Jesamine, Molly, and me

29th October, 2023

This week I went to a talk by Dr Twigs Way held by Clare Horticultural Society. It was the first time I’ve been to an event by this group as I don’t really consider faffing around in my tiny garden as horticulture and my knowledge of plants is limited. I enjoy pottering around, though, and the success of seeds actually turning to shoots and then hopefully into something a bit more substantial is joyous (if not somewhat surprising).

One of the books I’ve got on the go at the moment is The Hidden Horticulturists: The Working-Class Men Who Shaped Britain’s Gardens by Fiona Davison which is fascinating and ‘a celebration of the unsung heroes of horticulture and a surprising book about fraud, scandal and madness…’. This book popped into my life in a serendipitous way as I’m researching the life of my great-grandfather who was born in 1870 in West Butterwick, North Lincolnshire into a family of farmers. When he was a young lad he took the position of gardener’s boy at Normanby Hall. There is more to tell about my great-grandfather, but for now, I’m interested in his life at a grand hall, as a gardener’s boy, living in the grounds in a bothy.

As most of you know, I regularly walk across the fields at the back of my cottage and snuggled between the common and fields is a glorious collection of allotments. Sometimes I dawdle and wonder about taking one on, imagining the things I would grow. Onions, carrots, beetroot, brussels sprouts, a cage for raspberries, dahlias and chrysanthemums. I’d have a pond for wildlife and beside it I’d plonk a stripy deckchair in which to sit and read, and I’d pour tea from a flask into an old tin mug. I can hear the banter with fellow gardeners, smile at the joy of swapping seeds. Oh, yes. I’d very much like an allotment. But I’ve discovered that the trick to a happy life is to recognise that certain things are beyond my capabilities.

Now, my paternal grandfather (my great-grandfather’s son-in-law) was a keen gardener (a talent that my mother possesses, too) and when he was a young man he would top up his wages from the steelworks by taking on gardening jobs. He was a hard worker with no time to dream about deckchairs and flasks of tea….. I think I might see the flaw in my pipe dreams. He knew about plants and mulching and grafting and roses. And I wonder how he accumulated all this knowledge in a time when there was no internet, just a few gardening books and word of mouth.

Anyway, the event I went to earlier this week was a presentation by Dr Twigs Way about the history of allotments. Dr Way was incredibly entertaining and in an hour, she guided us through the politics and Poor Laws and philanthropists and gardening for necessity and gardening for pleasure that weave a rich and fascinating patchwork of allotments through time. I learned that in many places allotments are under threat as the space is wanted for housing. That in the 1800s landowners feared their workers would refuse overtime or be too tired to work their fields if they were spending time on their own allotments. That the church feared they’d lose their congregation as the six-day working week left the Sunday free – a day to attend church, not to be out gardening. Consequently, strict rules were created around leasing allotments, such as having to attend church at least once on a Sunday or lose your little plot of land. I suppose the great and the good feared they were losing their grip and that working people might begin to have a little autonomy. Mmm – plus ça change.

All this has fuelled my interest in my great-grandfather. What sort of world did he live in? His father owned a smallholding but in 1880 he sold up and moved the family to Scunthorpe – a boomtown once the seam of ironstone was discovered. I wonder if his father missed working the land? Did he have an allotment in Scunthorpe as a reprieve from the grime and sweat of the steelworks?

Today there are 427 allotments over five sites in Scunthorpe, which shows that growing your own food is still a popular pastime. We now know about the benefits of fresh air, mindful meditation (and that’s what gardening is for me), social isolation and loneliness.

Perhaps I’m not ready for an allotment. It’s just not my time. But there’s nothing stopping me from gazing over them and daydreaming about the time when one will be mine, and all the things I will grow. I think I might make a start now by looking for a deckchair.

22nd October, 2023

Our children’s hand prints in the garage floor

It’s been two years since I moved into my cottage. We moved into our family home when the children were six and five and stayed there for twenty-five years. So this move was huge in so many ways.

I was worried that our family home was filled with so many memories that I wouldn’t be able to take them all with me. What I didn’t realise is that memories are like water. They ebb and flow, trickle and settle into the nooks and crannies of my heart. Sometimes they freeze and my heart throbs with the pain, but then they thaw and once again I’m able to smile.

There are things I miss about our old family home. My daughter popping in, my son staying the night in his old room. The laughter around the dining table. The sunlight and warmth. It was such a sunny, warm house thanks to all the work we’d had done over the years. We’d made it our home.

Now I live in a four-hundred-year-old cottage and share my space with spiders and woodlice (which is a constant worry for me as I love them both but they don’t get along too well), the odd few death watch beetles and some strange sort of black bees that appear in the spring. It’s cold and draughty, and quite dark because of its beautiful but small windows. But I love it here. It is my home.

I’ve only been here two years and although I was at first welcomed into the community I now feel as if I am part of it. I belong to a book club, volunteer at a local museum and in the park, I’m invited for coffee, lunch, supper. I chat with friends and neighbours on dog walks across the fields. The shopkeepers know me and a plan to pop to the post office can take more than an hour as I stop to chat to people I know.

So much has happened in two years. Of course I still miss Tim and the life I had. And it was tempting to stay in our old home, clinging to the past and wishing things were different. Here, I’ve been able to accept that life has changed. I’ve changed; life’s events have changed me.

I still wake in the night, sometimes wondering if it was all a bad dream. And as I reach across the bed seeking comfort, if I’m lucky, I’ll hear the church bells chime and Tim whispering to me that I’m doing fine, and that everything will be alright.

5th October, 2023

When I look back over the last few years, I can that when Tim died the colour drained from life and I began to live in black and white. It was safe. Colour heightens emotions; colour is joy. A greyscale life doesn’t ask for much. A greyscale life seeks the shadows and watches the world from the safety of monochrome.

Perhaps the turning point was the trek in Jordan. I certainly came out of the experience changed. But the transition of night to day takes time. The sun doesn’t come out and knock the moon away. There’s a play between them before each takes hold. And then there are clouds across the moon (oh, how I love that corny song), and clouds blocking out the sun.

I can feel autumn in the air and usually my heart would be singing and I’d be closing my eyes letting the sun warm my face while the breeze rifles through my hair. But you know, I can’t feel it for the clouds. So many clouds. And I keep reminding myself that life’s in colour now but, well…

Life is in colour but it’ll never be the same as it was. The colour’s faded now. A bit like an old polariod. In the autumn of my life, I know that the colours will never be so bright but I also know I don’t want to return to greyscale. Some days it’s a struggle to keep out of the dark, but on others it’s so easy and I let nature’s rhythm pulse through my body, brushing my mind clear of doubt and fear.

I can feel Shetland calling to me. I wish I could return to my November home and spend the month feeling nature testing me. I want to be whipped and bruised by wind and sea and watch the seals as they watch me. I want to look for otters and sit by a peat fire. Would I see it all in colour now? Would I be as willing to look at the horizon and weigh up the worth of a life?

Today, here in Suffolk, it’s a beautifully sunny, breezy day. I’ve walked across the fields but the clouds wouldn’t shift. This will pass. The ache of missing Tim will subside and I’ll feel lighter again. But for now, I’m taking it slowly. And I’m thankful for the colour that is back in my life and I’ll do all I can to keep out of the shadows. (And I might not listen to that corny song too much….)

9th September, 2023

Earlier this year I celebrated my sixtieth birthday. I don’t like lots of fuss and my emotions approaching this birthday were decidedly mixed. As much as I don’t like to be the centre of attention, I do love a birthday and age has never mattered to me. But this year, in the run up, I felt an unexpected emotion. Guilt. It seemed perverse to celebrate a birthday as if it were an achievement when I’d done nothing at all to attain it. Especially when Tim didn’t even come close to reaching his sixtieth.

So I took the family away to the Isle of Wight. We’d had a couple of holidays there when the kids were little, so it held memories, but they were distant, dreamlike. And it was exactly the right thing to do. We had a house in Old Shanklin, just a two minute walk to the shops and a ten-minute walk to the sea. The weather was lovely, and I even managed to swim in the sea on my Big Day (although it was freezing cold and I say swim, but it was really only a duck under the water and a bit of frantic paddling my arms and legs).

My family spoiled me rotten. Best of all was a memory book that lovely daughter had spent months putting together. She’d contacted friends and family members and they’d added anecdotes and memories and basically they all told me how much they loved me.

Which was a rather lovely thing to do. This widowhood can be strange. For some time I’ve questioned everything about myself. I thought I didn’t belong, that I don’t have a place in the world. That I am unloved, and unlovable. It’s hard to come out of that way of thinking when it takes hold. My memory book was called ’60 Reasons to Love Janey’, and it made me cry.

Turning sixty changed so many things. Being surrounded by family, and reading through the memory book gave me an anchor, a reason to face the future. And to face it with a smile and confidence I haven’t known for years.

So what are my thoughts on turning sixty? It’s bloody marvellous!

10th December, 2022

The last few weeks have been filled with lovely writerly things. I’ve been working with a mentor for an anthology that Lincoln University is putting together. It’s fairly lengthy and is inspired by a piece of old family history. It’s been a joy to research and write. It’s with the editing team at the moment and I’ve got a reprieve until mid-January when I’ll receive their feedback. Then it’ll be all systems go to bash it into shape for publication in the spring. I’ve also returned to editing my novel which was longlisted for the Cheshire Novel Prize earlier this year. This book seems to be taking forever but I’ve been knocked off track so many times by that rollercoaster we call Life. Anyway, I am determined! And bit by bit it’s getting there.

And speaking of the Cheshire Novel Prize, a few of us who were shortlisted or longlisted managed to meet up in London last week. We had such a fabulous time. I’m so proud to be amongst these talented, warm, and kind writers. We have become friends, chatting virtually in a private space created by the organiser of the prize, and there are more of us scattered far and wide, but it was lovely that seven of us could get together.

I’ve had some lovely walks in recent weeks, too. I met a lovely writing friend for a tramp around Arger Fen, a Suffolk Wildlife reserve. It was a beautiful autumnal day and we perched on a damp bench to eat our packed lunches. It felt just like we were on a school trip! I also had a flying visit to the Peak District. I actually went for a lovely friend’s book launch and took the opportunity to grab a couple of hikes. It was absolutely stunning, and I’ll definitely be back. Although, not for a little while. I’ve had hip pain for several months now and yesterday I received the diagnosis of gluteal tendinopathy which basically means I’ve got an inflamed tendon. Great! I said. Well, sort of. The doctor said. You’ll need to have physio and it’ll take around four months to mend so you’ll have to cut back on walking and the gym. Not the best news, but not the worst either. In the meantime, I’ve started a preliminary exercise routine the doctor gave me until I see the physio.

I’ve been a bit hit and miss with my reading lately. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed Lucy by the Sea by Elizabeth Strout. I could relate to Lucy in so many ways. Being alone, I often look back on my life and wonder about things. Sometimes it’s easier to look back when looking forward and planning a solo future can be exhausting. I think the trick to a happy balance is to only look back on the best of times, and try not to see too far into the future. Lucy by the Sea really hit the spot.

I’ve also enjoyed A Narrow Door by Joanne Harris, which was very clever and had me guessing until the end. At the moment I’m dipping into a collection of short stories in A.L Kennedy’s We Are Attempting to Survive Our Time. Wonderful stories.

December can be a tricky month for me (actually, I’ve come to the conclusion that most months hold some sort of gnarled root to trip me up). And so I decided to start a little project called #itsasunrisething. Each day in December my plan is to post a photo of my sunrise. I’m doing it on twitter where some lovely friends have joined in, and it really is uplifting (although it got off to a cloudy start with no sun at all!). But this morning I cheated and took a photo from my bedroom window. I’ll venture out for a slow, gently walk (bah! humbug!) with Molly a bit later. But for now, I’m in bed with my laptop and tea. And what could be nicer than that?

13th November 2022

It’s Remembrance Sunday today and last night I watched the Festival of Remembrance televised live from the Royal Albert Hall. It’s not the sort of thing I’d usually watch but I dozed off earlier and when I woke, there it was.

It was incredibly moving but the strange thing is that Tim wasn’t in the Armed Forces and yet the memories of him bowled me over. They sang his favourite hymn, Jerusalem. There was a beautiful rendition of The Wind Beneath My Wings which left both the singer and me in tears. You see, I once told Tim that he was the wind beneath my wings. It wasn’t the sort of thing we did, being all mushy. But it was before he was diagnosed with the brain tumour. We were on our way to York for a weekend to see the Christmas market and I had booked a 1:1 with a literary agent. I think we sensed that we were on the cusp of something big. I think about that weekend a lot.

This morning I am eating toast in bed. Something Tim absolutely hated. I can hear him tutting and mumbling about crumbs in the bed. And, yes, he is right. There are. But sometimes it’s easier to think of him being grumpy with me than the loving things he did. Somehow that’s easier to bear.

Everyone’s gearing up for Christmas. I’ve started early because I know that I can only do it in small chunks. I have to measure out my time because I know that I will be bowled over by grief. That tidal wave is hanging perilously close. Funnily enough, two people in the last week have told me that Christmas isn’t for everyone. I don’t think they understand why I can’t get excited. Why my son and I will be spending it alone and I will put something in the slow-cooker and we will take Molly and go out walking for the day. We are not spending it on our own through choice. I used to love Christmas: the planning, the cooking, everyone around the table. But that now, has gone. I suppose they are right; Christmas isn’t for everyone. Christmas isn’t for me. But it hurts.

In the meantime, I shall keep on walking, keep on writing. The former helps me to see that I’m moving forward, not getting caught in the slipstream and going under. And the writing? Well, that helps me to try and make sense of it all. I don’t think I’m an easy person to love. Tim was the best of me and without him, it’s hard to fly.

‘Did you ever know that you’re my hero
And everything I would like to be?
I can fly higher than an eagle
For you are the wind beneath my wings.’

(Jeff Silbar and Larry Henly)

The end of the road

Well, we’ve gone our separate ways. Jesamine has returned to lovely Campervan James. Our threesome has returned to a twosome. And while I feel I should be sad, to be honest, I feel relief.

I loved being on the road with Jesamine and Molly, but I had to call the AA a few times and I’m not at all mechanically minded so whenever I wanted something checking, I had to book her into the garage. Sadly, I don’t have deep pockets or the inclination to learn about engines.

Added to that, I just haven’t been out and about as much as I’d expected. Naively, I’d thought that being away from home would help to forget the loneliness that’s drilled into my bones. But I’ve found that there’s no escape from it – you just cart it around with you. And in a funny way, I felt more lonely sitting all alone in the campervan surrounded by families and groups of friends having fun. Well, not lonely as such. I missed Tim.

It all became a bit much. Getting Jesamine was supposed to be fun, easy, a new life. But I found I didn’t want to let go of my old life. Tim and I had planned to travel together. That meant all the planning, driving, navigating, setting up would be shared – I was exhausted doing it all alone and it only underlined that he’s not here.

But I haven’t shelved my dreams of exploring the UK coastline. I’ve still got my tent and there is the luxury of B&Bs. I’m still going to do it, but in my own way, in my own time.

Wish me luck.

Poor old girl’s lost her spark

Poor old Jesamine’s lost her spark. You’d think it would gradually fade away, perhaps with a gentle putter, like a candle’s wick burning to the end. Or she’d be slow to start, as if she needed to warm up her aching bones. It all sounds quite romantic. With just a little rest and the right tweaking she might find it again.

Ha! When it comes to Jesamine you can forget romantic notions. What actually happened is that after I spent nearly £60 to quench her thirst, twenty miles later she decided to judder and jerk. She switched off and struggled to start (thankfully this was at 7.30am this morning and the roads were quiet). I kept talking nicely to her, cajoling her on. But just as were almost home she let out a humongous BANG! which must’ve woken up the whole village. Thankfully I managed to coast into a layby.

Lovely AA man arrived just 45 minutes later and explained to me that yes, Jesamine had lost her spark. He taught me about coils and spark plugs, the distributor and its cap. It was all very educational. But the end result was he couldn’t fix it. But he could tow me to the next village where there’s a car mechanic.

‘There are a couple of problems,’ he said.

I smiled and nodded my head. I was feeling chilled. I had the campervan vibe.

‘We’re facing in the wrong direction and can’t turn around here as the road’s too narrow. We’ll have to go on to the next village where there’s a roundabout.’

I smiled and nodded. No problem.

‘Have you been attached to a pole before?’ he asked.

Well! I wasn’t sure how to take that. My smile a dropped a bit. He beckoned me over and whipped his pole out from the van (and if any of you are smirking at this point then I am lost for words!).

‘You’ll have no power steering,’ he said.

No problem. Jesamine hasn’t got it anyway (yes, I have fabulously toned upper arms!).

‘Handbrake off. Only look at my van. Follow my steer. Indicate when I do and break gently when I do. Just so the people behind can see what we’re doing.’

I gulped. His van looked awfully close.

‘Will it be scary?’ I asked.

He pursed his lips. ‘Well you look quite brave. Just follow the van and don’t try to look around it.’

I gulped again.

As kind as the lovely AA man was, I can honestly say that this was one of the scariest driving experiences of my life. I had no control and we were driving along country lanes – passing cyclists and parked cars. He was only a couple of feet in front of me and there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t see anything, or know why he was indicating and driving on the wrong side of the road has he overtook. I know these roads, I know the bends and the potholes. I drive in my own way, brake in my own way but now I had to put all my trust in the van in front. Logically I knew that I wouldn’t crash into him, but instinct is a powerful thing to overcome.

Well, that’s all there is to it really. We arrived at the garage. I’ll go back tomorrow to explain and hope they fix her soon.

‘Because of Covid,’ I’m really sorry but I can’t give you a lift home,’ lovely AA man said.

I didn’t mind. It’s only a couple of miles and I really needed to try and stop my heart thumping and get some feeling back in my legs (they were doing a great impersonation of Elvis). The walk home through the Common was lovely. I stopped and watched some mountain bikers doing very scary stuff and I realised what I’d just done wasn’t very scary at all. A couple of them stopped to chat, which was lovely. I got lost on the Common, which is a usual problem for me as I have no sense of direction. I ended up walking through a farm and having a chat with a lady there.

Finally I arrived home. I’d left at 5.30am to take Molly for a walk and to fill Jesamine with petrol. Just a quick jaunt. Five hours later I walked back through my front door. But you know what? I’ve had the best time. I’ve met some truly lovely people. My heart rate’s returned to normal, I’ve got feeling back in my legs.

Jesamine may have lost her spark, but I’ve got my campervan vibe back.

Foraging… for a Lloyd Loom chair

Whitstable, Kent

I’ve been decorating my family room – a room at the back of the house that opens up onto the garden. I sit here a lot to read and watch the birds. I plan my trips and listen to the radio. On some evenings I browse through CDs and LPs and if I’m brave enough, I’ll revisit the past. It’s a special room. An extension that Tim and I added many years ago. In the winter we’d sometimes spend a lazy Sunday afternoon in here reading the papers and doing the crossword with the fire blazing. Since Tim died I’ve felt his absence in this room more than in any other and so I took the huge (for me) decision to give it a makeover. To make it mine but to keep the the little flourishes of our life together: photographs, pictures, ornaments…

Lovely son moved into a flat a while ago and I gave him the two-seat sofa from the room. His need was greater than mine at the time! As part of the makeover I’m going with comfy chairs. I already have two that I love and I decided that a Lloyd Loom chair would be just the thing to complement the others. And wouldn’t you know it – I found a lovely lady selling just the thing in Canterbury. Yay! I thought. Road trip!

Jesamine went like a dream. Molly stretched out and slept most of the way. I picked up the chair with no problems and it seemed a shame to waste such a beautiful day so we carried on a little way to Whitstable. I adore Whitstable. The sea here is different to my world of estuaries, salt marshes, and the raw North Sea. Somehow, at Whitstable, the sea seems gracious.

We were lucky to find a parking space right on the sea front and Molly and I walked along towards Herne Bay, enjoying the sunshine. Families zipped around us on bikes and scooters, Molly pranced and danced, sniffing the air. I bought some chips (well, I was at the seaside) and took them back to the van. Feeling gracious and refined, I sat in my Lloyd Loom chair with Jesamine’s door open, and Molly and I looked out across the sea while I ate my chips.

We stayed all day, not caring about the rush-hour traffic on the way home. I even enjoyed the queue at the Dartford Crossing as we waited to drive through the tunnel. I was full of romance… and chips. I told lovely daughter all about this wondrous day when I spoke to her on the phone. Her view of the day wasn’t quite the same as mine.

‘Oh, God!’ she said. ‘You’re turning into The Lady in the Van!’

You know, she may be right. And to be honest, I don’t think I’d mind that very much at all.*

*If I could live in my van beside the sea and have central heating and a bathroom, and a washing machine, and not just chips all the time…..

On the road again….but just for foraging

Travel restrictions are still in place and like most people, my itchy feet are itching like crazy – the end of lockdown is so close I can almost taste it.

I’d hoped to do some traveling around the UK this summer but it’s looking unlikely as I think everywhere will be so busy. Those of you who know me, know that I like to seek out the quiet places. But, we’ll see – fingers crossed I’ll be able to explore somewhere new.

Jesamine wasn’t taken off the road for the winter, but I didn’t actually use her. So a couple of weeks ago I set about ensuring she’s road-worthy, checking tyre pressures, oil, etc. I wasn’t surprised that the battery was flat but I’ve got a magic charger thingy so I’m a dab hand at firing her up! Last week Jesamine, Molly, and me hit the road to the supermarket and had a little walk along the canal. I am the Queen of Multitasking!

So, today we did the same. I needed a break from editing my novel and the fresh air usually clears some of the cobwebs away. In fact, my smiling starts as soon as I unlock Jesamine. Molly hops in, full of anticipation and settles on the back seat. And as soon as we’re on the road and my old 70s music is playing, my heart soars.

I’m very lucky in that Tesco sits next to a canal (The Chelmer and Blackwater Navigation). So I can pop into the supermarket for a quick forage, and then take Molly for a walk. Molly is fine in the van, she just lays on the seat and has a doze. A retired greyhound’s life is a very tiring one.

As luck would have it, we came across a couple of swans on the bank. I’d spent the morning editing a scene where a swan gets caught and my leading lady rescues it. The swan, of course, hisses and fights her – it doesn’t know what’s going on. And wouldn’t you know it, the two swans I came across this afternoon hissed and postured and flapped their wings at poor Molly (who actually would have liked to eat them, I’m sure) which was rather wonderful. I’d forgotten how vicious they can be and to see them so close has really helped me with the scene.

We walked along to Beeleigh Falls (not quite as dramatic as Niagara but it’s close!) and reminisced about a walk along here with Lovely Hubby. That had been at the height of summer and the place was mobbed. Today, I passed a couple of fishermen and a few dog walkers. The sun was shining and people were smiling. Moorhens and ducks glided along the water. I looked for tadpoles (far too early, I know, but I always do) and fought the urge to paddle.

Soon we’ll be able to spread our wings and travel. But I think how lucky I am to have this right on my doorstep.