Jesamine, Molly, and me – Jane Lomas

28th August 2025

There’s a change in the air. Hot days and humid nights have been brushed away by cool breezes and rain as fine as gossamer. My favourite time of the year is so near I can taste it on my sea-salted skin and feel it in my wind-whipped hair.

Blackberries and horse chestnuts are ripening which is far too early and I worry for the birds that rely on them later in the year. The fruits are small and I wonder how long it would take to pick enough for a crumble. I’ve seen people collecting them, their tubs only half-filled.

The sea here has been magnificent over the last few days – a combination of the effects of Storm Erin and a spring tide. There have been reports of experienced swimmers and surfers getting into trouble and the RNLI have been busy. I read a social media post from a regular sea swimmer who was taken out by a rip current and she did what she thought would help (and is advised) – she tried to swim across from it but she wasn’t able and kept being pushed further out to sea. A paddleboarder noticed and paddled out to her so she could hang on to the board until the RNLI came. Although the sea is lovely and warm, I’ll keep out of it until it’s calmed again.

I watched the waves crashing against the rocky shoreline from a cliff on the Hartland Peninsula. It was breathtaking. I’d gone to collect some sloes to make sloe gin and I walked further than I’d intended, with frequent stops to watch the sea raging and feel the wind on my face. I wonder if my sloe gin will taste better for being kissed by salt-laden sea breezes? My practical side says that of course it won’t, but the romantic in me says that it will. That the memory of that evening, out on the cliffs, is as bottled as the sloes and will taste all the better for it.

My legs are still recovering from the walk – for someone who’s not keen on hills and steps, I chose a strange place to live. But there is the sea. And I think that’s in my soul.

7th August, 2025

I’ve recently had the privilege of being one of the judges for a short story competition. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience and the range of themes and styles of delivery were interesting. Some stories pulled me in at the first sentence, others were intriguing and I had to read on. I had to chose and rate my top six which was difficult and I read each story at least three times. When I’ve received rejections for my own writing, a phrase that often comes up is ‘judging is subjective’. Now I’ve been on this side of things I definitely agree. Everyone has their favourite food, drink, holiday… and it’s the same with writing. A story that resonates with one judge, may not so much with another. To enter a competition is a brave thing – you put yourself out there, knowing that you stand a chance of rejection. And this is why judging was a privilege and I treated each work with empathy and care – as I hope that my work is treated when I send it out there.

My own writing’s been a little slow for the last couple of months but I do have the excuse that I’ve moved house. I’ve given up soft, gentle Suffolk for wild and rugged North Devon. It’s not quite Shetland, which will always be such a special place for me, but I’m definitely in my ‘Shetland vibe’. I’m walking more and I’m only a short distance from the sea. I can see the river from my home and I love watching the herring gulls, small egret and heron. A female blackbird is a regular in my tiny garden (I’m looking forward to re-doing the garden in the spring and will draw up a plan over the winter), and I’ve seen tiny, baby crabs in the pools of water left when the tide goes out. But best of all are the walks by the sea, my hair whipped by the wind, my feet smoothed by the sand.

And writing’s coming back to me. With all this soul and heart soothing, how could it not? But discipline’s another thing… when the outside calls, how can I resist?

All good things come in threes

I’m not a lover of superstitious ‘facts’ but I have to admit that this has been true for me during the past couple of weeks or so in the writing world (if you ignore the rejections, that is!).

Scunthorpe Blast Furnaces, image courtesy of Scunthorpe Live

Recently I’ve been writing short snippets of memoir, flash fiction, creative non fiction and short stories that are influenced by my working class roots and my start in life in Scunthorpe. I’ve been thinking about lives ruled by shifts and sweat, by pints at the pub and a game of darts. And then suddenly, Scunthorpe was in the news – possible shut down forever, and then a government intervention to keep the blast furnaces going. It was serendipitous that my research and scribblings might fit a call-out for a short piece by Mslexia magazine (the magazine for women who write). So I submitted and they liked it…. and it’s scheduled to be printed in Issue 106 for June/July/August 2025. I didn’t think anyone would want a piece about Scunthorpe… and I’m chuffed that they did.

I’ve also been writing about relationships (which I usually do) and exploring, in particular, conflict within families and resolution (if any) that can be found. I must state that this exploration is purely fictional but is sometimes inspired by my reading. The poem, ‘White Basin’ by Lindy Barbour had a profound effect on me. It is the kind of poem that yields more each time I read it. The poem is told with love about a woman too weak to wash herself. I particularly love the lines:

‘Each morning I held her upright as her white hands/swam like little fishes through the warm water…’

This inspired me to write a piece about an elderly mother and her daughter and how they have been estranged but have now come together. My favourite lines from my little piece are:

‘And when she is at last turbaned and warming by the fire, our guards slump a little and we revisit our unforgotten ghosts, calling them in one by one.’

I was chuffed that Ink Sweat & Tears accepted this piece called ‘Gilded by a Thousand Sorrows’. Ink Sweat & Tears is a great UK based webzine ‘which publishes and reviews poetry, prose, prose-poetry, word & image pieces and everything in between. Our tastes are eclectic and magpie-like and we aim to publish something new every day’. Check them out if you have a few minutes – I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.

And finally, I applied for, and was accepted, as a voluntary judge for the Henshaw Press short story competition. I’m pretty chuffed about this and looking forward to reading my first batch of stories in July. This is a great quarterly competition where proceeds are used for buying books for a chosen school. So if you’ve got something you think might fit, submit it and know that your entry fee is going towards a good cause.

In the meantime, I’m still working on my next novel, my final uni assignment for this year (I finish my degree in June next year – hurrah!), and miscellaneous short pieces. And I’ve got everything crossed for another batch of threes (of the good kind, obviously!).

The good, the bad, and the mediocre

My parents used to say that home is your sanctuary. As soon as you open the door and step into the outside world, it’s just a game of chance as to what you will find: it might be good, it might be bad, or even mediocre. But in opening that door you are taking a leap of faith that you will be greeted with good or mediocre… who wants the bad?

It’s a bit more tricky in today’s world of emails, messages and social media. When I was a teenager there was one telephone on the hall table and phone calls were treasured moments of connection. Bad news was likely to come in the post (as well as good and mediocre, of course). But today you don’t really know what you’re going to get even if you are in the sanctuary of your home. Which sometimes leads me, when I’m feeling vulnerable, to avoid social media and even messaging at times. Even off-hand comments can knock me off my perch, and I don’t think Molly, my old greyhound, is likely to pick me up again, set me back on my feet, and laugh the whole thing off. (By the way – I really don’t like being like this. This was never a thing until Tim’s death. Grief changes a person in so many ways.)

So there I was, messaging friends on Mother’s Day who have lost mums and feeling so grateful that I still have my lovely mum and I didn’t fully realise I was unlocking the door, dipping a toe in the outside world, opening myself up to be greeted by good, bad or mediocre.

I was met with good – of course I was. I have lovely friends. But then a good turned into a completely unintentional bad. I was reminded of a friend’s fortieth wedding anniversary. which is good. But they married the same year as Tim and me, and I should have known this, of course I should. But I’d been so overwhelmed and was back on my perch after the anniversary of his death, that I wasn’t thinking ahead to July.

And then, of course, the missing came back in waves. I’m still on my perch. Still holding on and walking, walking, walking… but, my goodness, it’s jolly hard.

But then there has been good news, too. I was reminded that it’s three years since I trekked from the Dead Sea to Petra surviving a sandstorm, running out of water and getting stuck on a mountain in the dark, and losing a toenail but gaining many blisters. A small price to pay for the money I raised for the Brain Tumour Charity (over £4k – thank you to everyone who so kindly gave).

And a small press messaged to ask if they could include one of my blog posts in an anthology about grief that they’re putting together. I’m so looking forward to reading this collection of short pieces and poetry. Often by reading what other people have to say, it helps to articulate how I feel. And it helps to know that I’m not alone.

I’m lucky. So very lucky. I’ll never lose sight of that. And while I can walk, I can be.

Memory Lane

Recently I found myself driving down a lane where a memory was so strong that I had to stop the car, get out and just stand there.

A little over six years ago it was unusual for me to leave the house alone. I’d become Tim’s carer and our weeks were punctuated by his many hospital visits and visitors to our home. My life was no longer my own and I ran on autopilot, on a timetable that was sometimes difficult to manoeuvre. Of course, the hospital appointments and the outreach health professionals took priority, but it was impossible to keep the volume of people happy who wanted to visit. Tim was exhausted. I was exhausted. I’m not sure that anyone understood how much time it took me to get Tim dressed and downstairs every day, and then back up again at night. How long it took to get him into the wheelchair, then into the car, fold up the wheelchair and put it in the boot, and finally drive an hour to his hospital appointment. And then, of course, the whole procedure in reverse.

There was a day – and I remember it very clearly – when we had no hospital appointments and no visitors. The children came to sit with Tim and I escaped to my own GP, for an appointment about my face which had erupted into a painful red rash. I was in perfect control. At least, I thought I was. But she asked me about Tim and then she asked me how I was coping. I glossed it over, as I was used to doing. But then she asked me again. It was at that moment that I realised that I wasn’t coping at all. Not with the hospital appointments, the endless phone calls, emails, texts, visitors. Not with the slow, unwavering march towards his death.

I drove away with a tube of ointment for my face. I remember the sky was that low, dark, brooding type of sky when it feels as if you could jump up and pierce the clouds. The air was heavy; I felt as if I was suffocating, waiting for, praying for rain.

I turned off along this particular lane and I parked the car, I got out and walked the length of it and then back. And then I did it again. I prayed for rain, I prayed for sleet, hail, wind, not this stillness, this watchfulness. I wanted the sky to stop holding its breath and hit me with everything it had.

I cried. Not the secret, silent weeping I’d become so good at, but huge, heaving sobs. I held my face up to the sky and begged for rain.

There was nothing.

Not a whisper of breeze or a movement of cloud.

Nothing.

I drove home to find my family cuddled up in front of the television. They all smiled at me. And I’ll never forget the look in Tim’s eyes – those beautiful, brown eyes. They were full of love. He could no longer speak, and yet somehow he didn’t need to. I made tea and sat with them, enjoying this rare, special time together.

So, the other day I walked a little along the lane. This time the sky was a pale blue and the budding trees danced slowly in the breeze. My heart beat a little louder but there was no urge to scream or sob, just the acknowledgement that everything since that time has been gilded by sorrow.

I got back in the car and set off home. The emptiness inside grew bigger and bigger, and in a little while I realised I am still the mistress of secret, silent weeping.

In search of the lunar eclipse

Luckily I’m an early riser and when I tuned into the Griffith Observatory’s Facebook page, the eclipse had just started. It was barely anything at all. The commentator said it would be seventy-five minutes until the eclipse was complete. So I went to make a cup of tea and there, through the kitchen window, the moon was shining. I went to grab my camera but by the time I got back my view of the moon had been swaddled in cloud.

Ho-hum – it was still dark and a chilly -1C outside so I took my tea and laptop and went back to bed to watch it in comfort. By now, the moon looked like a black and white drawing, the artist erasing one small part of the edge, as if they weren’t quite happy with the shape. I finished my tea and went back to the kitchen. The sky was lightening but still no sight of the moon.

And then I saw a glow through the trees. Maybe I might catch a glimpse after all. I hurriedly threw on a coat (and one on Molly, too) and we charged into the garden. We were stopped by the gate – the lock had frozen. So back to the kitchen for warm water and then we were out into the fields.

It was magical. The air so fresh and cold and the fields painted with crackling frost. I spotted a couple of dog walkers in the adjacent field and we waved. But otherwise we were alone, in the silence… and the grey-washed sky.

We didn’t hurry our walk. I marvelled at the beauty of the world. Yes, in these flat, Suffolk fields. I know there are spectacular places but beauty’s not a competition, after all. To me, at that moment, the beauty was overwhelming.

At home, I switched my laptop back on and marvelled at the eclipse, at the ‘moon look[ing] orange with a copper hue’ as the commentator said.

Photo of a frosty graveyard glimpsed through trees.

I made a pot of tea and set about making eggs benedict – but without the pot, the hollandaise sauce, ham or muffin. Basically a mug of tea and poached eggs on toast.

But sometimes, it’s the way you look at things that matters. I had a fabulous time searching for the lunar eclipse, and a breakfast fit for a queen.

When the earth is sliding…. just walk

Weatherwise, it’s been a glorious weekend here in Suffolk. Warm temperatures and blue skies. Sticky mud drying out to hard ruts. Early morning fog has lain across fields like a heavy, damp blanket. But in the pockets of dispersal, I’ve glimpsed a fox slinking across the field, and as the inky darkness turned almost imperceptibly to a shade of grey, the birds began to wake, trying out their voices, tentatively starting their day. And just a few minutes along, there was the barn owl and on still, the kestrel sitting on a high wire, breathing in the sun.

On a personal level, things have been tricky. Days and nights filled with worry and uncertainty. It has felt as if the earth, my earth, is sliding and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Added to which, it’s brain tumour awareness month and in a few weeks time, it will be six years since Tim fell asleep for the final time.

It’s a lot. A lot to keep a person in bed, afraid to get up in case there is more.

But I learned nearly six years ago, during my month in Shetland, that the only thing to do when the earth is sliding is to walk. So I put my boots on and grabbed Molly’s lead. We didn’t go far, but took a stroll along the riverbank. We saw swans and moorhens. An egret taking flight. A flock of Brent geese preened and lolled in a field. Molly ran from pure joy and then paddled in the river.

I breathed in the heady scent of wild garlic, stopped to take in a spray of daffodils and a drift of snowdrops. And I held my face to the sky, letting the sun warm and comfort me and listen to it telling me that everything will be all right.

The week ahead will be filled with a huge workload, longing, missing, wishing. But these slow walks have helped me to remember there is hope. And I will carry that with me.

18th August, 2024

A few days ago I went back. Back to a place that felt like ‘our’ place. A little village where we spent summer holidays, nestled in the South Hams countryside beside the gentle River Yealm. I had a yearning, a need to go back, to remember a time before. A time when we were blissfully unaware of the things that lay ahead.

My heart soared as I drove into the village and parked up. A car pulled in behind and a man jumped out and asked if I knew the way to the Dolphin pub. I felt like a local as I explained the way and Molly and I set off for our walk along the river. We passed the cottages we’ve stayed in, pausing now and then to breathe in the memories (well, that was me, not Molly… it was her first trip) and listen to the laughter and shouts from the river. The tide was in so the causeway to the village opposite was submerged and I remembered how we would be impatient to cross and would take our shoes off and wade across when the river was low enough. I remembered how the children spent hours crabbing on the causeway; how we swam across the river and down to the little harbour (and how I struggled to swim back against the outgoing tide!). How we hired a rowing boat, and how in the early mornings we would watch the sun rise and the river awaken.

I was home.

I wandered along to the Dolphin. We would always spend our first evening here (and a few subsequent ones) and I ordered a shandy. A man raised his pint glass to me and said ‘You should have ordered apple juice’. And, yes, I should, I explained, but I’m driving. But that had always been my first drink: a pint of dry cider marked the start of my holiday. And oh, how I wished I was staying here for a while.

I chose a settee near the open door, in the shade for Molly, where I could look outside at the river and the people passing. And I remembered the ledge outside that Tim and I sat on one lunchtime when our teenage children were off doing other things. We’d wandered to the pub and got talking to a solo traveller from Australia. She’d taken our photograph and said how in love we looked. I remember that we laughed, I suppose that we were in love and were happy it showed. I thought how brave she was venturing out into the world alone and I vaguely wondered what that would be like. I should’ve shut that thought down right then. Did I invite the troubles in? Or was meeting this woman an omen? I don’t know. But I’m grateful we spent time with her and that she took that photo.

The shandy was finished much too quickly. It was time to move on.

But I’d come home.

And I’d fallen in love again.

10th December, 2023

I’ve had a rough few weeks for which there seems to be no reason for feeling down. I’ve done some lovely, special things but, I suppose, at this time of year, being on my own feels more present than it usually does. And I’m not on my own in this. So many people feel even more alone when it feels as if the rest of the world is celebrating and spending time with friends and family. I’m lucky this year: I have family plans for Christmas Day and Boxing Day. How lovely is that? I have so much to be grateful for. And, believe me, I am so, so grateful.

I hadn’t expected this weekend to be particularly special but out of the blue, I was invited to a pre-Christmas gathering this afternoon. And yesterday evening, new, dear friends popped in for half-an-hour and stayed for three! My heart was full when they left. They befriended me when I first moved here – they didn’t know I was widowed so there was no sympathy or the awkwardness that comes with that. They like me for me. Wow. Can you imagine how that feels? It’s pretty special – and a new one for me. We laughed – gosh, did we laugh. And we talked and although the minutes slipped by, the moment will stay with me for a long time.

This morning I slept late and took Molly for a walk before getting glammed up. I walked the five-minutes to the gathering which was already in full flow. when I arrived. Those of you who know me, know that the thought of walking into a room full of people will make me run a mile. But from the moment I entered I was shown kindness and smiles. Someone took my coat, another pushed a glass of champagne into my hand, my cheek was kissed, I was wrapped in warmth and love. Yes, love. The gathering was larger than I’d thought and I only knew about half the people but I met lovely new people and as my glass kept being refilled and the platters of warm nibbles came round, I circulated. For a change I didn’t stand in one spot feeling awkward and watching the clock. And there was a moment when I gazed around the room and breathed it all in.

I left just before dusk. I walked past homes decorated for Christmas. Curtains not yet drawn, I peeked in and saw a man playing the piano, children watching television, a bookcase so tall and wide it looked as if it filled the room. As I took photos a man joked with me and did a silly pose, a dog walker smiled and said hello. The lights were on in the church and I know that the choir would be practising for Evensong.

Life is all around me. Families, aloneness. No matter what, it’s life. I have always believed that most people are kind and do little things that seem so unimportant but have huge consequences. And it’s these little kindnesses that give the shine to life. The love we show one another is what it’s all about. I came home to a cold, dark house… and Molly. She was so pleased to see me. I set about lighting a fire and putting the oven on for dinner.

So now I haven’t yet drawn the curtains; it’s too early to shut the world out. The Christmas tree lights are on and the fire is lit and I wonder if people wander past and smile. Do they peek inside and see a happy dog and a woman in a posh frock, smiling as she potters about while the fire warms the house. I hope the tree lights make them smile and I hope that they are at peace this evening. I hope that in a tiny way I am spreading kindness from my small world.

And yes, I have a head full of champagne but I can’t help but feel how lucky I am. And how wonderful this life can be.

11th November, 2023

Yesterday I took a little trip to Grantchester to follow in the footsteps of Lord Byron, Virginia Woolf, Rupert Brooke…….

It’s a charming village but Molly and I spent much of our time walking through Grantchester Meadows to Skaters’ Meadow in Cambridge. It’s now a wildlife reserve but from 1920 to 1940 it used to be flooded in the winter so it would freeze. It cost 6d for an evening’s ice-skating. After a bit of imagining what fun that would’ve been, and what I might’ve worn in 1920 for an evening on the ice, Molly and I set off back to Grantchester. We retraced our steps, taking the soggy path that hugs the river which isn’t a path at all, just a ribbon of mud snaking through the emerald grass. It was slippery and slow going, giving time to breathe in the cool air and watch the clouds in the cotton-blue sky turn from white brush strokes to low, grey slicks. We watched cows move from one meadow to another in that slow, rolling way they have. We watched ducks, a heron and a couple of cormorants. And I felt as if I were in a Thomas Hardy novel (not in hiking trousers and boots, obviously, but wearing a gown with some old-fashioned skates slung over my shoulder).

A paved path runs the course at the top of the meadows and I saw joggers and cyclists, mums with prams and couples holding hands. Its a popular walk and I’ve heard that in the summer the meadows are busy. But I liked the near solitude and the chill in the air.

There were things I didn’t get to do…. visit Byron’s Pool where it’s claimed he and Virginia Woolf skinny dipped, and the house where Virginia Woolf’s aunt lived (the aunt who left her enough money to have the freedom to become a writer). I didn’t visit the Orchard tearooms where there is a Rupert Brooke display and I believe you can see the Old Vicarage where he lodged for a time. It is this place he remembers in his poem: The Old Vicarage, Grantchester in 1912 when he was in Berlin. The Old Vicarage is now owned by Jeffrey Archer and his wife, Mary, a prominent scientist.

It is claimed that Grantchester is home to the highest concentration of Nobel Prize winners. There has been a popular television series starring James Norton set in the village, a song by Pink Floyd called Grantchester Meadows. And I wonder why this little village is so celebrated. Why Rupert Brooke wrote so gushingly about it. But when I walked across the meadows and glimpsed a spire above the trees I felt I was truly somewhere special.

I’d finished my tour by about two o’clock but I couldn’t leave just yet. I had a look around the graveyard and the Church of St Andrew and St Mary, and then I lurked. Another couple arrived, and they lurked, too. And then at a quarter to three we came together and watched the clock hand slowly move to ten to three.

And I asked:

‘And is there honey?’

and they replied:

‘Still for tea?’

And my heart soared.