryer before, so the drying process was somewhat hit and miss, and all the clothes came out with creases ironed in. Worse than that, Himself only owns two pairs of trousers and the ones I washed – and dried – have lost the will to live. They now hang, lifeless and permanently creased, like a tearful apology. Which I'm afraid he didn't get from me, bearing in mind that defence is the best form of attack.

However, he looked almost as sorry as the poor trousers, wearing them, so I towed him off to Asda and had to buy him another pair. These are Very Smart (his words) and he decided to wear them to the pub last Friday. The next day, he realised that he'd forgotten to give them their first airing.

“I was too tired,” he said when I asked him. “But I felt smart.”

Post Holiday Melt Down

2010-09-28T10:58:00.003+01:00

This is one of my favourite walks near Fowey - on the coastal footpath leading towards Gribben. Every time I do it my heart leaps.

I'd forgotten just how difficult it is to settle back into work after a good holiday. And it was fabulous. We had a great weekend with friends when we arrived, which included a trip in the blow up boat (named Inflated Ego) up to Golant, via Cannabis Creek.

Deb and I walked back, exploring Cannabis Creek on the way back – you could see why it was so named (when the Sawmills Studios were first in operation), and Himself did a wonderful job on the catering front.

Altogether we had fabulous weather, and a few days to ourselves, when we had a boat trip up the river to Lerryn, again in amazing weather. Molls and I did a new walk every day, walked miles and then on the Wednesday two more friends came for more walks and general hilarity.

As Himself's breathing isn't too good, hills are difficult (and Fowey is built on a very steep one). Luckily, he found he could walk into town then get the town bus back free courtesy of his bus pass, which gave him quite a thrill. He and John sloped off to the pub just like two schoolboys playing truant, and both were able to come back free on the bus, glowing with alcoholic naughtiness.

We left last Friday and it gave me a real wrench to drive off the Bodinnick Ferry and leave Fowey behind. God knows what I was in my past life but I certainly lived in Fowey.

And now it's back to work. It's chucking it down with rain and, having just transcribed an interview from the way home, I feel I need a lie down. But I have signed Himself up for a photography course and he has to go in today to meet the tutor. The reasoning behind this is that a) I hope he will enjoy it and give him an interest (he takes very good pictures already) and b) I don't have time to go, so he can pass his learnings on to me. DAMN - just had a phone call to say the government have cut the OAP discount so he won't be able to do it. What a shame.

So life returns to normal, whatever that is. Himself is painting the bathroom – for the third time in as many weeks – don't ask. I've told him that I am DEFINITELY having a shower tomorrow, come hell or high water. So don't come and see us till then.

Ralph McTell (2) and hols

2010-09-15T09:56:00.004+01:00

Mr FP took this picture at the weekend, sitting outside the Ferryboat at Helford. Now sadly not much of a pub but a lovely spot to sit and watch the world go by.
We're off to Fowey for a week shortly. Brother in law is house sitting the dear, fearsome Thug so he will be well tended to. And now back that interview....

Ralph McTell takes up a lot of room, not because he's tall and solid, but because he is full of the passion, the sensitivity and the ideas that flow into his music.

I particularly liked his description of waiting to go on stage at a gig. The lights go down, “and then you walk the longest walk in the world,” he said.

What impressed me about Ralph was his modesty, his quiet sense of humour, and the fact that he makes friends very easily – because he really cares about people. “My level of involvement with people is quite high – every concert I go to, I know so many of them by name and there's a lot of them,” he said.

Ralph's music appeals to so many people because he writes about things we can all relate to – loneliness being one. “If someone you love has gone out of your life, there will always be that gap there,” he said. “Loneliness is probably one of the biggest fears we have. It's hinted at in other songs but not so graphically or as simply as in Streets of London.”

We covered a lot of ground, from sharing notes on giving up smoking, to how the music business has changed since the '60s. But it was his philosophy on life that I liked. “Give people hope,” he said, “you've got to keep hope alive, Jesse Jackson said. Not retire into a cotton wool drug-induced stupor. Try and do the best you can. I think it's criminal to waste time when there are so many people that didn't have these opportunities.

Not to do things to the best of your ability is a waste of your time and probably those around you: those to whom you can have an affect upon. So do it the best you can. If you go at things half cock you can expect to fail, but if you fail when you've done your best then that's OK. It might sound Victorian but I think it's a worthwhile thing.”

What a good role model. Thanks, Ralph. And here's to his tour starting next month.

www.ralphmctell.co.uk

Affairs of the Heart - a 4 CD compilation of Ralph’s love songs with introduction by Rory McGrath
Somewhere Down the Road - pre-order from www.ralphmctell.co.uk
Ralph is performing at Hall for Cornwall on Wednesday 10th November 2010.

Ralph McTell and Cheesewring

2010-09-08T09:36:00.003+01:00

No, I know this doesn't look like Ralph McTell. This is the Cheesewring - see below.

I'm beginning to get that panicky feeling in my guts as I'm interviewing Ralph McTell on Friday. A few nerves are useful before an interview, I find: it means I'm not complacent (not a word in my vocabulary) and ensures that I've done all the research and preparation needed. Ralph is such a consummate musician, poet, song writer – and has been doing it for so long, I really admire him. Also he gave up smoking after 37 years – another point in his favour.

So the reason for my nerves is because I really want to do him justice. By all accounts, he is a lovely, friendly, sensitive man (as well as being hugely talented) with a family and a self deprecating sense of humour, so I'm sure it will be fine. But even so ...I only hope the poor man hasn't got interview tedium – I know he's been doing a lot over the past few weeks.

(Note to self. Do not drink cappuccino while doing interview. When I interviewed Patrick Gale, I rushed to the loo afterwards and noticed I had a chocolate moustache which must have been there throughout the entire interview. Not the kind of impression I really wanted to make.)

And now onto other things. The other week we did a walk for CT round the Cheesewring and the Hurlers on Bodmin Moor where we spent a lot of time getting lost.

Firstly, Viv's navigational skills were a bit off, so we spent a good half an hour driving round in circles before we found Minions village, where we parked. I'd read about a cave where a Mr Gumb (a mathematician and astrologer) lived with his wife and 13 children, but despite asking lots of people, who looked at us in utter comprehension, we couldn't find the cave, and arrived at the bottom of Stowe's Hill cave-less.

Then our directions told us about Rillaton Barrow, and for some reason Viv became fixated on finding it. We asked a couple who turned out to be German, but they hadn't heard of it, neither had anyone else we asked. As we neared the end of the walk, Viv became quite despondent. “I don't want to go to my death bed without having seen this Barrow,” she declared.

No sooner had she spoken, than we passed an old shed with a wheelbarrow sitting outside. “Look, there's my barrow!” she said, and walked on, somewhat mollified. When we finally made it back to the van, we collapsed and fortified ourselves with the last of the sarnies and a flask of tea that Viv had brought and sat in comfortable silence.

“It's a really nice walk,” said Viv thoughtfully, “- if you know where you're going.”

The Charmer

2010-09-01T09:30:00.001+01:00

Well here's a charmer...

With Tony Blair's autobiography out today, excerpts are splattered all over the papers and one political journalist on breakfast news had read an advance copy – over 700 pages of it – and confessed to TB having “used his usual charm” so that by the end of the book the journalist found he “almost liked” TB.

This got me thinking - what is charm and how is it manifested? Himself and I were discussing it while walking the Molls this morning and, of course, our views differed.

“It's to do with words,” said Himself.

I think he's right but I believe it goes further than that. I think that charm is the ability to make the other person/people believe they are important and special. Which of course is done with words – and actions. A well placed hand on the shoulder. A smile and a hug. Tears maybe. A sense of empathy.

And then comes the difference between CHARM and CHARMING. I think charm is a gift, whereas being charming is something that most of us can learn to a certain extent, though some are better at it than others (mentioning no names of course). For example, a salesman or politican has to persuade people to buy that TV or vote for them. They have to persuade people that they are right. That they know best. Is this learning how to be charming?

When I asked Himself who he could think of who had charm, he replied, without a sliver of hesitation. “Me.”

So who can you think of who has charm? Other than my husband, of course.

A Talk and Dad's Earrings

2010-08-25T09:23:00.005+01:00

Our Talk (on Becoming a Freelance Writer) went very well, I'm glad to say. The first 15 minutes were a bit hairy but I got over my nerves and felt a lot better, then actually enjoyed the second half which was a great bonus, and the audience seemed to have a good time too.

I think what made it work was that Fi and I are both unconventional in different ways, and we both work in completely different ways.

She's been to university and trained as a teaching assistant, as well as performing in public a lot so she's not fazed by an audience, and this made me feel a lot better – I knew she would be able to wing it if anything went wrong.

Whereas I have never been to university and apart from a short TV piece several years ago, the last public performance was in Falmouth Theatre's production of Oliver 5 years ago – which I don't think really counts for much as I was in the chorus...

With regard to interviews, Fi says she doesn't plan anything, but lets the interviewee talk as they want, then types up notes in long hand. Whereas I prepare questions, take notes and tape the interview as well - but the end results are the same which is what matters.

I also made notes for the talk – being my first time I knew my brain was likely to seize up without loads of prompts – whereas Fi just ad libbed. But having said that, she had done a very exact running order, down to the last minute, which made all the difference. So a big thank you to Fi for making it all possible.

My mum came, as did Pip and our Penzance cousins (thanks to all of you) and the night before, when Mum and I were having a glass of wine on the sofa, she pointed to her earrings: tiny pearls I don't remember having seen before.

“These were the last earrings your Dad gave me,” she said (though he died 26 years ago). “I thought he should be with us tomorrow for your talk.”

Thanks, Dad.

Family and Talks

2010-08-18T10:27:00.002+01:00

Picture taken with family last week over at Daymer Bay.

I get to see my brothers and their families once a year, usually, if that, so it's typical that they should both be down in Cornwall the same week – though sadly not together. So it's been great to catch up on everyone and hear the nephews and nieces' news.

It struck me – once again - how very different our lives are. I am very happy with ours, but very glad I don't have the financial stresses and strains that they do. Skint but happy is the rule that applies here, but I could see that our comparatively simple way of life baffles them. We don't have children, of course, which makes a big difference but much though I love my brothers, I did feel on a different planet most of the time. (I expect they did too.) Nurture versus Nature and all that....

Work has been suddenly busy which is good, and on Thursday another journalist, Fi Read and I are giving a talk on Becoming a Freelance Writer at the new Penzance Literary Festival. Whether we actually get an audience of more than 10 remains to be seen but I'm telling myself it's good practice. Though for what I'm not sure.

So think of us on Thursday morning – Fi's more experienced at public performance than I am and is very laid back about it. I am counting on her to rescue the day should I make a complete hash of it.....

Girly Weekend

2010-08-10T10:58:00.003+01:00

We had a fabulous girls weekend, from the moment we stood on Truro platform waiting for the train – Molls shaking somewhat, as it was only her 2nd train ride. But once she'd jumped aboard the train (like a true pro), she snorted up all available crumbs and settled down at my feet.

Av met us 2 hours later, then we had a great walk at the Water Meadows at Dartington, and sorted the first part of the world out. I cooked that night (roasted vegetables with cheese), washed down with plenty of Sauvignon. Bit of a wakeful night as Molls rushed to the door everytime anyone went to the loo, but all was well.

On Saturday afternoon we went up to Dartmoor and did a circular walk around Haytor, the quarry and Saddle Tor (see pictures above) and it couldn't have been better weather – sunny, breeze and the ground is just right: dry but not too hard. I shall remember that walk for a long time.

That night we called in to say Happy 60th to my friend Annie and had a glass of wine with all of them, then up to the pub for supper. After another long walk on Sunday morning, Molls and I got on the train and came back for a rest.

What a fab weekend – really makes you realise how important good friends are. Cheers, Av! Here's to the next one.

By and large, we are both very happy with our lives, but while we walked, we discussed what we would change if we could.

So that's today's question – if your fairy godmother waved her magic wand, what would would you change about your life?

A Girls Weekend, Japanese bloggers - and male authors

2010-08-03T15:08:00.005+01:00

This weekend Molls and I are heading off to have a Girls Weekend with my dear friend, Av, who lives in Dorset. (This is Molls on Av's bed last time we met.) Actually we're meeting in Devon which is halfway and hope to see a few of my friends there and also my mum.

Av and I met when we were both going through big life changes – I;d been made redundant, had washed up in Cornwall but couldn't find any work there, so went on to Devon, with a very small measure of confidence and self worth.

Av's marriage had just ended and she was having to work (other than running her ex-husband's business) for the first time in her life. So despite a 10 year age gap (she's a bit older than me) we clicked and have remained steadfast friends ever since.

While I love my husband dearly, it's good to have some time away from each other and taking Molls means we can have some even better walks while we're away. Molls was very taken with Av last time we met – so much so that I began to doubt whether she really wanted to come home with me at all. But as Av's husband is direly allergic to anything with fur, that rather put paid to any notions she (Molls) might have had about swapping mothers.

Secondly - Japanese bloggers. I welcome any (suitable) comments, but given that this blog is written in English, please, if you are going to comment, could you do so in English. If the comments are not suitable, please refrain.

And lastly - I've been doing some more author interviews recently and have been asked to think about male writers.

So today's question is – what male writers would you like to see interviewed?

Family

2010-07-28T11:40:00.004+01:00

We had an unexpectedly gorgeous day (I'm talking about the weather here) on Sunday and took a trip down to Gunwalloe Cove on the Lizard, one of my favourite places and also a dog friendly beach. Cornwall really looked at its best, and that night I had a phone call to say that my oldest brother and his family are coming down next month and could we meet up? Of course the answer was yes – I can't wait.

We haven't seen him and his family for two years now, owing to their hectic lives. My nieces are now grown up girls – one's in her second year at university and the other is about to leave school, and my nephew is in his early teens. A lot can happen in two years. I think back to when I was their age and life was so different – I am showing my age here – but I'm sad that we've missed out on so much of them growing up. This will probably be the last family holiday they have, so the chances of seeing them after this are even smaller.

I miss my brother and his wife too. When the kids were younger we saw each other a lot more and had some wonderful times. I remember crying with laughter over various things; a tickling match just before I got married; a sunny barbecue one evening; sitting in their kitchen while my sister in law made plans to Get Me Hitched; putting the girls to bed when they were little. Happy memories.

Out of school activities can be a great opportunity for children and I'm all in favour of trying things out – at any age. I never knew I had much creative talents until – well, until my 30s. I spent most of my teens and 20s in a creative black spot and it wasn't until I left London that I realised I could write. Realising I could sing came later, and I did wonder the other day what I might have done with my life had I realised all this stuff earlier.

So what I'm saying is – yes, let's give children the best chances we can. But don't forget your family.

Smells

2010-07-21T10:47:00.002+01:00

This fellow was taken in Fowey when we were there in March and, as we all know, has a quick eye for any bits of grub going.

One of my favourite cold weather lunches is something I had in the States years ago - tuna topped with grated cheese on toast (apparently this is called Tuna Melt). It's easy to assemble, pop in the microwave and hey presto. (I say microwave rather than grill because we don't have a grill on our oven. Or if we do, it doesn't work. Another on the list of jobs for Himself.)

That smell of hot, stringy cheese always takes me back to many years ago when, for some reason, we were all at an Italian eatery in South Kensington. I must have been about 11 or 12 and so my brothers would have been 9 and 6 or thereabouts. Why we were there I can't think, as we lived in a small seaside town in Devon at the time. But I digress.

Dad took us to this Italian place which was in itself a novelty. Devon boasted fish and chip shops but we only ever had those for a special treat – like if the fair was in. We never ate out, let alone at a place with people who spoke a funny language.

But I can still remember the smell of that hot, stringy cheese on top of my pizza. The underlying, exotic whiff of what was probably oregano and who knows what other herbs. I can almost feel my teeth sink into the lovely chewy crust as my tongue burnt with the heat from the cheese. Feel that squidgyness as the tomato hit the back of my mouth. And watch in amazement as, forkful after forkful, that mozarella stretched in splendid yellow cords, like a tasty spider's web.

I don't even like pizza now – I find it too stodgy – but the memory of my first one will stay with me forever and always makes my mouth water. And that got me thinking of how much we take our senses for granted. Dogs have a sense of smell apparently 40 times as strong as ours. No wonder they get excited whenever food appears.

So I thought I'd see what I can smell now. Here goes while I sniff.

The musty scent of my rooibosh tea cooling next to me.
A faint waft of Persil from my fingers – I've just hung the washing outside.
The unmistakeable smell of wet dog – Mollie still hasn't dried out from her walk earlier when the grass was wet with rain.

What can you smell?

Ups and Downs

2010-07-14T15:17:00.003+01:00

Life has been something of a rollercoaster recently, which has tested me severely. But as Himself said the other day, “Life is about how you deal with setbacks, not successes, Pop.” He's too right – but I've been floundering a bit recently which made me think I wasn't doing too well at this business called Life.

However, I now have some unexpected commissions which has boosted not only my confidence but my bank balance (or will when I'm paid), and my other novelist friends are back from their varying absences which means we can get our group working again and I can continue with the novel which does the soul good.

On Saturday we had the launch of The Suitcase Singers at nearby Miss Peapods in Penryn, and I have to say it was a great evening. Himself propped up the bar and applauded loudly, other friends came to join him as we sang, and afterwards we had a party in the bar. I would have joined in the bopping only I have a poorly foot, so perched on my bar stool, knocked back a few glasses of wine and had a lovely night.

Himself and I have had the same songs on our brains as a result for the last 3 days.

On that front, the poor fellow isn't feeling too good. He's back on some aggressive treatment for the cancer and is coughing like a trooper. We're seeing the lung consultant in just over a week and hope to get some help for his poor lungs which are being punished on a daily basis. But throughout all this, he is reasonably patient (just the odd swearing when he has a coughing fit) and deals with his illnesses in a very measured manner. I don't know that I'd be quite so calm about it all, and suspect that inside he's roaring. I admire and respect him and just wish there was something I could do to help.

But rather than end this on a note of gloom, I'm writing this looking out on my tubs where the Californian poppies (such a wonderful deep rich yellow) are waving in the wind and being splashed by a sudden downpour. (I don't mind the rain with a poorly foot as I don't feel so bad about not being able to walk far.)

I spent yesterday afternoon interviewing some Kittows (distant relatives) and had a fascinating time with them. A friend has just given birth to her first baby and is understandably smitten (hormonal snuffle from Flowerpot here). I have singing again tomorrow, and an appointment with the physio for my foot next Monday. We're meeting our cousins in Penzance on Saturday and I will take Himself for a famous Jelbert's ice cream afterwards.

Life is full of good things if you know where to look.

The Making of a Writer

2010-07-07T09:39:00.003+01:00

(Molls demonstrating that the road to becoming a writer is a long one. This was taken at Bedruthan Steps last week.)

I've been asked to give a talk at the forthcoming Penzance Literary Festival. At first, the idea filled me with a mixture of excitement followed swiftly by extreme terror. Luckily I've managed to persuade another freelance journalists to do it with me, which is much less scary, so the title of our talk is to be Becoming a Freelance Writer.

So far so good. I sat down yesterday and looked at the muddle of notes and tried to make sense of them. I started thinking about what made me a writer, going back to when I was a child. I thought of all those years and years of diaries I wrote as a teenager, and up until my forties. (Page after page of mostly incredibly boring monologues.)

I remembered the boss that had tried to get me into the newsroom as a journalist over 20 years ago (they employed too many cheap Antipodeans so why train me?).

I realised it wasn't until I left London – and thereby stopped trying to have a Proper Job – that I started writing properly. It was as if all those words bubbled up to the surface and had time to breathe. From then on there was no stopping them.

Except for when I met Himself. I think that was such an overwhelming experience that there wasn't room for anything else. My whole life turned upside down, inside out and back to front. I didn't write – couldn't – for about two years. Then when I decided to pack in a very stressful job, up bubbled those words again.

Ten years on I am proud to call myself a freelance journalist. The book(s) aren't published – yet – but I'm still working on them. They are another goal, but no less important.

Watching Wimbledon last week, it struck me that writing is like playing professional tennis (though not nearly as well paid). It's very competitive, you have to love doing it, develop a thick skin yet be sensitive enough to do it well. You have to understand people, build up good relationships with them and remember that it never hurts to help others. You have to have your ears and eyes open, keep your wits about you and go for it. Continue to try and improve, and never, ever give up.

The other night we watched the DVD of the Sound of Music. This is a digitised version of the film with Julie Andrews giving a little talk before hand. She considered several reasons why the film is still so phenomenally successful. The two that I remember were faith and perseverance. And you need both of those to succeed as a writer.

Ten Things.....

2010-06-29T17:11:00.003+01:00

I've been tagged by Becky for 10 things about me.

Well, after much scratching of head, here they are:-

1. I've had numerous nicknames ranging including Chubby Cheeks (from my dear brothers), Kit Kat, Kitten, Kittoff to Flowerpot.

2. Husband also has lots of nicknames.

3. Both my parents are from good Cornish families but I was born in London.

4. I'm a late starter. I didn't decide what I wanted to do until I was 40.

5. I didn't marry till I was 41.

6. I sold my first short story when I was 33; my first article when I was 40.

7. My Dad was called John; one of my brothers is Jonathan and I married a Jonathan. Come to think of it, I've had several boyfriends called John along the years, as well.

8. If I get stressed or upset, I have trouble sleeping. And eating for that matter.

9. My father died when I was in my early 20s and my husband is old enough to be my father. Shrinks would LOVE that one.....

10. And last but not least, I am teaching Moll to swim. Actually, she can swim but she is actually coming swimming with me now. Go, girl!
(Picture of Molls taken by Claire Wilson)

Summer Solstice and on

2010-06-23T12:14:00.003+01:00

On Monday we decided to take advantage of this glorious weather and headed over to St Agnes to see the sun go down for the summer solstice. As you can see, it did us proud: this is two of my friends having a quiet moment, watching the last of the sun's rays disappear. It really was very special and I was glad that for once I had the camera.

On Sunday we had a picnic over at Polly Joke on the north coast, one of our favourite places, and had to get home in time to go and see Fisherman's Friends. On the way back, we passed a lonely young figure plodding along the road (no pavements) and stopped to give him a lift.

It turned out the poor fellow had been camping in Newquay, been for a swim that morning and had his phone and money stolen. Further more, he had just started working at a fish and chip shop and was supposed to be there by 12 noon – when we picked him up it was already nearly 2pm and of course he couldn't contact them as he'd had his phone taken.

We went home via Truro (not exactly on our way but we couldn't let the poor fellow be even later) and headed off to see Fisherman's Friends. A great gathering at the sea shanty festival and hundreds of people enjoying the good weather. We topped that off with a drink in the pub on the way home, and had a mighty fine day.

Yesterday I said goodbye to the editor of Cornwall Today going on maternity leave and met the new editor. Then Molls and I went down to Helford and I had my first swim of the year.

Bliss!

Happy anniversary

2010-06-16T17:37:00.002+01:00

A few weeks ago it was our anniversary, and our plans were rather disrupted by meeting up with some Australian cousins that afternoon. Himself bought himself and Rob a pint, and when that was finished, Rob (Aussie cousin) eyed my husband. “You drink port?” he said.

“Of course,” said Himself, as if he drank it regularly. (Last time was 4 years ago.)

Rob came back with two huge schooners of port, and having downed his, Himself looked quite rosy and declared he was going to drive home.

“No way,” I said grabbing the keys.

“I haven't had much,” he said. “Port's nothing – like snow off a ditch.”

I held onto the keys and ignored him. On the way home he said, “Let's go and have a meal out to celebrate, Pop.” Then he said, “I'll pay.” That's when I knew he wasn't sober.

To be honest I'm not that fussed because a) it's expensive b) we usually have disappointing food c) Himself is a very good cook and c) I don't actually like eating out much. I get nervous with those hovering waiters and never know what to choose. But I knew he wanted to go, and was touched that he'd asked.

“That would be nice,” I said. And then came the problem of trying to decide where to go. We decided against our local pub, so I suggested the bar at the marina.

“No,” he said, “they've gone all modern with those square potatoes.” (Small pause while I choked with laughter at the idea of those poor spuds.) “I don't like food that's been F***ed around with, Pop.”

And that rather set the tone for the evening. We did go out in the end, but the wine was like vinegar, the portions were far too big which we both found offputting, and sitting opposite us were two of the hugest women I have ever seen (25 stone plus at a guess), eating their way through platefuls and platefuls of food.

Now, what shall we do next year?

Ch-ch-ch-changes....

2010-06-11T11:53:00.002+01:00

As sung by the immortal David Bowie (for those of you young enough not to have grown up with his music) – changes are afoot here.

Firstly the result of Himself's coughing appears to have been by the drugs he's been taking for his prostate cancer. Oh, great. So he's been told to come off those straight away and have a month to clear his system before they put him on something else for the cancer.

I really hope to god it does help his breathing. It's exhausting, frustrating and debilitating for him to cough all the time, and for me it's incredibly difficult living with a cough like that that threatens to take over our lives. So fingers crossed on that one.

The second thing is that Kirstie Newton, the editor of Cornwall Today, goes on maternity leave at the end of this month, and Alex Wade, a highly respected journalist and writer, takes over the reins as acting editor over the next year. While I will miss Kirstie, I'm looking forward to working with Alex who sounds a fascinating character.

Thirdly, for any of you feeling a bit down, or in need of a change – try singing. I don't belong to a choir – that's a bit formal to describe us – but we are called The Suitcase Singers, and sing every Thursday for a couple of hours. The more I sing with Claire Ingleheart, our musical director, the more I enjoy it.

Last Saturday we had a gig in Flushing in the evening. Claire had done a workshop that afternoon with over 20 people and many of them stayed on for the gig. From there we went to the pub, relaxed with a drink for half an hour, and started singing again, sitting outside the pub.

It was a real example of singing crossing all kinds of boundaries. We sing a-capella (without music), and Claire chose several rounds that are easy for bystanders to learn but sound fabulous. We had a stag party that joined in (as she said, that could have gone either way but they joined in and had a wonderful time) and everyone who was in the pub came out and joined us, and gradually doors opened in the village and more and more people came to listen and join in.

It was a night I shall never forget. Hearing the melodies rise out over the sea, watching faces light up with the pure joy of the music, and a lightened atmosphere of sheer enjoyment. Claire is not only an incredibly talented musician, she is a great leader and knows how to manage large groups of people, which is vital in these instances.

It really was a night with a touch of pure magic.

Poorly Mum but Lovely Grub

2010-06-06T11:13:00.005+01:00

Himself has been busy working on the flat here, so Molls and I have just got back from a few days looking after my poor mum who's been having a bad time with a poorly leg and far too many antibiotics. She's had a bad leg for weeks now and has had to cancel one holiday so is desperate to go on a cruise next week. So here's hoping she really enjoys it – she deserves a good break.

While it was lovely to see her – and in such wonderful weather – Mollie had a wonderful time, from the moment we got on the train when the conductor made a beeline for her, saying how much he preferred dogs to humans (“they don't smash up my train, they're not sick all over the place and they don't get drunk”) - from then on her fan club grew daily.

Like any royal subject, she bestowed humour and great affection on her subjects and behaved very properly when out – in the pub, on the train or in other people's houses. She's not always so well behaved but this week she did us proud. She also met my dear friend Av again and they are now Best Buddies, with Mollie bouncing on her bed when I took a cup of tea in that morning. Mollie looked at me with that sideways look as if to say - "don't need you any more. I've got Av now." But as it's Av, I've forgiven her.

She's also been given some new dog food to try – Burgess . There are lots of different varieties, but she's got the Beef Casserole version which is reputed to have all the vitamins and minerals that a dog needs. She certainly loves it – you serve it (in a *porcelain dish of course) with hot water so it forms a very scrummy smelling gravy and she wolfs it down – though it has to be said she's never been fussy.

She's only been eating it for a week or so but has definitely given it the paws up so far. And as she's been given a huge sack of it, she has about a year's worth of beef casserole to enjoy. And talking of food - Himself has just presented me with a plate of home made apple tea cake. Now that is perfection itself!

(*I was kidding about the porcelain dish, though Himself has been known to serve tuna to the cat in a glass dish.)

Fisherman's Friends

2010-05-26T09:39:00.004+01:00

A couple of weeks ago I was fortunate enough to meet the Fisherman's Friends, noted for their new album of sea shanties which is the first folk CD ever to make the Top Ten. Being a singer myself, I was keen to see them in person, and on a beautiful evening Himself and I drove up to Port Isaac, through sun dappled lanes, under Wedgewood blue skies: North Cornwall couldn't have looked better.

When I attended the launch and signing of their CD in Truro with my sister in law, we discovered that one of them was wearing a brooch made of Cornish tin. I lent over and said, “My husband designed that – and made it.”
“That's my brother!” added Shelagh.

Two weeks later, Himself and I turned up on Port Isaac quay and were met by two of the Johns (several of them are called John but I won't list their names here as it gets too confusing). Himself handed over a bag of Cardinham Cross brooches – one for each of them - that he'd made back in the days when they ran the Cornish tin jewellery business (all made from tin from the last working tin mine in Cornwall, South Crofty).

The Johns looked astonished. “Thanks, Mr Sue,” they said, and insisted on buying us a pint in the nearby pub.

The next hour was fascinating (“You'll treat us gently, won't you, Sue?”). I've never interviewed 6 people at a time (not an easy thing to do), but it was clear from their quick banter how close these men are, and what fun they have together.

What became clear is that it's not just the quality of their catchy singing that has caught the imagination of the public (though their singing is fabulous). It's also that these 10 men, ranging in age from 50-76, have been friends since they met at Port Isaac primary school.

In an age where celebrities tend to be young, self centred and obsessed with fame and fortune, it was particularly refreshing to meet these men whose lives aren't ruled by money: they are all self employed, and appreciate the beautiful place they live in. They are also proud to live in a small community where friends and family are all important. They have a sense of proportion about life.

So here's three cheers for the Fisherman's Friends, whose single No Hopers, Jokers and Rogues, is out on May 31st.

They sing most Fridays at Port Isaac at 8pm (check website for details of other gigs) and if you get to see them, have a look on their smocks – if you catch a glimpse of silver, it's a Cardinham Cross tin brooch.

Cornish good luck for very special Cornish boys.

The Resident Thug

2010-05-19T16:36:00.004+01:00

(Margaret Millar has rightly said that Bussie doesn't look much like a thug here. I would point out that he's in disguise. See end of post.)

Yesterday I was talking to my editor about cats. We were comparing notes on how our respective felines wake us up. Hers, being female, is of course much better behaved than Buster, who jumps on my pillow, stanks over to Himself and prods him until he wakes up. “He sounds rather a bully,” she said.

Actually, he's a thug. I love him dearly (sometimes more than others), but that love is tried and tested every morning at around 6am. And recently, because we dared to go and see my mum for a night, he decided to take revenge and wake us up at 5am for his breakfast.

Being a light sleeper, I always hear those feather light footsteps – or paws – as they creep into the bedroom at dawn. Then Buster jumps onto my pillow, while Mollie squeaks and jumps onto the floor. Buster prowls over the bed, nudging both of us, then returns to my pillow. I ignore him. Or pretend to, but I'm wide awake by this time.

The above exercise can tends to be repeated over and over, with Bussie using the bed as a trampoline and Molls almost wetting herself with sibling rivalry. Until eventually, one of us gives in and gets up. They are fed and we all go back to sleep again – if we're lucky.

One memorable time we'd been away for a few days and were loading our belongings onto the pavement. Bussie deigned to come and say hello, then proceeded to piss on everything. I was most angry because he was pissing on my library book, a very fat biography of Margot Fonteyn.

“What are you doing?” I shrieked like a madwoman. “Margot Fonteyn was the most famous ballerina in the world. How dare you piss on her?”

He looked at me with narrowed eyes and aimed another stream of urine at my feet. At that I decided to get our stuff inside before he could ruin anything else.

Bussie would be a very good terrorist, I've decided. (What do I mean, would be? He is.) He is very good at focusing on the job in hand, has no loyalty, isn't afraid of anyone and has NO sense of humour.

Anyone want a cat?

Itching and Sister In Law

2010-05-12T09:54:00.004+01:00

Having written that blog title, I hasten to add that the itching has nothing to do with my sister-in-law, nor myself. But it's coming up to that time of year again. Itching time.

Apart from Mollie's allergy to fleas (a very common problem and one that the cat is responsible for), she's had another itching problem, but all non-dog owners, I suggest you look away now. This is not for the squeamish.

The second problem was anal glands. You know when dogs sniff each other's bums? This isn't anything disgusting: it's just how dogs identify each other – like us shaking hands or saying hello. These glands are also known as scent glands and they help dogs mark their territory.

Most dog owners will know about problems with these and I won't go into details here for fear of offending those of a delicate nature – or nose in this case. Suffice it to say that our first vet wasn't overly helpful, so I asked all my other dog owning friends for advice, scoured the internet and went cross-eyed with conflicting information.

The problem with the glands seemed to clear up relatively easily courtesy of changing her diet. I was advised to use a hypoallergenic diet and was recommended James Wellbeloved. (Widely available or from Nutrecare.) Within weeks her problem had sorted out, though this was also due to the fact that she was not allowed any treats (Himself sulked over this) and had to adhere to a strict diet of biscuits only. Still, it did the trick and now she is happy and problem free in that area.

So if your dog has a problem in that department, talk to your vet and perhaps try a hypoallergenic diet. It worked for Molls, it could work for you! Er, I mean, your dog of course...

And on another tack, just off to take my sister in law (over from Vermont) to Penzance. Rain is forecast, of course, but it's a joy having time with her. Come again soon, Shelagh!

(Pic of Mollie taken by Claire Wilson)

So long, farewell

2010-05-07T09:18:00.000+01:00

This post is dedicated to a very dear friend of ours who died a few weeks ago. He was nearly 90 and had had, as they say, a colourful life, but was one of life's true charmers in the best possible way. He had wonderful manners, a quietly courteous air and a wonderful sense of humour. A real gentleman.

For the last few years of his life he was in a residential home and we would take him out most weeks for coffee. He had a passion for chocolate and would devour coffee and a chocolate muffin or brownie and then we'd take him shopping – for more chocolate. About £20 worth of those big family bars would last him a fortnight.

He was one of life's special people but sadly had very few visitors. We last saw him in hospital and knew that he didn't have long to live so that last visit was a very sad one, and our real goodbye. Which was just as well as, while a friend told us of his death, no one informed us of the funeral or the wake.

In fact one afternoon last week my sister and law and I were walking Molls and decided to go into a nearby cafe/bar for a cuppa. Mollie nosed open the door, we burst in and I was aware of a lot of people there. Thought it must be a wedding reception. But it dawned on me they were all wearing black. I saw one person who I recognised and thought – out of here!

So we retreated. Fast. Laughing at the incredulity of it all. (Wondering what all those people were doing at his funeral when they couldn't be bothered to see him when he was alive.)

And that night we had our own goodbye to a very special friend.

Dogs and Fisherman's Friends

2010-04-29T10:05:00.005+01:00

The above picture isn't of Mollie but gives you a good idea of what she's doing at the moment.

Two canine incidents occurred this week, the first being when I was out with Molls and a friend walking near the river at Bissoe. One minute Molls was running around in front of us, the next she had disappeared down to the river, then I saw her shivering and sodden on the opposite side of the river bank.

The river is fast flowing, deep and the riverbank has eroded due to all the heavy rain this winter, so I think she managed to get herself out on the far shore but was too frightened to get back. I ordered her to stay, thinking I could run back to the road, cross the bridge and get to her that way.

Then a young bloke on a bike arrived and offered to help. "If you could just get down to her and hold her collar till I get there, that would be wonderful," I said, and the dear fellow duly obliged.

Unfortunately Molls was too freaked out and ran as soon as she saw him approaching (normally she'd run towards people not away) and jumped back into the water to swim towards me. The river bank was too deep so there was no way she could get out, but after a bit of struggling I was able to lean down into the water and pull her out, to the relief of all.

Having nearly drowned myself once, I could understand why she was a bit haywire for the next half an hour, but was a huge relief to have her back safe and sound. It wasn't till later that the "What Ifs" started churning round my head, and I was very happy to cuddle up that night with Madam safe next to me.

The second doggie incident is linked to my last post about Jill Murphy. To my delight, I received a beautiful hand made card from Jill – a hilarious cartoon about a Dither of Deerhounds – saying how much she'd enjoyed my piece on her and Dear Hound, and thanking me.

Even the writing on the envelope was embossed with gold and had a little blackbird singing above my name. I was so touched I could hardly speak.

My sister in law, who has just arrived from the States, looked at it and said, “you should frame this.” I think I will.

And this afternoon, to dodge the doggy theme entirely, we are off to see Fisherman's Friends in Truro. Go for it boys! They've got a movie deal now!

Musings

2010-04-21T09:53:00.007+01:00

The above is one of Jill Murphy's illustrations from Dear Hound, her latest book. Recently I was lucky enough to interview Jill Murphy, author of the Worst Witch series of books, who has turned to her own dogs for inspiration for her latest book about a deerhound that goes missing. See link to the interview here. Jill is not only a highly talented writer, but a fabulous illustrator as well and there are some heart breaking pictures in the book which derived from a true incident when her son's dog went missing.

Thankfully Dear Hound has a happy ending, but Jill's life hasn't been quite so straightforward. She's a bubbly, very attractive lady, a mix of very strong and very sensitive, and very close to her 19 year old son (and vice versa).

She has also overcome incredible hardship in her life. As a single mother, she discovered that she had breast cancer when her son was young. She got over that only to find that her mother had dementia, and made the barn next door to her house into a flat so her mum could live there. When her mother died, she discovered her aunt had dementia and brought her to live next door.

At one point, Charlie (her son) said, "Mummy do you realise we've spent the last 7 years looking after mad old ladies?" And yet Jill had some wonderfully funny stories about this time in her life (when she was also bringing up a teenage son and working). "It was a privilege to look after them," she said.

A lot of writers I've met recently have undergone a lot of difficulties, and some keep writing no matter what, whereas others don't feel able to put pen to paper. But in the end, I suppose we all muddle through.

I find work a solace, an escape. But obviously if you have a very sick partner it's not always possible to write if you're in charge of nursing, or driving to hospital. And sometimes it's just not possible to write.

But sitting on Jill's sofa, being licked to death by her gorgeous dogs (and they really are huge and lovely), I felt such admiration for this gutsy lady who, rightly, is very loved by all around her. Do read Dear Hound. It's a fascinating tribute to some very wonderful dogs.

A week of Surprises

2010-04-14T15:11:00.002+01:00

The last few months have been difficult, observing Himself's breathing difficulties, but following extensive lung function tests and X rays on Monday, we were relieved to find that his lungs are only fractionally worse than they have been, and as his cough is improving very slowly, the consultant will see him in another three months and assess his breathing again then.

Having been told last time that the prognosis for his condition was 2-3 years, and now being told that actually he seems to be reasonably stable, you can understand why I've been worried. And he has been increasingly quiet, lacking appetite, not even enjoying his beer. As a result he's lost weight and several people have commented on how pale he is. So as we drove back home I said to Himself, “you must be relieved.” (Understatement of the year.)

“Oh, no,” he replied, gazing out of the window noncholantly.

I stared at him, stunned. “- er, what did you think had been going on over the past few months then?”

“Well, I wasn't sure, but I'm not a worrier, Pop,” came the reply.

I won't repeat what I said, but I relayed this to a friend who rang up later. Her reply was instant. “What a load of S***E” she said briskly. Which I have to say, I go along with.

But who could ever explain the meanderings of the male mind?

Another surprise – which has to do with the workings of the female mind, I'm glad to report – came today when I collected Himself from a job in the High Street. He'd been making some shelves for a young mum, and was very chirpy when I picked him up.

“She was very interested to hear how we met,” said the old lothario. “Said it was very romantic.”

Being full of sinusitis, I grunted in non-romantic fashion.

“And she gave me more money than I thought, and something for you, Pop.”

At that moment she appeared and waved from the front door: an open face with a warm smile. “This is my wife,” said Himself, and she smiled even wider.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, and turned to Himself. “See you soon, Pip,” she said, like they were old buddies.

I looked from him, down to the large jar of Quality Street in his lap, then at the bunch of paper wrapped tulips: the palest pink with a brush stroke of red.

“Thank you,” I said with a lump in my throat. I wondered what we'd done to deserve that, and reflected how such gestures can transform a day.

My smile as we drove away was almost as big as hers.

My Hero - Wheelyboats and Flu

2010-04-08T16:24:00.007+01:00

I'm just getting over (I sincerely hope) the worst fluey cold I've had for years. You know, where everything aches, including head, you get shivers the whole time and have not an ounce of strength anywhere. Even my hair has gone straight. Luckily Himself isn't too bad this week so he has been walking Molls (ie Very Short Walks) and will be in dire need of a Long Trek as soon as I am able.

Anyway enough of that. On to better things. Back in 1984, Himself was approached to design a boat for disabled anglers. He did the preliminary drawings and these were then taken to a marine architect to polish off (though they looked pretty polished to me). The boat was then launched by Prince Charles in 1985 and has gone from strength to strength - or so we gather. Himself was disillusioned by some of the people involved and decided he didn't want to be involved any further. As a result he declined any money or kudos.

Well, a few weeks ago he was in the van and heard something about Wheelyboats in Cornwall. We googled it when we got home and found that one's being used not far from us - and patrons include Jeremy Paxman and Bernard Cribbins (Curiouser and Curiouser...) so I emailed the Wheelyboat Trust and said "guess what? I'm married to the bloke who did the original designs" - or words to that effect.

Himself is far too modest to blow his own trumpet - pardon the pun.) I told him what I'd done and he looked horrified. "What did you do THAT for?" he said, as if I'd torched the place. I grinned smugly - I'd had a lovely email back from the Director of the Wheelyboat Trust saying how delighted he was to hear from me. He also said they'd sold over 100 boats and were launching the Mark III version of the Wheelyboat soon in Cornwall and would we be able to come along? You bet!

So any day soon we are off to Golant to meet Dick Strawbridge (he of the bulbous moustache) and other bods from the Trust and see Himself's fine work put to good use. I'm also writing a piece about it but if you want to see more about this great invention, here's the link.

Three cheers for Himself. I am so proud of him and he SHALL have his moment of fame...

The Lousy Lung Club

2010-03-31T09:50:00.001+01:00

(As this blog has been filling up with a lot of work stuff I've decided to open a new blog just for journalism which is here. )

And now for the post itself - Once a month a group of friends and I get together for a meal. It started just over a year ago, when my Swedish friend and I got together with one of my other mates. Then I invited another friend. Then another friend came along: her partner was ill and we thought she might like a bit of company.

That friend lost her partner just over a year ago. We had a meal the night of his funeral – she wasn't there but there was a surreal air to the evening. We drank too much but it was a strangely happy time and I felt blessed to have such good friends.
It was reassuring, like a close family.

More than a year on, I noticed that the dynamics change regularly. One of us who was newly divorced has a new man. For the two who are single, other men have come and gone (in every sense of the word). A new man in the offing for one but of course with Complications.

None of these women knew each other before I introduced them, and as someone who prefers meeting one-to-one, this was quite a new thing for me. I felt out of my comfort zone at first, but each time we meet it gets easier as the talk flows and ebbs like the tide. It's interesting to see how friendship shifts and grows, like a plant putting out feelers, winding round each and every one of us.

Something that three of them have in common is Lousy Lungs. So as Himself has been suffering of late, Nik suggested that he should come along as Honorary Girl. A notion that was loudly approved of by the others, I'm glad to say.

He refused, but the other night his health was discussed at length. I hadn't realised quite how much support we (he and I) have, and I am most profoundly grateful. It means more than I can possibly describe and gives me a warm, snuggly feeling, like an inner duvet, or that old Ready Brek glow.

The friend who lost her partner said to me one day that she has taken his advice and now takes each day at a time. And while I'm worried over Himself's health, I've discovered this is a really good way to try and be. In amidst all the What Ifs that the brain is so good at coming up with, there are moments of intense happiness that I treasure all the more.

So here's to all members of the Lousy Lung Club – of both sexes. What would I do without you?

Ten Pin Bowling

2010-03-25T10:55:00.003Z

I'd naively thought that ten pin bowling would be really easy. Easy? Hah! But great fun..... Cornwall Today March 2010

2010 marks the 50th anniversary of ten pin bowling being played commercially in Great Britain. So it seemed fitting that, being very slightly over 50, I should have my first go at the game. After all, it couldn't be that difficult – could it?

Richard Harris, 45 has been General Manager of Ocean Bowl in Falmouth since it opened in 2002.
“I've bowled for the county, managed and captained the county team and played in various competitions,” he said in his quiet, unassuming voice. “It's an active sport, it's energetic and sociable. Because it's indoors you can play in any weather.” And judging by the bar next door, you could have a drink as well. Sounded good to me.

Richard undertook teacher training which helped him improve his game, and he is now qualified to teach beginnners and intermediate players. Looking around, the players varied a lot. Richard smiled: “Yes, we get all ages, from 5-80, though there are roughly 60% men to 40% women. Ten ten pin bowling attracts all kinds of people. We get children's parties, corporate events – staff events and bonding sessions,” he told me. “The Navy also come from Culdrose for sports events.” There are also various leagues for those that wish to play competitively, and 'roll offs' for selection of the county team.

But as I was having a lesson, first of all I had to change my shoes. “You have to wear special shoes but that's included in the price,” Richard explained as he kitted me out with a pair of rather fetching red, white and blue lace up shoes. “They're smooth so you can slide into a shot.” I had no idea what he was talking about but it sounded good and I had visions of myself expertly bowling the perfect shot.

I asked him about the lanes. “There are 12 wooden lanes, 60 foot from the foul line to the head pin. The lanes are made of pine and mahogany which is about six layers thick,” he explained. I watched other people having a go, and wondered why it was so popular. Richard smiled. “People can get addicted,” he said. “Particularly when you start scoring – you have to to score higher each time.” I nodded, though I couldn't imagine it.

But I had no time to think about addiction, as the lesson started in earnest. First Richard showed me the balls. “These vary in weight from 6-16lbs and you measure the ball by hand spec and weight,” he told me. He chose a large red number for me weighing 10lbs which seemed incredibly heavy, but “the heavier the ball the more pin reaction you get.” He showed me how to hold the ball: “Middle and ring fingers in the top holes and thumb in the lower hole. If you can hold it comfortably for 10 seconds it's about the right weight.” It wasn't exactly comfortable, but I persevered.

“You have to think of the ball as a clock face and your thumb at 12 o'clock. You want to release the ball with the thumb between 10 and 11 and the fingers between 4 and 5.” Richard could obviously see the completely blank expression on my face and explained further. “As you're right handed, the ball is released anticlockwise and that gives a hook which means the ball comes in at an angle which will knock more pins down.”

It sounded all right, but now to do it? Richard talked me through it, making it look incredibly easy. “The way to release the ball is either to think of shaking hands with somebody or having a drink if that's easier to learn. Then your arm comes up in a follow through which gives more rotation on the ball. Keep your shoulders level and parallel to the foul lane.”

My head was buzzing, but we then learned about where to stand. “The approach is the part leading up to the lanes, and there are markers on the approach to help you remember where to stand,” said Richard, “and wooden arrows on the lanes – you need to aim for the second on the right rather than the actual pins.”

All this and I hadn't even taken a shot. But that was next. Richard had me kneeling (hard on the poor knees on a wooden floor) with my left foot forward. “The left arm is out for balance, now swing the ball back and release it forward with the thumb at 10 or 11 o'clock. Aim for the second arrow, and don't forget the follow through.” Getting the hang of this 10 or 11 o'clock business was a lot harder than it sounded. Next we tried the one step drill, standing up. “The left knee has to be bent, and you slide into the shot with the right foot skewed behind to keep balance.” I also had to remember what to do with my hands and feet. How could I remember all that?

That, it turns out, was a mere warm up. Now for the four step approach. “Take four steps back and a half step, then pivot round on your toes and that's the distance you need to be from the foul line,” said Richard. “Get the stance: stand straight, feet parallel, and hold the ball in both hands, cradling it. Weight on the left foot, step on the right foot, holding the ball in both hands, extend the right arm, let go of the ball with the left hand which comes out to the left, at shoulder height, facing the lanes.” He'd lost me already, but I had a go. “With the second step, swing the ball forwards, then back, then the last step slides forward into letting go of the ball, and the right foot goes behind and across the left one to balance.” Richard executed the perfect shot, moving like a dancer from Ballet Rambert. When I tried I just lost my balance. And don't ask me where the ball went.

But I was determined to have another go – and another. And another. Waiting for my ball to return I glanced across at several teenagers playing with gusto, like true professionals. They played so fast, though Richard said I was probably bowling at about 15mph. It felt like 5mph – a granny version of the game.

After an hour and a half I had to leave, but I was glowing. Even if you're as bad as me, the temptation is just to have one more shot......

FACTBOX
Ten pin bowling is believed to date back to the Egyptian Pharoahs, but the first written reference dates back to 1366 when King Edward III banned the game, fearing it would interfere with archery practice. A painting from around 1810 shows British bowlers playing the sport outdoors, with a triangular formation of ten pins.

Glossary of terms
Strike - When all 10 pins are knocked down with one ball. You get 10 points for these pins, plus the points of the next 2 balls thrown.
Spare - All 10 pins are knocked down with 2 consecutive balls. You get 10 points for this plus the points of the pins that the next ball knocks down.
Game - A game consists of 10 frames (or turns) per person.
Frame - A frame is one turn.
Foul Line - The black line at the start of the lane.
Foul - You will receive a foul if you step over the foul line.
A Double – When you get 2 strikes in a row.
A Turkey – If you get 3 strikes in a row.
Gutter – The sections either side of the lane where the ball ends up if they come off the lane or you miss.

Ocean Bowl, Pendennis Rise, Falmouth TR11 4LT
01326 313130
www.oceanbowl.co.uk
Open 11am-11pm, 7 days a week
Prices start from £3.50 per game

The Gramophone Man

2010-03-25T10:52:00.000Z

A retired Chemistry teacher has become a gramophone specialist

John Sleep has been collecting vintage gramophones, phonographs and records at his workshop in Crantock, near Newquay since he retired in 1993 and now has a collection which dates back over 100 years. “It fascinates me to sell things,” he says. “I just find it great fun to buy something, repair it and sell it to some one who enjoys it. That's a great thrill.”

John is one of the few people in the country, and the only person in the West Country, to specialise in such things. “Whether you want to buy or sell, or have your machine properly restored, I can help,” he says. He also supplies records, cylinders, and new needles of various types. “The things I buy nearly always need work and I sell them with a guarantee,” says the ex-teacher now known as The Gramophone Man.

In 1993 John's life took a turn for the unexpected. “I was trained as a carpenter so when I retired I started repairing antiques for people – chairs mainly,” he explains. “I happened on a gramophone which I took to pieces and found out that it was quite simple – I don't like things being thrown away, so it was absolutely right for me because I can always get them to work.” From then on John cornered the market. “I don't advertise it very much because it's been unexpectedly busy so I've had to become self employed again!”

John used to buy from collectors' fairs but has found that expensive and time consuming, so now he mostly buys from auctions and on the internet. “The best thing is if I can find a collection of someone's who's died. Then I can perhaps buy a dozen at a time and that keeps me going for a while.” He gives a slow smile. “I've just tallied up and I've bought 1600 gramophones since I started which is a lot really. And that doesn't count the ones I've repaired.”

Having built up a reputation, John now buys increasingly to order. “I've got two or three regular collectors who want certain things, and that's very different from buying casually and hoping you're going to sell – that's a very chancy business.”

John also has a huge record collection that he sells on request. “I've got about 20,000 records dotted round in various people's garages because you never know what people are going to ask for,” he says. “I've just had an order to go to Ireland for the Four Tenors which is unusual – I don't normally keep them.” He points at the extensive collection, neatly labelled, in his workshop. “People are rediscovering records at the moment and they always like 1920s sound and Rock 'n Roll and comedy, music hall, monologues.” But the generations rediscovering this music never heard it first time round. “They've never heard of 78s which is what all of these are. A lot hasn't been transcribed onto modern format but the quality's pretty good.”

John undertakes a lot of repairs that need intricate work. “A gramophone that arrived today will involve new springs, cleaning the motor, and replacing the rubber in the diaphragm inside the sound box.” He also sells a lot of needles overseas. “Almost every day I'll send packets of needles – I've just sent a thousand to New Zealand today.”

Inside the house, John's studio is packed with different phonographs, gramophones and hundreds of books. “There are four types of gramophone,” he explains. “The portable, the table model, the cabinet and the elaborate horn ones.” He then proceeds to illustrate this. “ The sound is the vibration on the record - the sound goes up the horn, and the bigger the horn the louder it will be.”

One horn is so huge it extends the length of the workshop, like a witch's hat. “After the first horn gramophones, they started to make them more compact so the horn is folded back inside,” he explains. “Then you have cabinet sorts, and because people wanted to carry them round for picnics, there are the portable ones.” In the First World War portable gramophones were taken to the trenches to keep spirits up. “That one over there's called the Trench,” he says. “There was a famous advert of one with bullet holes through it.”

But the most popular is the last portable HMV model before they became electrical. “This one's worth £120 but it's not in fantastic condition.” He opens it up and selects a needle to start playing a record. “You change the needles frequently and that needle picks up the vibration in the groove. Everything comes from the soundbox – that's where the music is generated.”

John points to a gramophone by the wall. “This is a genuine HMV before it was called HMV. It was called the Gramophone company, and for a brief spell they were known as the Gramophone and Typewriter Company because they started the typewriter business thinking that gramophones wouldn't last. So this one's called a G & T and the scroll work makes it quite special.”

The prices vary hugely. “There are a huge number of machines made in the 1920s that were often imported and don't have proper names,” John explains. “They're perfectly functional but non-descript; you could buy those for a tenner and wouldn't get much more than £30 or £40 if you tried to sell them. Those are the least attractive. The ones I like most are the Senior Monarch,” he adds. “They're worth about £2,000 which isn't the most expensive but they are the most stylish. You tend to spend money on things which are historically valuable – an original Trademark would be £10,000, not for how it plays but for its historical importance.” He smiles. “It's very exciting when you find something special.”

As a musician, it's important to John that these lovely gramophones are in working order. But his buyers don't always agree. “One of the best I ever had – a Monarch - went to a lady who I knew would use it for decorative purposes: not what it was made for. But she was delighted.”

But however much he might enjoy a particular model, John isn't in a position to become sentimental. “I can't afford to keep them!” he says practically. “Though I'm always interested in miniature ones – if I had a speciality that would be it. But if I find a nice one cheaply I can afford to keep it.”

Looking ahead, John is determined to enjoy his work for as long as he can. “I should think I'd go on for another 5 or 6 years,” he says. “As long as I can travel around and find the items and am able to do the fine work. There's a lot of very fiddly work involved in the repairs, and arthritis is beginning to play a part unfortunately which restricts what I can do a bit.”

He strokes his red setter, snuggled up to him on the sofa. “I'm very glad I found this job,” he says thoughtfully. “It's very mind exercising and interesting. You build up an interesting network of people who help each other out. There are the same organisations here and abroad and I use them all. Without that network I couldn't do what I do.”

John Sleep, Stoke House, West Pentire, Crantock, TR8 5SE.
01637 830 415
07979 097 389
www.windupgram.co.uk

A stormy Career

2010-03-20T09:23:00.003Z

I was fortunate enough to meet David Barnicoat, one of Falmouth's harbour pilots, for what turned out to be a heartwarming meeting. It's wonderful to find someone who really loves what they do. In March Cornwall Today.

David Barnicoat has a refreshing attitude to his career. “I don't honestly think I've done a day's work since I left school!” he says. “It's been one fantastic hobby.” He shares this “hobby” on BBC Radio Cornwall's breakfast show on Wednesday mornings, and in his weekly column in the Falmouth Packet.

David is the only ex-Trinity House pilot still working in Falmouth. The safety of shipping, and the well being of seafarers, have been the prime concerns since Trinity House was granted a Charter by Henry VIII in 1514. In 1809 Falmouth became a Trinity House Outport, a status which it held until the de-regulation of Pilotage in 1988 when Falmouth Harbour Commissioners took over its administration.

“I'm possibly the only former Trinity House pilot working in Cornwall,” David says. “There aren't many of us left in the UK, but we remain fiercely proud of our deep-seated historic ties with Trinity House and always will.”

David was born and brought up in Falmouth. “I grew up on the harbourside and from the age of 5 I wanted to be a pilot because of my father,” he says. “He was a Tug Master and then became Assistant Dock Master, so when I was 7 or 8 I would go out with him. He taught me a lot.”

David's training involved 15 years at sea. “In order to become a Falmouth pilot you need to hold a Master Mariners Foreign Going Certificate of Competency. This involved a lot of study, gaining vital sea time and watch keeping experience. When I became a trainee pilot I had to work three months without pay learning the ropes,” he explains. “I did 4 years cadetship with the Blue Star Line of London and served with them till I came ashore, working in refrigerated cargo vessels, heavy-lift ships and container vessels.

David decided to become a pilot rather than stay at sea for several reasons. “I'd always wanted to be a pilot in my home port. Also, in the late 1970s you could see the demise of British shipping with a large number of foreign seamen being employed and I didn't want to sail with a non-British crew for the rest of my life.”

How does he manage now as a pilot, communicating with foreign crews on ships? He grins. “Most crews speak fairly good English but you can usually get through with a bit of Anglo-Saxon Merchant Navy language! I know the helm and engine orders in Russian, but we speak English all of the time.”

He is one of six pilots in Falmouth who are all self employed. “We go on 12 hour watches – from 8am-8pm or 8pm-8am but we have long rest periods which are strictly adhered to for Health & Safety reasons,” he explains. “Falmouth Harbour Office is the operational control centre for pilotage, but when a ship radios in for a pilot we can be called at home: as long as we are within one hour of the port.”

The job involves piloting ships into the bay, the harbour, into the docks, up the River Fal to Truro and to the stone quarry at Porthoustock on the Lizard Peninsula, but the work has changed over the years.

“When I first became a pilot we used to take ships to Penryn, little tankers to Coastlines Wharf, and to Dean Quarry on the Lizard,” he says. “But now there's nothing going to Penryn, Coastlines, or Dean Quarry, and the River Fal lay-up berths aren't as active as they used to be in the 1980s although there are 9 ships laid-up there now due to the recession.”

A few ships are still piloted to Truro every month, but Falmouth docks have changed. “They are geared more towards Royal Fleet Auxiliary and Ministry of Defence contracts, but they work on other vessels and we have the 24 hour bunkering operation now.”

The weather plays a vital part in a pilot's work, but David says it has to be “very bad” before they are prevented from bringing a ship into port. “It depends on the type and size of ship and where it's going: it's nothing you can quantify. A risk assessment is undertaken for each ship, which involves detailed paperwork.

“Everything now is regulated. Safety and the Environment are the two main words imprinted on a pilot's brain,” he says with a grimace. “I hate paperwork – and 'jobsworth' people with no experience who make stupid decisions.”

David has piloted many well known ships including the Royal Yacht Britannia on two occasions, but he loves a challenge. “I like the difficult jobs like the 100,000 tonners brought in and put on Duchy Wharf. It gets the adrenaline going and afterwards you have a great satisfaction.”

Shipping casualties can be exciting, such as the Egyptian factory ship Baltim, that went aground at the entrance to Helford, back in the 1980s. “It was quite rough with a heavy easterly swell and as the pilot boat came in, I leapt onto the pilot ladder to get aboard. Baltim was banging on the rocks but after about 45 minutes there was a big swell and I managed to get her off,” David says cheerfully.

Doesn't he get nervous? “When things start to go wrong you do get concerned but the worst thing you can do is panic,” David explains. “You have to look at the situation logically, make a decision, and stick by it. If you panic, everything compounds very quickly.”

The Falmouth pilots are responsible for piloting all the cruise ships in and out of the harbour. “We will have 30 this year which means about 30,000 passengers arriving in Falmouth; many go to tourist destinations around Cornwall, which is very good for the economy.” Then there is the much publicised proposed dredging of Falmouth Harbour. “The pilots are kept well briefed by the Falmouth Harbour Commissioners. We're hoping for some good news; this would be a massive boost for Falmouth and West Cornwall.”

It isn't just a love of the sea that inspires David: he has concerns for the welfare of seafarers, too. He likes to visit ships in port at Christmas with Mission to Seafarers volunteers to deliver presents to the crews. “The Mission do a marvelous job, throughout the year” he says quietly.

Thinking ahead, what has David planned for the future? “I don't want to retire (at 65) but the day is coming, so I'm trying to channel my interests elsewhere. I'm like one of my mentors, the late Peter Gilson - I'd like to continue researching local and maritime history,” he says firmly, “and leave my huge photographic collection for generations to follow.”

David is also a talented photographer, though he is too modest to admit this. He has also written a book about the shipping of the Port of Falmouth and the Pilotage service and “I'm going to write another one but I'm not sure of the subject yet!” He smiles thoughtfully. “I'd like to travel too – back to my old haunts down in Australia and New Zealand.”

David's enthusiasm shines through, and it is a joy to meet someone who loves their work as he does. “I have more passion for the job now than when I started over 30 years ago,” he says quietly. “I just love the sea and ships. It's been a great honour and immense privilege to have served as a pilot in the Port of Falmouth, a port I love with all of heart. It's my life, really.”

Safe Harbours and Holidays

2010-03-13T18:07:00.003Z

Fowey has long been a kind of panacea for me. I lived there twenty years ago having been made redundant in London and unable to get any work there. Unfortunately there was hardly any work in Cornwall either so I had to eventually go elsewhere for work, but the place has always kept a stronghold on my heart. And my local pub, which we stayed almost next door to last week, was aptly named the Safe Harbour.

I wasn't sure about a week there – Himself might get bored as he wasn't well enough to do much – but I can't believe how lucky we were. The weather was fabulous, my friends Deb and Richard stayed for 2 nights and we had great walks, meals and drinks. Then my mum came to stay for another couple of nights, and the last 2 days we spent with our friends from Devon who were staying in the pub at Bodinnick. They're great walkers, so we did two 8 mile walks on Wednesday and Thursday in perfect sunshine. My idea of bliss.

We also, with their help, got the inflatable boat out on Thursday morning. This is named EGO (as in inflated ego) – you can blame our Penzance cousins for that. The wind went down enough for us to enjoy an hour on the river up to Mixtow then round to Penpol, and Himself so enjoyed that, it was wonderful to see his happy smiling face.

There were several down days while we were away (health issues) but the week away really made me realise several things - how important my friends are (thanks to those of you who emailed saying Welcome Back!).

This week also made me even more aware how important good health is.

It was the first time for ages I'd really pushed myself beyond my comfort zone physically – and I loved it! Those walks with John and Annie will stay with me for a long time.

And lastly, I know that Fowey will always be somewhere I can go in times of need – to have wonderful times with friends, and also to restore myself. My own Safe Harbour.

Award and Canine Bowen Therapy

2010-03-03T12:04:00.005Z

Debs has kindly passed on this award to me. There are a few rules that come attached to it:
1. Every winner of the Prolific Blogger Award has to pass on this award to at least seven other deserving prolific bloggers.
2. Each Prolific Blogger must link to the blog from which he/she has received the award.
3. Every Prolific Blogger must link back to This Post, which explains the origins and motivation for the award.
4. Every Prolific Blogger must visit this post and add his/her name in the Mr. Linky, so that we all can get to know the other winners.
Got that?
Well, rather than choose, I nominate the next seven people who comment on this post - I'm frantically trying to get everything done before we go on holiday on Friday so excuse my cheating. Will be back in about 10 days time.

And I leave you with a piece about Canine Bowen Therapy, a little known treatment available to all our doggie friends. In March Cornwall Today.

USING HUMAN TECHNIQUES TO TREAT YOUR DOG

Many people in Cornwall combine several jobs, but it's refreshing to find someone who really enjoys several very different careers. Frances Carter, 47, has run the Hibiscus (women's) Surf School in Newquay for the past 7 years, has been a complementary therapist for the past 25 years and is a lecturer at Truro College. “I'm a sports therapist,” she says cheerfully, as she sits on her kitchen floor making friends with Mollie Dog. “I treat animals and humans, and I teach complementary therapy on the Foundation Degree course. I do the surfing in the daytime and the rest in the evenings.”
While combining complementary therapy and surfing might seem a strange combination to some, for Frances it makes perfect sense. “Surfing is one of my passions and complementary therapy the other, so that's where the balance comes in.”
Frances trained as a human Bowen therapist and became interested in using these techniques to help animals. “I used to do complementary therapy on my dog and I've often thought that dogs are much more in tune with their own bodies than humans are, so that makes you more in tune as well,” she explains.
The Canine Bowen Technique is one of the fastest growing complementary therapies in Britain, based on the principles of the Bowen Technique developed by Australian Tom Bowen (1916 – 1982). Its adaption in the UK for use on dogs was started in 2001 by Bowen therapists Sally and Ron Askew, who integrated it into their own dog behavioral and rehabilitation work. In 2003 they founded the European Guild of Canine Bowen Therapists and designed a professional programme of training.
“My training took just over a year and covered five modules,” says Frances. “Anatomy and physiology (taught by a vet), nutrition, behaviourism and dog psychology, and throughout we were learning the actual techniques, with an exam at the end. I've also done an OCN level in Companion Animal First Aid which was taught by a local vet, and I'm fully insured.”
For any vets uncertain of her qualifications, Frances is quick to reassure. “Canine Bowen therapy is regarded as manipulative therapy covered by the Veterinary Surgery (Exemptions) Order 1962 of the 1966 Veterinary Surgeons Act, allowing qualified practitioners to work on animals who have been referred by the animal's vet,” she says.
She also points out that Bowen works in conjunction with, never as an alternative to, proper veterinary care. “All dogs must be thoroughly checked over by their vet, and get their vet's written approval prior to starting a Bowen session,” she says firmly. “I am not a vet, so I would never diagnose an animal, nor would I ever prescribe or alter any medication. This is purely a complementary therapy which has been deemed by vets to help dogs.”
While some vets are unsure about Bowen Therapy, Frances worked very closely with her local surgery. “I've got a really good relationship with my vet who's supported me 100% ,” she says. “We've also written a first aid course together.”
At first her vet didn't understand how Bowen works, so Frances had a practical solution. “I treated his dogs and then I did him because he didn't understand why one minute his dog was a snappy terrier and the next minute was asleep in its cage! After treatment he had a much better understanding of how the dogs felt.”
Bowen therapy is an holistic therapy “which means we do a thorough observation looking at the dog's daily life, background, medical history, diet, exercise profile and how it's handled,” Frances explains. “A dog may be brought in with, say, rear-leg lameness, but I may well treat other parts of the body as well, such as the front-legs, in order to sort out other possible problem areas caused as a result of the dog compensating for the problem.”

The actual hands on therapy is a very light touch in specific places that's adapted from the human Bowen Technique. “We know that there are millions of sensory nerve endings on the skin and these light touches send a disruption through the central nervous system that can help the body rebalance itself,”she adds.

The benefits are many and various. “It can help encourage a greater range of movement,” Frances says. “It can also help a dog be pain free or at least reduce pain.” She has treated dogs for all kinds of problems, from ear infections to hip displasia and even tennis elbow! “Ear infections are usually due to an imbalance in the immune system,” she explains. “I've also treated re-homed dogs from the RSPCA – if they come from kennels and suddenly go into a home environment then the dog can have a lot of problems, particularly if there' s already a dog in the household. If a dog is highly stressed, Bowen can give it better quality rest because it makes them very relaxed.”
She has found that dogs seem to know instinctively where they need to be treated and when they've had enough. “When a dog's had a treatment and they trust you, they often come back and give you a paw or whichever part of the body they want done!” she says. “As humans, we're told what's the matter with our bodies – dogs have no preconceptions, so they're much more in tune with their bodies, as we were hundreds of years ago.”
A session usually lasts about 45 minutes, though the hands-on treatment usually takes around 20 minutes. Before the session, Frances needs a signed veterinary referral form, and will ask for a detailed medical form to be filled in. “I like to know everything about the dog because sometimes when owners fill the form in they often realise other factors that might contribute to the dog's condition,” she explains. This information helps monitor changes between treatments and gauge how the dog is progressing. Therapy is not forced upon the dog, and the dog is not restricted at any time during the treatment.
An initial session costs £25 for the first session and £20 for sessions thereafter; travel charges are 30p per return mile after 15 miles. The number of sessions needed depends on the dog and its reaction to the treatment. “With some dogs you see a change in the first session,” Frances says. “Usually you see some sort of change in the second or third treatment, but it's never a cure; it's aimed at helping the dog in the way it needs.”
Seeing how Mollie reacts with Frances, it's evident that animals trust her, which makes her work very rewarding. “I love working with animals more than humans because you see such dramatic effects and it's lovely when you can help the dog,” she says. But she also finds working alongside a vet very interesting. “My vet said that we pick up so much more than they can during a consultation because they only have a few minutes with the client,” she says. “I always write a report back to the vet after a treatment so the vet can see what I've found and that can change the way he treats the animal.”
Frances has been working with dogs and horses for over 28 years and has competed with both at championship level: she shows her own Newfoundland, Douglas, at Crufts. “Equine Bowen therapy is much more established because of racehorse owners and stud farms,” she says. “More and more vets are coming on board and scientific research is being carried out on the human Bowen technique, so hopefully it will eventually be more widely recognised.”.
And looking ahead? Frances smiles at her huge Newfoundland, Douglas, making friends with diminutive Mollie. “I would like to see Canine Bowen Therapy available at vets as a complementary therapy to help the likes of firework fear,” she says. “Personally, I aim to continue improving my knowledge and skills in both human and canine therapies.”

01637 879374 or 07810 6428981
info@hibiscussurfschool.co.uk.

Update

2010-02-24T10:36:00.003Z

The above picture is more what Himself has in mind when you mention the magic word Boat, but unfortunately funds are a little pressed, so we now have the blow up boat which Himself is, this very morning, intending to inflate.

He doesn't seem very excited, given the amount of time, energy and money that's gone into it but I guess this is because it doesn't have a sail. There's a lot of talk about Getting On The Water and how it Doesn't Matter not sailing (oh, yeah?) so I only hope this machine won't end up in the harbour. At the bottom. For someone who has sailed all his life, and found great freedom in doing so, a paltry engine really isn't the same, but needs must...

He's also not been well. His lungs are bad and as this is caused by scarring on the lungs, there's nothing that can be done. Well, having said that, he's on his second bottle of cough mixture because the one from the doctors (which is free) was no good. Yesterday I heard him yelling, “POP!!”

I hurried next door, wondering what on earth had gone wrong to find him pointing at his laptop. “What do you think of that?” he said, pointing to his laptop screen. On it was a picture of Benylin bottles. “Are they any good?”

“I've taken it for bronchitis,” I said. “But what about the stuff from the GP?”

“No good,” came the curt reply. “Bloody stuff. I need this stuff – it's for a different kind of cough.”

Leaves on the line came to mind but I kept quiet while he hurtled down to Superdrug before it shut. Returning, he slammed the door. “Five pounds forty,” he muttered, throwing the first dose down his neck, followed swiftly by a beer. “Let's see if this does the trick.”

Of course on the outside it says Do Not Drink Alcohol with this. But he's still here. And not coughing quite so much. So who knows?