60 Going On 16

November - and what I did about it

You can tell from the fact that I managed only one pathetic blogpost in November that it is not my finest month. In fact I wrote hardly anything of any description at all at all and stopped taking photographs. Oh dear. I could quite happily see November cast out of the calendar, except that three of my close friends have birthdays during the month, which go some way towards redeeming it.

I won't go into the reasons for November tending towards the grim and grey for me, you'll just have to take my word for it although, in recent years, it had become a little easier. Apart from the personal associations, the closing in of the days and winter on the horizon do not help. Well, they don't help if you are a 100 per cent summer person, who thrives on sunshine and light and warmth . . .

So, given that we had an unseasonably mild - and sometimes sunny - November, this year should have been better, right? Wrong. November 2011 hit me in the solar plexus like a champion heavyweight. For no apparent reason. Then, when I had just about reached my nadir, a much younger friend suffered a calamitous blow. She is the same age as my daughter, has a daughter herself, who is currently studying at one of the UK's leading veterinary colleges and, until 13 November, she had a husband to whom she had been married for a few days shy of 24 years. On 13 November, her much-loved husband suffered a massive cardiac arrest and died instantly. He was just 46.

We had become friends over the past couple of years through walking our dogs and she had sent me a text. Could we meet? She could do with a chat. So we met and she told me and we stood in the field, as the dogs raced around, clung onto each other and cried our eyes out.

'You know what it's like, don't you? she said. And I did. I do. 

Now, November is past; her husband has been laid to rest and we are staring the festive season in the face. We both agree that November might be a very good time to take a long holiday in the future.

So, that was the worst thing that happened in our here and now in November and, after that, I knew I had to take steps . . .

Which meant that I could have kissed the neighbour who asked me if I'd like to join the yoga class (with new teacher) at the village hall. My sort of yoga, hatha yoga, with an emphasis on breath and pausing between postures and relaxation and yoga nidra. I'd missed my class so much; it had folded about four years previously and the nearest (packed) class was eight miles away - and when the weather was at its most harsh, pretty well inaccessible. And then the Massive Inconvenience got in the way. Now I could walk to my yoga class. I went along and it was like coming home after a long, long time away.

The other thing I did to send a sort of 'yah boo sucks' message to November was to roll up for a taster evening with our local community choir, Exe Valley Voices. I could sit and watch and listen or, said the choir leader, Claire, if I was feeling brave, I could join in. Much to my surprise, I was up on my feet in no time, belting out Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah etc etc  - hovering somewhere between the basses (which had equal numbers of male and female singers) and the all-female altos. I'd always known, instinctively, that this was the correct pitch for me and, after more than 50 years of simmering resentment about my ghastly music teacher plonking me down, at the age of 12, with the sopranos - where I couldn't bring myself to sing a note - I finally felt vindicated. I love singing. Very much indeed.

Despite the joy of yoga and singing, which had helped enormously, I was still extremely glad when November was over. As we moved into December, the grey lid disappeared and I felt quite chipper and started noticing things again.

And these things have already included, yesterday, what has to be one of my best 'only in Devon' moments of the past 14 years. I was in our local post office at lunchtime; there wasn't a queue, it was fairly quiet and one of the counter assistants (whom we shall call Janice for the purposes of this post), was insisting that her colleague take her lunch break. I was having a forage through the greetings cards when a elderly lady stepped ino the post office, looked around rather furtively and then whispered at me 'Is Janice on her own? I need to see her about - er -something.' I said that I thought that she was.

A minute or so later, I turned back toward the counter where Janice was placing some tissues on the post office scales. The elderly lady had put a large brown holdall on the floor, from which she produced - a tortoise. And then carefully lifted the tortoise on the parcel scales.

'She brings him in to make sure that he's the correct weight,' said Janice, sotto voce.

I was quite entranced, having fond memories of my own childhood tortoise, Susan.

'What's his name,' I asked the owner.

'Sparky,' she replied, breaking into a shy smile.

Sparky was an exceptionally fine specimen of tortoisehood and was very alert and agile. I asked how old he was.

'Over 100', said his proud owner.

It was all I could do to tear myself away but, in any event, as soon as Sparky's weigh-in was over, he went straight back into the holdall. I didn't like to ask about hibernation . . .

I had better not mention the location of the post office as I suspect that Sparky's weighing sessions are a private arrangement between his owner and Janice and are probably in contravention of all sorts of health and safety regulations. Hence no happy snapping on my part.

Not Sparky, but Timothy who lived from 1839-2004, ending her (yes, her) days at Powderham Catle, here in Devon

December? Bring it on . . . 

Normal service is about to be resumed

So, that's it. Several months down the line and following surgery and three weeks of radiotherapy, with a slight detour via the staphylococcal infection, my treatment for breast cancer is officially at an end and I move on to annual monitoring mode.

Today's driver, Bob, and I took the scenic route to Somerset, a road that was new to him, because I thought he would enjoy it. He did.

It seemed a little strange to think that this would be my last daily visit, my final session of radiotherapy, and that tomorrow, my days and my former life would be restored to me. One of the radiographers has named me the Bionic Woman as  I have had so few side effects, have slept well every night, have experienced no loss of energy, and my skin has - so far at least - not reacted in the way that might have been expected. (Hooray for aloe vera gel.)

I would be less than honest if I didn't say that I felt more than a little emotional. The radiographers really do work their socks off and it can't be an easy job, especially if patients are nervous, anxious, angry, tearful or simply fed up because their appointment has been delayed. But I am very grateful for what they have done for me and for their part in helping to ensure my recovery. So there were some very appreciative handshakes and smiles before I left. 

As I walked back to the car I couldn't help doing a bit of a skip; it felt like the last day of term.

Heading back to Devon, Bob and I spotted clusters of now endangered mistletoe - it once grew in abundance in Somerset - and we talked about music. He's a former farmer and has sung in choirs since he was a boy. We agreed that music has the power to transcend almost anything that life can chuck at you and its ability to lift the human spirit should not be underestimated. Tonight one of the choirs he sings with is performing in Callington, across the Tamar in Cornwall.

"We're singing this," he said, switching on the car's CD player. More unmistakeable opening notes and then the choir, in full, glorious voice. And all of a sudden, I was back in Venice, and Bob and I were singing, joining in just about the best choice of music for a celebratory day.

On upping sticks and swan upping

Moving house is rather like being in a tunnel; you just have to focus on the light at the end of it, otherwise it can be quite scary and rather claustrophobic. But a week later, the Edinburgh Boy, Black Stripe Two and I are all more or less settled in and familiarising ourselves daily with our new surroundings. A huge 'thank you', by the way, for all your kind words of encouragement.

My biggest worry was how Black Stripe Two, a super-sensitive cat at the best of times, would cope. A herbal remedy, prescribed by our Devon vet, and some useful tips from the Blue Cross did the trick, however, and within 24 hours the normally nervous tabby was behaving as if he had lived here all his life. He's explored the entire house and the garden and, on the one day when we had proper sunshine, he was out basking on the deck. For which relief, much thanks.

Most of the boxes are now unpacked but putting stuff away ground to a halt when the Dear Daughter discovered a wasps' nest in the storage areas in my bedroom. "Did you bring that with you as well?" she asked. We'd already had the conversation about importing the endless rain from Exmoor. 

Rain and wasps' nests notwithstanding, I am rediscovering the joy of being able to walk everywhere and not to have to get into my car if I want to buy so much as a newspaper. Ditto decent dog walks. People always assume that dog walking in the heart of the countryside must be a doddle. This is not always the case; there is, understandably livestock to consider and, where I lived, the six months of the year when there are pheasants everywhere, not to mention the many days when one or other of the local hunts is out and about, busy killing foxes or stags preserving the countryside, and the ubiquitous notices stating: "PRIVATE. KEEP OUT. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED". (So much for the Right to Roam . . .) Many locals walked their dogs on tight leads around the village and could never be bothered to take them to where they could have a decent run. I always felt rather sorry for the dogs. Canines, of all sizes, need to be able to stretch their legs and to feel the wind in their ears as they race along. They need to be able to be dogs. 

Plenty of walking and running choices here, thankfully, and plenty of new dogs to meet. The Edinburgh Boy thinks he is in Black Labrador Heaven - they are everywhere. Tonight he will meet more, no doubt; we are off to the local dog training club as he must acquire some new, semi-urban manners.  

As for me, there is so much on offer and so much to do, that I feel like a child who is enjoying the most bounteous of Christmases and doesn't know which present to open first. Last week, for example, I eventually got to see the annual swan upping on the River Thames. I first read about this in my Odham's Children's Encylopaedia c1955. It's one of those wonderful, centuries-old, British traditions, which enable grown men to dress up in fancy costumes, in this case to spend several days on the river, rounding up and counting The Queen's mute swans. (The swans, of course, have no idea that they are the property of Her Maj.) Too late to apply for a press pass, I joined a crowd of local residents on the riverbank and waited for the fun to begin. 

"Waste of time," scoffed one elderly lady. "The Queen (very heavy emphasis) was here yesterday (more heavy emphasis)."  

"Perhaps they've come to see the swans," I suggested. 

She gave me a withering sort of look. But perhaps she had a point as this year was the first time that The Queen had actually witnessed the ceremony. (Ah ha, so I have at least one thing in common with Queenie.) Funnily enough, there were men in boats and there were dozens of swans - but no sign of them being upped. Instead, the men in boats swept up river to the next stopping point where they all climbed out and enjoyed a glass of something a refreshing cup of tea. Still, all very picturesque. As I forgot to put a memory card in the camera, I thought you might enjoy this instead. (For those of you with fond memories of The Fast Show, doesn't the reporter sound just like Ed Winchester?):

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Did you remember to pack the . . . ?

The Man with the Van will be here at 5.00pm to load up and he will be heading off eastwards at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning with the flotsam and jetsam of my life.  The Dear Daughter, the Edinburgh Boy, Black Stripe Two and I will follow a little later, with the last-minute bags and having done the last-minute things. It might have been easier just to do this:

 

We managed to fit in farewells yesterday to three of my closest friends here in Devon: the Only Other Blonde in the Village, my Smallholder Friend, and M of Random Distractions and there have been any number of other farewells in recent days. There will be more later today.

There are many people I'll miss (but not the grumpy neighbours). I'll miss my house (but not the challenging garden). I'll miss Exmoor's landscape (but definitely not the weather). I'll miss my writing group (but not having to travel miles to a theatre, an art gallery or a cinema). I will miss the wildlife that visits my garden - the birds, the hedgehogs (mother and youngster), the shrews and the fieldmice. I will miss standing on my terrace at midnight and staring up at the moon and the Milky Way. I will miss the silent stillness. I'm still not quite sure where the past 11 years went but I will carry with me a store of good memories and these are never lost, nor are they wasted. And, like a child on the night before Christmas, I am hugely excited about what lies ahead.

So, 60 Going On 16 is taking a short break. Thank you all for your encouraging comments and emails, which have helped greatly. Back very soon with tales of the riverbank - and much more. Next week probably . .  

House of shame

From now on, when it comes to candles, there will be constraint. . . 

Well, we are nearly there. One last push and the contents of every room, wardrobe, cupboard and shelf will have been assessed and then kept, stored, recycled, given to the local charity shop or binned. My daughter believes that, in the past 11 years, her mother has metamorphosed into a squirrel; she now calls me Cash and Carry Mum.

But nothing could have prepared us for the contents of what is loosely known as the candle drawer, in the old mahogany sideboard.  Lordy, there were candles for all seasons and all occasions: from Advent to the Millennium. (Yes, a nine-year-old candle with two Roman Xs on it  . . ) There were candles for the dining table, candles for the bedroom, plain candles, scented candles (the daughter pounced on one from Floris), even candles for the kitchen. There were traditional red and green Christmas candles from Sweden and very small white ones, also from Sweden, that go into special holders on the tree each year. The tree looks fantastic when all the mini-candles are burning, but we end up lighting them only once each year as they have to be watched, in case they keel over and set fire to the house. It's a thankless task.

My daughter was incredulous. But there's a simple explanation. When I bought the 300-year-old house, I thought that it cried out for candles. So, whenever I visited somewhere like Exeter (ie somewhere that sells anything other then Price's Household Candles  - those emergency ones for when the electricity fails), I would stock up. Because that's what you do when you live in the middle of nowhere; serious shopping has to be planned with military precision because you don't know when you'll be in the vicinity again. 

As it was, I had visions of throwing marvellous parties and filling each ancient room with soft candlelight and, really, I did this once or twice. It looked fabulous. But end-of-the-evening candle patrol when one was tired was a bit of a drag; had to be done, of course, if I didn't want the place to turn into Towering Inferno overnight. And that's when the candles began to languish in the drawer.

Still, my daughter is quite fond of candles herself (as long as they are from somewhere like Diptyque), so she could probably just about understand, up to a point, Lord Copper . . . 

But I could offer no parallel explanation for keeping the multi-pack of export quality Sai Baba Nag Champa incense. It was bought for me, several years ago, by a former neighbour who was a great admirer of the iffy and disgraced guru. (What was that all about?) She must have thought I wanted to turn my house into a 1960s hippie hangout. Look, just because there's a Rajasthani wall hanging in the bedroom . . .

Black Stripe Two, the surviving twin tabby cat, has been casually observing all the shenanigans, with obvious disdain, from behind some voile curtains. Normally, he would have been terrified at the disruption but he is on a pre-move calming remedy, prescribed by the vet, and has turned into the most laid-back cat in the universe. By Sunday morning, I think we'll all be on it.