Holidays

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.

Safe Harbours and Holidays

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.

Nowt so queer as folk..

This picture has absolutely nothing to do with this post except that I liked it.

I had a drink with a friend last week who was telling me about a friendship she'd had years ago that still bothered her.

“I met this woman at work and felt an instant connection,” she told me. “We were both with younger men; we'd both had been married twice before; we both had cats, and shared likes and dislikes in music, books, films, food – that sort of thing. We both had troublesome mothers and older brothers.”

My friend, Jane, had plenty of friends but felt that this woman was a bit different – almost like a twin. “She just made me feel really good about life,” she said. “And she told me what a difference I'd made to her life. Meeting someone who's a kindred spirit is really special.”

Then the friend was promoted and everything changed. She had to work very long hours, looked drawn and exhausted. “I knew she was under a lot of pressure, but it was as if she didn't want to talk to me about it either,” said Jane. “I realised that she was struggling and needed time to herselt, so I thought I'd better leave her alone. But part of me felt incredibly rejected. How could such a connection like that just – go?”

Jane's a Personnel Manager so she's used to dealing with other people's problems, but this one really bugged her because she couldn't talk to her friend. “I felt shut out,” she said, “and that really hurt.”

When I asked asked her how things were she shrugged. “Well, we meet up sometimes,” she said. “But when we do it's as if she's found me lacking in something and moved on.”

I pointed out that none of her other friends had ever found her anything but a staunch, loyal friend. So perhaps the fault lay in the friend, not Jane.

And then she got a phone call from the friend to say they were moving to France. Her partner had been offered a job in Paris and they were moving on.

“In a way it was a relief,” said Jane. “It meant I couldn't see her so I could forget about it.”

It seemed sad that such a promising friendship should fizzle out because of lack of communication, particularly given Jane's job. But as the old saying goes, 'there's nowt so queer as folk'.

A Piece of Heaven

Wonderful news - Cornwall Today has just won Magazine of the Year at the Press Gazette Regional Press Awards 2009!

Here is my latest walk, in the May edition, out now.

THE TREASURE OF WEST PENTIRE
A coastal walk taking in Polly Joke beach, West Pentire and Cubert Common


My husband introduced me to Polly Joke shortly after we first met: he'd lived there with his uncle and aunt in the 1960s and was keen to show me “this bit of heaven”. It's now one of our favourite walks, but is best appreciated out of season.

On a clear, bright Friday morning I set off with photographer Rebecca, my husband and Mollie Dog with a holiday sense of excitement that only a trip to Polly Joke can bring. En route were welcome bursts of colour: daffodil shoots nudging green noses skyward; purple scatterings of crocus and miniature wild iris dotted the hedgerow.

At Chiverton Cross roundabout we took the A3075 to Newquay and continued past Goonhavern until we reached a small left hand turn signposted to West Pentire and Crantock. After Crantock village we followed signs to West Pentire, and at the end of the road found Crantock Bay Hotel on our right and the Bowgie (Cornish for cow shed) pub straight ahead. A public car park is just round the corner on the left.

From this car park we returned to the main road and turned left to go through a gate leading to West Pentire Head. Peering over the tamarisk hedges to our right, the sun glistened on the River Gannel estuary and the sand dunes of Crantock Beach. We continued along this path and reached the grassy headland of West Pentire that at various times of the year is dotted with cowslips and poppies.

Today our attention was distracted by a skylark above us that winged its way, higher and higher, singing loudly as it flew – they do this to detract from their nest on the ground. Rebecca and I watched as it soared up, before plummeting back down to the ground in silence. We looked at each other in awe, but our reverie was broken by a bark from Mollie. She stood with her head on one side and I could almost see the bubble over her head saying, “what are you DOING? Come on!”

Obediently moving on, we noticed feral rock pigeons swooping and diving under the cliffs. I rushed to restrain Mollie from chasing them and we followed the coastal path round to the left, looking out on an azure sea covered in foam. We headed downhill, past the spot where my husband buried some Cornish tin jewellery for luck, forever marked by stunted tamarisk trees that are windblown and sparse.

Looking down at Polly Joke was like stumbling across a cove in paradise, it was so perfect, so unspoilt. We stood in silence, then my husband said happily, “it's just sitting there quietly, waiting for us to visit.”

It seemed it was, so we hurried down to the beach. When the tide is out, there is a wide expanse of pure golden sand, dotted with secret caves of swirly slate. These rocks were apparently formed during the Devonian period, about 350 million years ago, and quartz veins can be seen running through them.

A wide stream bisects the beach, and Mollie tore along the sand as we followed, shells crunching underfoot. Families lit half term barbecues and played games of cricket with tennis balls – a sport that an uninvited Mollie joined in with great aplomb. As usual the surfing brigade bobbed in the waves like sleek seals and sheep grazed on Kelsey Head opposite, silhouetted against a deep blue sky.

After a picnic on the beach, we crossed a footbridge and Mollie disappeared into a thicket. Nothing happened for a few minutes, then a huge rabbit lolloped out, white tail bobbing confidently as Mollie followed, with no hope of catching it. Undeterred, she chased a few more rabbits before joining us on a narrow sandy path leading inland through a valley with white pussy willow buds emerging, while buzzards mewed above, searching for prey.

Passing through several gates we emerged into a small field that is a National Trust car park and stopped. Before us was Treago Mill, and Cubert Common to our right, where the winter sunshine cast swooping shadows over the marram grass. The only sounds were the rustling stream, skylarks tweeting above, and Mollie's excited panting. No cars, no sign of life in the deserted campsite opposite. Just us. Another moment to treasure.

We passed through another gate and followed a rough track through Cubert Common looking out for Bronze Age barrows. According to legend, if any of these are disturbed, disaster will come upon Cubert village. As they are all intact, it seems that legend is a good deterrent.

Reaching another gate we saw Higher Moor on our left which is where my husband spent many of his summer holidays. Now there is a fishing pond, where a lone fisherman enjoyed the winter sun, surrounded by a gaggle of Barnacle geese. Gorsebushes sprouted behind, sprinkled with gold bloom and in the hedge was a cluster of pale yellow primroses.

Climbing the hill, Treago Farm campsite sprawled on our right and at the top of the hill we came to a T junction and turned left along the road that we came in on that led back to the car park. We walked in silence, wrapped in our thoughts, aware that it was nearly time to go. Even Mollie was quiet as we settled ourselves on a bench outside the pub.

A visit to Polly Joke is always special, but that day was even more so, for the intense clarity of the light, for the unexpected sunshine warming our backs. I carry an image with me, like a favourite snapshot in the tattered wallet of my mind. Four friends (counting Mollie of course) sitting like sparrows on a bench, drinking in the perfect splendour before us. Vibrant spray crashing off Goose Island, long waves rolling up the Gannel Estuary, and the misty outline of Trevose Head in the distance. What more could anyone wish for?

The Importance of Friends

Akelamalu has very kindly nominated me for this Friends award which is lovely and very touching. As far as I am concerned, I hope that everyone that reads this blog is – or will become - a friend – so please take this award and pass it on to whomever you think fit. We can never overestimate the importance of friends.

This came to mind over Christmas when I heard that an old friend of mine who was discovered to have a brain tumour a few months ago, had a scan before Christmas. The news isn't good. He has about four weeks. As I don't want this post to be a real dampener, I won't go into details, but suffice it to say that his personality has changed (because of the tumour) and as a result his partner is having a really bad time of it all.

She is a very gutsy lady who always goes out of her way to help others. She is gregarious, eccentric and caring, and they'd just moved house so they could spend more time together – and now this. All plans tumbled like a pack of cards.

I know she has a lot of friends who will help her through this terrible time. Family will of course as well, but family have their own responsibilities and often live far away. It's friends who are there. When you've been holding it all together and the smallest thing – like stubbing your toe – can release an outpouring of frustration, guilt, loneliness or fear. Or all of those.

It's then that I value my friends most. To be able to pick up the phone and say, in wobbly voice, “can I come round?” or “how about meeting for a drink? In five minutes?” And hearing that soothing voice the other end of the phone saying, “Yes of course, I'll be there in five minutes.”

And oh, the relief of letting it all spill out. Tears of joy or worry; actually voicing those fears that kept you awake all night and now, when exposed to the open air and a kindly friend, suddenly lose their terror. You find you can accept them; laugh over them perhaps.

And you part, later, awash with tea or wine and the best feeling of all. That warm, glowing feeling (no, not the one after sex!) but a quieter, more solid sensation that has its feet on the ground. It is steadying and precious and available to us all to be shared.

Years ago,when I moved to Falmouth and bemoaned leaving all my friends behind, my dear friend Av said, “When you share a problem with someone, that's when they become a friend.”

It hadn't occurred to me until she said it, and of course how right she is.

So in honour of all our friends, and to those especially in need, please pass this post on.

Callington Art School

We had a great weekend which started off with a very interesting time interviewing the couple who run the Callington Art School. For any of you painters, have a look at their website – she’s a well established art teacher and painter herself and caters for adults, children, teachers, residential and day courses. The studio is in a converted coach house with amazing light and I would really recommend a visit, virtual or otherwise.

They also run a B&B in their house which has the most welcoming feeling – it’s just like walking into someone’s family house that they’ve lived in for years. Friendly atmosphere, walls covered in Tessa’s paintings, loads of bookcases, big sash windows that let in lots of light, and gorgeous bedrooms that are all en suite.

The kitchen is big enough to house a long table where everyone sits and eats and the room is again light and comfortably cluttered, with the cat stalking in and out. I think the cooking is probably great – I was offered a cafetiere of decaff coffee and a plate of home made looking biscuits (not easy to eat and interview, sadly), and Peter was stirring something delicious smelling in a large le Creuset pot on the stove.

They’ve invested a lot of time, money and emotional effort into this place so do give it a try or pass the word round.

The rest of the weekend passed in a haze of catching up with lots of friends, walks and sleep. I was so peopled out by Saturday night I could hardly speak (quite an achievement for me).

But thank you Mum for a lovely weekend. She ordered her first book from Amazon yesterday so I hope this will be the start of a long and happy relationship…

A Musical Family

I’m exhausted this morning, recovering from a musical soiree. That’s a slightly grand description of last night, but it was a very late night for us.

I started off with rehearsals for Pajama Game where we sang more numbers and learnt the steps to Seven and a Half Cents. The new choreographer is tiny, with huge eyes and long un-mascara-d eyes, and is young enough to be my granddaughter (well, nearly). But she has patience and understanding which makes her a great teacher. Just as well – trying to teach thirty lumbering adults steps to a number in a small room is not easy.

But I got a real buzz from it. Being in at the beginning of a production is very exciting – like starting a novel, it’s a real adventure, full of unknowns. New people, a new plot, new songs, new moves and who knows who will play whom?

Auditions are all day on Sunday so as you can imagine, the atmosphere was electric. Everyone eyeing each other up, while being nice and smiley, thinking, “I want that part. I want it so much that – or should I go for Babe? Or Mabel. Perhaps I’ll go for them all.”

Given my dubious health this year I’ve opted to go for the chorus which will be taxing and time consuming enough, but that means I don’t have to attend auditions – though I might call in and see how it’s going.

Anyway, after that I drove a friend home then went back down to town where Himself was sitting in with a jazz band for the first time in nine years. He was very nervous but a friend had rung that morning to say her husband was also sitting in and would Himself come and join them, so it made that first time a bit easier.

In fact the band was run by someone he knows and it was her father and mother who came along to sit in – Bob is a wonderful sax player and Ruth sings with a raunchy blues voice. A wonderfully talented pair, and their daughter led the band playing guitar (she also plays the bull fiddle) so they’re a very musical family.

Himself played several numbers in the second half and excelled himself. He even played a solo which he’d refused to do, thinking he wasn’t good enough. When he and Bob played, the influx of students who’d suddenly materialised started stamping and shouting, whistling and clapping. Outside people peered in through the windows to see who was playing. The bored youngsters serving in the chippy opposite stood up and started jiving behind the counter.

Boy, was I proud.

Especially for Dog Lovers

Yesterday was a very sad day. On Tuesday Mollie and I went out walking with Viv and her very elderly Jack Russell, Sammy. Sammy arrived in Viv’s home 17 years ago and has, as you can imagine, been part of the family ever since. If not ruled the roost. We had a lovely walk, sorted the world out, and, as usual, Sammy bossed Mollie around (“bloody kids, no respect for their elders”) though she did look a bit tired on the way home so Viv carried her for the last bit.

Viv rang yesterday morning in tears and I had a horrible premonition which was right. Sammy died yesterday morning. "It was my fault," she cried. "That was a long walk for an old dog. It was too much for her.”

This had crossed my mind, but I said firmly, “Absolutely not. Her last outing was a lovely walk with her Mum. What better way to go?”

Poor Viv hiccuped down the phone and said, “Thanks, I feel much better now.” And we both cried for another ten minutes.

For those of you who don’t have dogs, it must seem strange that we are so utterly distraught when anything happens to our dogs. But they are our children, they’re part of us. Mollie is my first dog but I can’t imagine life without her now. She crept into my heart as a little scrap of a thing and now is lodged there, forever.

I’ve been wondering how best to comfort Viv and was considering taking her to a rescue centre. When she’s had time to grieve, which could take some time. Then I remembered meeting a friend last week whose lurcher cross is having puppies in a month’s time. “You don’t know of anyone who wants a puppy, do you?” she said. “I want them to go to a really good home.”

So now I have two possibilities.

On a brighter note, I was walking Moll this morning when I met a mum who got Poppy, a rescue greyhound. This young mum has two young children (2 and 4) so she’s got her hands full, but took on Poppy who had suffered terrible traumas which I can’t bear to repeat. Poor Poppy just stood and shook at first. Now, 4 months on, she’s a different dog. She bounds along, plays with other dogs, tolerates being crawled over by the children and can even greet men (her torturer was male).

When I said how lovely it was to see Poppy looking so happy, the mum smiled and her face lit up. “We’ve never had a dog before, so it didn’t matter having one with special needs,” she said. “We didn’t have anything to compare her to.”

She made me feel humble and inspired at the same time. If only there were more people like her in this world.

Who on earth would read my food column?

Himself usually does the cooking in our house. This is from self defence, as he's interested in food and I’m not, really. I know most people will fall down in horror at that admission, but it's true. Food is something I have to consume in order to write, to go for long walks, to enjoy life.

Whenever we have friends round for a meal (which isn’t that often), Himself is in charge of the food which means everyone is amply fed (he cooks enough for an army) and there is enough wine for a platoon. Mind you, everyone seems to stay until the small hours, so they evidently enjoy themselves. If I was in charge, there would be a big casserole, jacket spuds followed by cheese and biscuits. (Note minimum amount to cook, can all be prepared in advance.) There's also a good chance that we might not have enough. Worse admission. I have an inability to judge correctly how much people eat. This is something I have inherited from my mother.

When we go shopping and He’s in charge, the trolley is loaded and we spend our entire monthly food budget in one fell swoop and eat baked beans for the rest of the month.

His choice of menu is usually something like this:-
bowls of crisps, peanuts etc to nibble before the meal, oh and dips as well
Main course – Two mammoth cottage pies with several platefuls of vegetables
Large bowl of prawns for vegetarians, plus salad and new potatoes
Pudding – Groaning bowl of trifle and/or ice cream
Cheese and biscuits
Coffee with dishes of smarties and those chocolate matchstick things.
All this is washed down with bottles of wine which, luckily, the guests bring lots of.

I once tried to suggest that the menu could be more balanced, but that fell on deaf ears. And I have to say, most of it usually gets eaten. The men, in particular, dig in until they can’t move.

Last night, Himself was watching Celebrity Masterchef and started chuckling. ‘Why don’t you write a column about food, Flowerpot?’ he said, evidently enjoying the look of horror on my face. For once, I was lost for words. What would I say?

Tall Ships and Apricots

Gwen has gone and the flat has a different feel to it without her, as if someone's missing. Which they are. At least I was able to buy her a top for her birthday (on Saturday) which was an achievement - as one of the world's most generous friends, she finds it difficult to accept presents. Are you listening, Gwennie?! I put her on the bus to Truro looking very forlorn, clutching two huge bags and her mobile phone. She was very dog sick while she was here, desperately missing her chocolate lab, Dylan and her boxer, Walker, though Mollie provided some small comfort (small being the operative word after the size of Gwen's dogs). The phone was important as she carried pictures of her Beloved Boys, and also one of Mollie that she sent to Dylan as a present.

She'd be furious to find out that the tall ship, Artemis, sailed into Falmouth yesterday afternoon, in torrential rain. A small tall ship, as they go - sort of family sized, and perfect for Gwen, who's fascinated by ships. But that birthday present was not to be.

So life has returned to the usual frustrations - two features editors refusing to answer calls, more calls from elderly James, and trying to get on with editing the current novel. James wanted some cat food delivered, but when we arrived, James looked blank. 'Er, I'm sorry,' he said, with an apologetic grin. 'It's very nice to see you, but why are you here?' We explained about the catfood and he broke into a smile. 'Ah!' he cried. 'Yes! As it happens, I'm just about to run out.'

He then went on to reveal that his kitchen drain was blocked, and, after much guddling around (Himself being of a practical nature, he's good at unblocking drains), he found the offending objects. A pound of apricots and a silver spoon. Knowing James, he'll probably recycle the apricots for breakfast. And the silver spoon. How can you not love someone like that?