writing, not drowning

On pesky viruses and perfect companions

Hmm; no sooner do I take to the blog again than I am knocked almost hors de combat by a virus that has been unpleasantly similar to the one that arrived last September and took nine months to shift. And I don't mean a computer virus. This time, however, I have taken homeopathic action sooner rather than later and, three weeks on, I think the virus has got the message.

So where were we? A month ago - the last time I posted - I was about to fly to Madeira, courtesy of the Grown-Up Children, which I did. It was a delightful, happy week, with the sort of temperatures I love (35 degrees Celsius or thereabouts), and much swimming, a huge amount of reading, and generally relaxing in the sunshine. It was just what we all needed.

We did a memorably unenjoyable all-day mountain trek; unenjoyable owing to the weather (it was the one bad day, rain and mist, so no views) and a rather strange guide, who made us listen (more than once) to his birdcall impersonations in the pouring rain, and who told off-colour jokes. We knew the experience would eventually turn into a family joke, as these things tend to, but at the time . . . 

When I left Funchal, I was still warm and glowing from the sun; I arrived at Bristol Airport in the middle of the night, to be greeted by howling winds and torrential rain. Oh, British weather, what would we do without you to take the shine off things?

As a result, I have been doing only the essentials, that is, walking the dogs twice a a day and trying to remember to keep up my intake of fluid. It was while I was sitting around doing not very much that I found myself missing my dear old cat, Mr C. I didn't write about it at the time but he died of heart failure in March of last year and I still miss him, not least because this has been almost the first time in my life that I have not had a cat or three as part of the family. I thought how comforting  it would have been, when I was at my most under the weather, to have had Mr C sitting on my lap, purring away. He was the most affectionate of cats.

I was very taken with the resident hotel cat in Madeira - a tabby, like Mr C. He (or she) was very popular with the guests on the sun terrace, overlooking the sea where the Walnuts (a term coined by the Son-in-Law) could be found stretched out on loungers every day. (I was with the Walnuts; the Grown-Up Children preferred the more exotic palm tree shaded Garden Pool area.) Hotel Cat was very savvy and absolutely knew how to work a sun terrace. Every evening, one of his (or her) band of devoted admirers would appear with a dainty dish of sardines. Hotel Cat would scoff the lot, lick his paws, then execute a rather fine curl of the tail and stroll off.

At least there were two very special dogs waiting for me when I got back to England; I never under-estimate their importance in my life. As all my viral symptoms have been better in the fresh air and even better by the coast, we have done plenty of walking and, for a few days, when the sun shone last week, we even managed long walks by the seashore.

These days, only one of my dogs, Miss P, does long walks. The Edinburgh Boy is now the Venerable Old Edinburgh Gent and he is 13 today. He is taking it easy, as befits a very elderly Labrador, but there have been a few extra treats. He spends many, many hours asleep and  I often see him doing that doggy dreaming thing, his paws moving as if he is running, accompanied by a series of quiet, breathy 'woofs'. Perhaps he is remembering what life was like when he was in his prime and he too could run along a shoreline and race in and out of the waves. He is the very dearest of dear old boys and I love him more than words can say.

The comfort of stories by the fireside - with Jackie Morris

I knew it would take something special to jolt me out of my seeming inability to write anything at all in recent weeks. I'd reached a point at which everything I thought of writing was dismissed almost immediately as trivial. Well, that is one of the stages of bereavement and one simply has to wait for the leaden feelings to lift and get on with life while waiting for them to move away from centre stage.

And, yesterday, there was something special.

It's five and a half years since I included one of Jackie Morris's exquisite paintings in this blogpost; discovering her work at that time was the source of immense pleasure. Since then I've followed and greatly enjoyed Jackie's delightful blog, We Three, Ginger Cats' Tales. There is now, sadly, only one ginger cat remaining - the redoubtable Elmo - but he and his elderly tabby companion, Max, have been joined by two Bengal kittens . . .

Apart from the feline tales, We Three and Jackie's other blog keep admirers of her work (her words are as inspriring as her paintings) up to date with what she is doing and, at the moment, she is very much on the road. As luck would have it, that road led yesterday to one of my favourite shops, the wonderful Number Seven, run by Jan, her daughter Davina and Davina's husband, Christopher, in nearby Dulverton. Jackie was spending the afternoon at Number Seven, giving readings, discussing her work, and signing copies of her books . . .

including the latest, East of the Sun, West of the Moon.

All of which explains why, an hour ahead of the first scheduled reading, two women of a certain age settled themselves by the fire in Jan's kitchen behind the shop, while Jackie read us The Seal Children, her first book*. I felt about five years old again, lost in the wonder of words and magical illustrations.

And we talked about books, painting, writing, children, travel, cats, the beauty of the Pembrokeshire coast, dragons . . .

and Tibetan bowls. I happened to mention cheetahs and told Jackie about the sanctuary I had visited in South Africa, where I spent time with an adult male cheetah and had fallen in love with these remarkable big cats.

'Have you seen my cheetahs and cherries paintings?' asked Jackie. She showed me one. That's it, I thought, I'm starting a cheetah painting fund.

If there had not been two dear dogs waiting patiently at home for their afternoon walk, I could happily have stayed by the fire listening to stories until teatime. 

As I left the shop, carrying a precious parcel of signed books, I saw Jackie's van parked outside Number Seven and just had to smile.

At four o'clock, the dogs and I walked up to the top of our hill and then had half an hour of what we call 'extreme retrieving' - the object being to tire out the seemingly tireless Miss P; even though it was wet and muddy, I didn't mind one jot. It had been such an uplifting day and a privilege to spend time with someone as gifted as Jackie. But not just gifted, warm, funny and approachable too.

By this morning, the emptiness of the past two and a half months had gone; the sun shone and the dogs and I enjoyed a long walk by the river. We went up to the hill again this afternoon and I stood in the top field and did a 360 degree turn, looking across to all the other hills, disappearing behind each other, in every direction and into the distance, just to remind myself of the beauty of this place. The dogs romped and rolled in the sun and were as happy as I was.

So, thank you Jackie and thanks also to Jan, Davina and Christopher for a memorable Saturday and for inspiring me to start writing again.

If you are visiting Exmoor, make a point of going to Dulverton and calling in at Number Seven - tell Jan I sent you - and don't miss Toy Ahoy!,their shop in Minehead.

*You can find a complete list of Jackie Morris's books here. And there's more to see on Facebook.

'One day like this . . .' and four good things

So, yesterday. I wasn't quite sure how it would all pan out. My beloved cat, Mr C, was back at the vet, a recurrence of a troubling and potentially serious - even fatal - condition. He had been readmitted the previous day for further investigations, not by either of our usual vets but by another member of the team who, unlike our usual vets - both women - does not do warm. He does not reassure. He does not speak kindly and gently to my dear old boy.

But just as I was setting off for an early walk with the dogs, one of the kind vets called to say that there was good news, Mr C was much better, although - if I were agreable - they would like to keep him for another day for an X-ray. She rang again, twice during the day to confirm that his recovery had been sustained.

So, that was the first good thing.

And then it was off to the hospital where I had been treated for breast cancer AKA on this blog as the Massive Inconvenience; it was the day of the annual post-treatment check-up. My Dear Friend, the Only Blonde in the Village came with me for reassurance and distraction. I wasn't anxious; I knew at a deep, instinctive level that I was fine. Nevertheless. . .

The concerned radiographer managed to make the mammograms less uncomfortable than in previous years; no mean feat, as any woman who has had them will tell you. As a late friend of the Only Blonde once remarked, it's akin to having your tenderest part shut in a fridge door. After the mammogram, the examination . . . but the young and rather gorgeous registrar came in smiling, so I knew: the news was good.  Two years down, three to go before I am officially out of the woods but I continue to travel hopefully because it is the only way. The rather gorgeous registrar was followed by the jolly consultant who promptly organised some physio for ny stubbornly frozen shoulder - a side effect of the sentinel node biopsy two years ago and 'general wear and tear'.

Within an hour of our arrival, the Only Blonde and I were out of the hospital and, not for the first time, did I give thanks for the NHS to which I have happily contributed all my life and which gives me the care I need, free at the point of delivery. I may have to worry about paying the heating oil bill and the car service bill and every other big bill but I do not have to fret about finding money for essential healthcare.

So that was the second good thing.

We set off for a delicious and celebratory lunch at the Rock Inn at Waterrow. (Highly recommended, by the way.)

We met again later in the afternooon, when we were walking our dogs, and that is when things started to unravel. Because Miss P, my lovable but slightly bonkers foster dog, a Saluki collie-cross, went AWOL in pursuit of a pheasant. We called, we whistled, we searched, but the minutes and then an hour ticked by. The light was fading. There was no sign of her and the woods fell silent. And then night too fell.

For the next hour I shuttled between home and the ink-black woods, putting up 'dog lost' posters as I went. And then, good things happened. Friends and neighbours helped with the search: the Only Blonde and her husband said that they would drive their 4x4 around and through the wood, along the only vehicle-accessible track. The young gamekeepers who live in the village took details and said they would look out for her. Miss P's dear owners drove over from their village, kitted out for muddy night-walking, with torches, stout boots and warm jackets. We set off again, leaving the other dogs at home, snoozing after their supper.

When we arrived at the wood, we could see the lights of the Only Blonde's 4x4 as she and her husband finished their circuit and suddenly a cry went up: 'She's here; she's here!'

And indeed she was: cold, wet, shivering and frightened, running behind the 4X4 - three hours after she had gone missing.

So we all went home again . . . and I wanted to cry at the kindness of good people. I did cry.

It was the third good thing.

My original intention had been to sit up and watch the results of the US elections unfold - the Only Blonde and I had been united in our hopes for Obama - but I was as exhausted as my little dog. Bed beckoned. I slept through it all but woke to yet more good news and found myself bursting into song. This one in particular, by Elbow, which the choir I sing with learned over many weeks earlier in the year. It's a tricky song to master but once there, it's a fine song to sing and to listen to, as well. It contains this line:

'One day like this a year will see me right.'

Indeed it will.

A fine result, sealed with an equally fine speech.

The fourth good, exceptionally good, thing.

Will you still need me, will you still feed me . . . ?

I was 19 when the Beatles released this track on the Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album, (1 June 1967). I was at the start of all sorts of things in my life, not least of which was motherhood. And the answer to the question you might be asking is that, for a whole host of reasons, I have never had the slightest regret about being - by today's standards - such a young mother.

As for my mothering skills, you'd have to ask my daughter, except that behind the outgoing, sunny exterior is a very private person, so I doubt that we'd be able to persuade her to make a public appearance. You'll just have to take my word for it that she lit up my life when the midwife placed her in my arms and, all these years later, she continues to do so. She is an amazing woman of whom I am immensely proud.

But back to the song. At 19, I was incapable of imagining what it would be like to be 64, let alone whether my then Other Half would still be needing me or feeding me. (To which the answers were, as I soon discovered, 'no' and 'no', so my small daughter and I steered a different course.)  

I tend not to do 'hello, it's my birthday' posts; as I said to Twitter chum @maribeeb, yesterday, 'a bit cheesy, no?' However, today I have a proper excuse because, as of today, I am fully cognisant of what it is to be 64 and I can tell you this. It's just like 19 but with the addition of, hopefully, a soupçon of the wisdom of years and, very probably, a couple of extra inches round the middle. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. And for me, there have been many more valued friendships forged, more books read, more music listened to, more parts of the world travelled to and explored, many hundreds of thousands of words written, many thousands of photographs taken . . .

Lest you think my life has been a bit of a doddle, there have been profound shocks and great sadnesses and betrayals too and, in my late thirties and for a few years thereafter, a string of losses and bereavements that came hurtling out of the blue and so close together that it was like watching powerlessly as a line of dominoes toppled before my eyes. I had no doubt at all, at that time, what it was to be acquainted with grief.

But I prefer, on this blog at least, to stand four-square with Jane Austen and 'let other pens dwell on guilt and misery'. ( I didn't think much of this sentiment when I was studying Mansfield Park for A-level; I was a teenager for goodness sake, I wallowed in guilt and misery. Tsk, tsk.) Besides which, there has always been the joy of animals . . 

Although I didn't read his novels, I remember an interview that the author, Dick Francis, gave towards the end of his life in which he said that the saddest thing about getting older was the number of beloved dogs that he had outlived.

(I do a mental tally: the dogs of my earlier years, Bruno, Rusty, Albert and Rennie, and, latterly, the Squadron Leader, the Rough Diamond, and my daughter's dog, the Divine Miss M. The cats deserve a mention too: Snooky, Fluffy, Tibby, Timothy, Victoria, Sunshine, Tara, Merlin, Tabitha and Muffin and, more recently Mr C's twin brother. Then there was Susan, the tortoise, and the hamster, Deborah . . .  and the horses on which I learned to ride in my middle years. Do not worry, my current companions, Mr C, the cat, and the Edinburgh Boy and Christmas Holly have no literacy skills whatsoever, so cannot read this. Besides, today - as on most days - the dogs have plenty of canine distractions and are happily bounding around with this week's guests: Little Miss P, the Mad Merle and the Seal. Mr C, sensibly, has retired to his dog-free quarters upstairs. )

Anyway, that's enough 'ageing woman looks back at her life and becomes perilously anthropomorphic' waffle. Here's the music:

The Black Stripes - a personal appearance

I've had a complaint. The resident cats say that they are getting mightily bored with the constant references to, and photos of, the canine crew with whom they are forced to share their home. And please would I do something to rectify this? OK, I get the message.

Their real names are a combination of the aristocratic and the ecclesiastical but , given their propensity to loll around like eastern potentates, nothing could be less appropriate. (On second thoughts, the aristocratic name is highly appropriate.) But, for the purposes of this blog, where we all like to retain a little mystery, they are - the Black Stripes.

I give you:

Black Stripe One - a veritable Big Daddy of a cat

and

Black Stripe Two - otherwise known as Mr Hypersensitive

They are twin brothers, born on a Devon farm eight years ago. The farmer was planning to drown them but his wife intervened, took them along to the Blue Cross at Tiverton for rehoming and the Black Stripes came to me as nine-week-old kittens. They've lived here, off the fat of the land, ever since and it's hard to believe that they were once as tiny as Claude and Eustace, the latest arrivals at Mopsa's.

They're quite cyber-savvy and have their own favourite blogs, The Libe de Don Estorbo de la Bodega Dominicana and We Three, Ginger Cats Tales, which they think everyone should read. Not just other cats. They would also like more dogs to read these blogs, just to prove how very superior felines are.

Now that they are on the brink of cyber-fame, there will, of course, be no living with them and I will probably be met with demands that, from now on, they get A-list celebrity treatment. Or else.