Today
Terrible rain everywhere. According to whom you pay attention, a month's rain in one day or 6 months' rain in one day. Who cares who's right; it probably depends on where you live. Those poor folk in Sheffield. It's all very well to blame the Environment Agency, but if you planned for all of these things the costs would cause an outcry instead.
Closer to home, Lizzie, not for the first time, decided that Glasto is really not much fun when everything is covered in mud and wetness. Her mobile phone's ruined and her hippie spirit is certainly tempered with a fondness for hot showers and decent beds. So she decamped (literally) on Sunday.
In My Day
Camping! At some point someone (maybe a boy scout) tried to tell us that sleeping in a makeshift home, with a wet, dark walk to the nearest loos is fun!
Early in our marriage, we decided to buy a tent. It was a frame tent with zipped inner sleeping compartments. It took ages to get up and I still marvel that our marriage survived those discussions.
We took it to Devon (the sun mostly shone, so I coped) Cornwall (when we shared it with 2 other people, so cosy) and a number of short breaks.
In 1977 I had a whole week off - jubilee week, to be exact. I was very pregnant with Becky and we took the tent to Presteigne in Wales. Got the tent erected close to a nice little stream and settled down to a nice break.
Does anyone remember queen's silver jubilee week? how it rained and rained and rained? (Rather like the coronation itself). Lizzie insisted that we have a jubilee supper with as much RW&B as we could muster. We had to try to cook and eat it tucked in under the flaps, hiding from the pouring rain.
Eventually couldn't stand it any longer. Dismantled the soaking wet tent, drove to my brother's in the Midlands and begged a bath and overnight stay. Home where we had to leave the tent spread on the lounge floor for about 4 days before it dried.
And I've never camped (except on the Inca Trail) since.
The tent died after its very own Glasto experience when it wasn't dried by the borrowers at all and simply dissolved into mildewy fragments. I was rather glad of this excuse not to have to use it again.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Goodbye, Baby
Today
A very sad time for my personal trainer, whose little boy died this week. He developed a brain tumour about 8 months ago and his parents have gone through the hell of invasive treatments, the flaring up and dying down of hope.
He was only 2 and can hardly have understood what was happening to him. Why he had to be separated from his parents in an alien environment, why he'd lost his so newly acquired skills of walking and talking, why he hurt so much.
While his parents must know that they did all they could for him, they must also wonder about whether the suffering caused by the treatments was worth the eventual outcome.
In My Day
We felt somewhat similarly when my nephew's baby died, after just 3 days of premature life, a few years ago. Her parents went through the treatment hell of IVF to have her and her grip on life was just too weak for her to last.
We can never know what pain or anguish she suffered and cannot really judge whether, for her, it would have been better not to have invaded her tiny body with tubes and attachments, so that our image of her (and indeed, the only photo we have) is of an isolated scrap, effectively tied into a cot. And so that she could let go with baby dignity.
To lose a child, and so young, must bring the worst of all pain and my heart goes out to them and all who've suffered likewise.
A very sad time for my personal trainer, whose little boy died this week. He developed a brain tumour about 8 months ago and his parents have gone through the hell of invasive treatments, the flaring up and dying down of hope.
He was only 2 and can hardly have understood what was happening to him. Why he had to be separated from his parents in an alien environment, why he'd lost his so newly acquired skills of walking and talking, why he hurt so much.
While his parents must know that they did all they could for him, they must also wonder about whether the suffering caused by the treatments was worth the eventual outcome.
In My Day
We felt somewhat similarly when my nephew's baby died, after just 3 days of premature life, a few years ago. Her parents went through the treatment hell of IVF to have her and her grip on life was just too weak for her to last.
We can never know what pain or anguish she suffered and cannot really judge whether, for her, it would have been better not to have invaded her tiny body with tubes and attachments, so that our image of her (and indeed, the only photo we have) is of an isolated scrap, effectively tied into a cot. And so that she could let go with baby dignity.
To lose a child, and so young, must bring the worst of all pain and my heart goes out to them and all who've suffered likewise.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Burghthday boy
Today
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In 1957, my parents took a caravan in Challaborou
gh bay, which is more or less opposite the Island. It rained nearly every day and Mamma & Daddy must have been at the end of their wits trying to keep us all amused. They organised many trips, one of which was to Burgh Island. The family album shows that Daddy spelled it "Borough" Island.
Just returned from a weekend celebrating Paul's 57th birthday. I decided to take him to Burgh Island, which is situated just off the South Devon coast near Kingsbridge. The island is cut off from the land at high tide; at low there's a sandy causeway over which you can walk or drive. When the tide's in the Sea Tractor takes you. It's an amazing contraption, now in its 3rd incarnation.
The island has a hotel on it. It's Art Deco and many famous people such as Agatha Christie and Noel Coward stayed there. Agatha Christie wrote "Evil Under the Sun" whilst on the island.
The hotel's been refurbished and is now a luxury retreat. We ate splendidly, drank champagne and cocktails and actually danced the foxtrot & waltz on Saturday night, despite the very tiny dance floor. Other guests were very sociable and on Saturday night Paul rounded off the evening by conducting a small group in "Jerusalem", sung enthusiastically but with the effects of the many cocktails evident in the lack of tune or time.
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We sat outside the Pilchard Inn in the afternoon sunshine, drinking cider and watching children play on the sands which were rapidly shrinking as the sea encroached from both sides.
In My Day
In 1957, my parents took a caravan in Challaborou
gh bay, which is more or less opposite the Island. It rained nearly every day and Mamma & Daddy must have been at the end of their wits trying to keep us all amused. They organised many trips, one of which was to Burgh Island. The family album shows that Daddy spelled it "Borough" Island.
We did go on the Sea Tractor (an earlier version), but I don't remember the hotel at all. I do remember the Pilchard Inn - I probably found the name very funny - and also that everything was rather down at heel.
We spent plenty of time, as children should, clambering over rocks and playing in the pools left behind by the tide. I found the whole idea of possibly being cut off by the tide sort of deliciously scary. The day we spent on the island gave us the best weather of the week and my back got rather sunburnt as no-one had heard of factor 50 then.
I wrote a diary of that week and it's still safely tucked up in the album and I've always remembered that particular holiday as one of the best of my childhood.
Which gave returning to it an especial resonance as well as being a most enjoyable experience.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Seasoned traveller
Today
I've been having lots of fun lately, planning our European tour with our Canadian great-niece. She's not quite 15, but I took rather a shine to her and thought it would be fun to see some of the continent through the eyes of a Trans-Atlantic teenager.
Ah! The Internet! Booking hotels, the ferry crossing, planning the itinerary, booking tickets for events (we're seeing opera in Verona and Jazz in Montreux), everything so easy and done in a moment. And the credit card - all paid for invisibly, so it seems. Of course, it does help if you don't have to spend hours trying to penny-pinch here and there.
We're going for just over 2 weeks in mid-July and will travel in France, Italy and Switzerland. We'll take the E-class as it's big enough for our bits and pieces.
In My Day
My other big European tour was back in 1968. All the world's young people were travelling, it seemed, using nothing but their thumbs and a lot of courage. So my friend Angela and I decided that we would take some time out one summer and do the same. We each scraped together £40.00 by dint of begging from parents, saving from our grants and doing a little casual work here and there.
We did take the precaution of pre-booking a couple of hostels in the bigger tourist spots and we bought a road map of Europe. Otherwise we played in by ear. In 6 weeks we covered: France, Italy, Greece, Crete, Yugoslavia, Austria, Germany, Belgium. We got home unscathed, with a fiver to spare and traveller's tales to dine out on for the rest of our lives.
We slept in hostels, tents, the decks of ferries, fields, the beach, caves cut into cliffs and, once, in the cab of a lorry driver in Turin. We ate whatever we were given, and lived off the cheapest food available. (This was often veg, fruit and bread). We met people of all ages and types, some exceptionally kind, some needlessly unpleasant. (The story of our escape from 2 Tunisians outside Paris and how we spent the night in the woods would make a story all of its own.) We spent a fair amount of time persuading various males that we were not available for cash, lifts or otherwise.
It was all part of being young and free in the '60s and I've never forgotten it.
I shan't sneer at 5 stars, lovely meals and good hairdryers this time around, tho'.
I've been having lots of fun lately, planning our European tour with our Canadian great-niece. She's not quite 15, but I took rather a shine to her and thought it would be fun to see some of the continent through the eyes of a Trans-Atlantic teenager.
Ah! The Internet! Booking hotels, the ferry crossing, planning the itinerary, booking tickets for events (we're seeing opera in Verona and Jazz in Montreux), everything so easy and done in a moment. And the credit card - all paid for invisibly, so it seems. Of course, it does help if you don't have to spend hours trying to penny-pinch here and there.
We're going for just over 2 weeks in mid-July and will travel in France, Italy and Switzerland. We'll take the E-class as it's big enough for our bits and pieces.
In My Day
My other big European tour was back in 1968. All the world's young people were travelling, it seemed, using nothing but their thumbs and a lot of courage. So my friend Angela and I decided that we would take some time out one summer and do the same. We each scraped together £40.00 by dint of begging from parents, saving from our grants and doing a little casual work here and there.
We did take the precaution of pre-booking a couple of hostels in the bigger tourist spots and we bought a road map of Europe. Otherwise we played in by ear. In 6 weeks we covered: France, Italy, Greece, Crete, Yugoslavia, Austria, Germany, Belgium. We got home unscathed, with a fiver to spare and traveller's tales to dine out on for the rest of our lives.
We slept in hostels, tents, the decks of ferries, fields, the beach, caves cut into cliffs and, once, in the cab of a lorry driver in Turin. We ate whatever we were given, and lived off the cheapest food available. (This was often veg, fruit and bread). We met people of all ages and types, some exceptionally kind, some needlessly unpleasant. (The story of our escape from 2 Tunisians outside Paris and how we spent the night in the woods would make a story all of its own.) We spent a fair amount of time persuading various males that we were not available for cash, lifts or otherwise.
It was all part of being young and free in the '60s and I've never forgotten it.
I shan't sneer at 5 stars, lovely meals and good hairdryers this time around, tho'.
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