Nothing much

Tuesday.

Work is a little too busy for my liking at the moment, but it is the way with working outdoors. Gardens have awoken and are shaking off their wintery slumber. Shoots and seedlings, weeds and herbaceous perennials are appearing at a prolific rate and I am running just to catch up. 

Am I the only one that struggles with the changing of the clocks? Actually no, I know the cat gets befuddled too. It can take up to a week for me to adjust to the present time, which annoys me as I've lived here long enough to have got used it - but no. I do think that it is a very odd thing to do - altering the time twice a year. It has a bit of a nod to King Cnut and the tides........

We've had some gently good and soul affirming walks recently. Nothing new or outstanding however the power of repeating a lovely trail when just being there is enough.

The van is getting a bit of a make-over. Himself has been inspired and the present layout - although workable, could be better. I am quietly getting excited at the thought of 'playing out' especially now the days are longer and although still chilly, they are beautiful and the light glorious.

Wednesday.

Just got home after a morning's workshop teaching. Eight lovely ladies who delighted in the mindfulness of making of wreaths adorned with mini nests and eggs, feathers, ribbons. Teeny tiny ladybirds and strands of ivy.  Leading up to any of these workshops, I get myself wound up but by the end and everyone leaves happy and I wonder why I worry!

Following our favourite footpaths

Sleeping in the van is like crawling into a cosy cocoon, dark and warm and deep. I seem to fall into the pillow and sink through the mattress and vanish. 

And sleep.

When I awoke on the Sunday Himself was already awake, the kettle on and he'd opened the window covering revealing the tide was in and the River Lune looked like a sinuous silvery snake languidly wandering across the Glasson marshes. The briny water twinkled in the early morning light - the palest of blues flickering on cobalt and teal bands. 

After a breakfast where our eyes filled our souls and our mouths filled our bellies, we stepped out of the van and walked a familiar and favourite walk. Down the lane into the village, around the pub and it's many friendly felines however we only stumbled across one who hurtled across the lane squeaking and yowling at us until we stopped for the demanded tickle. 

On to the marina to find a large herd of vintage motorbikes and their equally vintage pilots. Aged blokes in aged leathers, their faces creased by time and weather, gathered around eating bacon rolls and slurping coffee out of paper takeaway cups. Himself immersed himself in their oily scent and rattled under his breath the name of each bike with an added nod of approval or surprise depending on the vintage or model of the shiny black or green or red or blue two wheeled beast.

I eventually managed to pull him from the captivating metal gaggle, we crossed the road, around the old bowling green, down the steps on to the marshy foreshore away from the increasing numbers of dog walkers, bike riders, talkers and walkers and cyclists along the old railway track. 

Birds and marshes were our company now. Old boats, the scent of decomposing bladderwrack, the trill of sky larks, the rustle of the reeds and slurpy-sclutch of the silty path beneath our boots. 

That path moved upward and returned to the railway track, we crossed the bridge and turned right following a small rough lane with a reputation of drowning during high tide. All the houses along that route either high up at the back of the garden or with flood gates and walls to keep out the waves. Plenty of drift wood and litter confirming how high the water can reach.

A bit of zig zagging through muddy paths, country lanes and a brief moment of busy road before we leave all that behind and wander up the long tree lined drive of a converted mill now noisy and popular wedding venue. One that usually has folk in various stages of drunkenness and dress howling with laughter as they celebrate raucously in the gardens of the venue however this time - utter silence. We were confused - as were a number of other walkers who seemed, like us, a mixture of relief and confusion. It was once we'd returned home we discovered that despite it's apparent popularity that it closed due to bankruptcy.

We sat alongside the canal, watching coots, moorhens and listening to gulls, sky larks, curlews as we drank tea and felt the sun on our faces. 

Eventually we tore ourselves off the bench and walked along a gently rewilded canal, where swans silently glide alongside walkers. The sky and the water were the blue which almost breaks my heart.

The towpath took us back through farmland to the marina. Most of the motorbikes had now gone, we walked through the village back to the van, choosing the quieter backwater paths where, once we returned, the van door was flung open, the kettle put back on and we sat feeling the breeze, listening to the birds and watching the tide retreat.

Sunday - you have been a gift. Thank you.

Saturday

For the first, in what seems an age, Himself and I managed an escape in the van for the weekend. We did not stray far, the van had been dismantled over winter to act as a workhorse and Himself had only recently returned all the interior to some semblance of order and he wanted to test it in case of any issues.

So we meandered our way over to Heysham - in particular - Half Moon Bay. A romantic sounding name for what is a rather edge-lands coast line wedged up against a ferry terminal and a power station - yes, I know, sounds 'very glamorous'. 

However, if you do the 'instagram thang' where you cut out the grot and only show the glory - it is a lovely little place. Surprisingly so. We followed the coast line discovering sculptures and ruined chapels, ancient churches and cute cottages. 

Our first 'wow moment' was the Anna Gillespie sculpture 'Ship' - it was amazing, the detail or rather the lack of it with its implied meanings were so poignant - the gashed chests hinting at the piece of you left behind when you leave your homelands - that struck home.

The church grounds were awash with glorious purple crocus, we walked up the pathway where several other visitors shared similar sentiments and their memories - it felt like a privilege.

In the church - we had hoped and then were delighted by, to find it was open so we could see the Viking hogback stone. We sat on one of the pews and in hushed tones were just astounded at the visual story telling.

We were joined by another admirer and the three of us just marvelled at the ancient monument. Apparently this type of stone carving is peculiar to the British Isles, appearing nowhere else.

The neighbouring chapel ruins had what must rate as one of my all time favourite views and I think I must have photographed the door arch a gazillion times before Himself was able to drag me away.

The small village of Heysham must be very loved by its residents, every corner, space ground or garden seemed to be filled with flowers and sculptures or signs or coast findings - drift wood, boats, shells and fishing buoys. It was so cheerful and uplifting.  I'll have to share Sunday's stories - they were just as uplifting - it is amazing what a little bit of sunshine and a lot of blue skies can do for the soul x

Today I did a quick water colour of the 'Ship' sculpture - it made me appreciate it all the more.

Rain runs a thread through it

 Friday
After days of grey dank with the sky having no colour and mist filling all the spaces, we met up with Youngest and his lovely girl for a walk. We slipped and slid our way across muddy fields, deeply pock marked by sheep feet. I listened and failed to hear any bird song - not even subdued twittering although I watched a couple of flocks of starlings fly overhead in tight clusters. The afternoon stealthily darkened so we cut our walk short and returned. Carefully picking our way back, we finally reached firmer footing. With the mist thickening and the light failing, I was grateful to return to Youngest's home and wrap my fingers around a mug of tea. I know we will walk the route again, but hopefully when the weather is better, the sun is shining and the paths are dry.

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Sunday

Himself and I headed off to the Dales to make the most of the mist finally lifting. We set off in fine fettle, looking forward to getting out and although it felt rather fresh with a frisky breeze (well it was December) it was rather nice to have no commitments and know that the day was ours.

It seemed also to belong to many other walkers as the pathways and parking places were the fullest we'd seen for some weeks. We strode out, listening for bird song, watching for wild life and breathing damp cold air.

The pathway - well trod and muddy in places wound and wove itself alongside the River Wharfe, dipping down to the water's edge, following a farm track away then returning to the riverine margins.

We stopped, sitting on a damp ledge with our boots on a sandy 'beach' and watched three mallards steadily make their way towards us as they battled against the river flow and noticeably increasing winds. They were rewarded as we tossed a few crumbled shortbread crumbs before we continued our walk.  The wind now carried rain droplets and on the other side of the river we watched sheets of rain make their way up the valley. Coats were pulled tighter and hats more firmly yanked down over ears and eyebrows. The inclement weather was winning the battle so we turned away from the river, joined a small quiet road and worked our way back to start. Once in the van, heating on, kettle whistling away cheerfully we watched rain creating runnels down the windscreen. 

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Tuesday

New Year's Eve - and with weather warnings being issued with stern voices we all set off to meet up to celebrate the demise of 2024 - which has been a notable year if only for the tide of life being a double edged sword throwing us mixed fortunes amid small glimmers. With both our boys and their lovely girls, we ate (too much) drank (tea, coffee, tonic water and beer - but not simultaneously!) played board games that both flummoxed and frustrated us with equal measure causing amusement and howls of laughter. We watched fireworks on the television and through the rain streaked windows, listened to music, joked and shared stories, cuddled cats and hugged each other.

Wednesday

Rain, so much rain overnight, rivers flooded and fields drowned. After hugging everyone we returned home - today is the first day of the new year, time to reset and think about returning to normal. Here's hoping that you all find 2025 in a better place.

2025 - please be gentle and kind and far far nicer than your predecessor - thank you.

Turning of the circle

Winter Solstice - it is not a single moment, we don't see a change in the light for several days however, the lightness can be felt in the head and the heart - spring is on her way.

Today Himself and I managed to steal a few hours away from the world and take ourselves off for a walk to mark Winter Solstice and it was wonderful. We set off in Zeb, our van -  a big burly bloke of a vehicle to find a small waterfall up in the Dales.

The weather was wild, with winds and rain making driving and walking 'interesting'. Views slipped in and out of focus as curtains of rapidly moving mist and rain flew by. Himself and I followed a stony path alongside Cotter Beck in Wensleydale towards the falls. All the rain had filled the beck to almost bursting and the water boiled and roared in a coffee coloured torrent. 

Long before we reached the falls, we could hear it. A chest thumping roar of water crashing down the limestone - we were not disappointed when we saw it.

We were the only ones there and the wildness, the wind, the crash of the water and the spray in the air felt so primal - we caught ourselves grinning at the rawness and beauty of it all.

We walked up along the falls to the top and felt the power of the water as it crashed through the rock gulley - the spray drenched our legs and wet our faces. And it felt good.

We returned the same way as we arrived, only this time we noticed different beauty. The fence posts were host for tiny microcosms of lichen, moss and fungi. The gate was a patchwork of rust and lichens and just shone out in the gloom.

What a wonderful way to celebrate Winter Solstice - May the turning of the wheel bring you light and love, kindness and clarity - Blessing be xx

Finding my feet

We parked up, in a lumpy bumpy off a lane sort of space. One I'd used some years ago when I'd worked in the area.  A space off a lane giving me a space in my day and space in my head.

Lacing up boots and shouldering bags, we stepped out of the van into a landscape we love. Today it had low sulky skies with drifting bad tempered clouds in various shades of grey. In the far distance both up the valley and back towards where we'd driven from there was a gentle glimmer of sunlight.

Himself opened a lichen green wooden gate into a damp field and as he turned to close it a cyclist braked to a muddy halt and we let him through too, a muttered thank you and he was off in a splatter and squish of mud down towards the valley bottom. 

A solitary ewe watched as we walked down towards her, we expected her to wander off as we approached, but she was too blasé - walkers were ten a penny and she was not about to be put off her rather good vantage point.

It felt good. It felt good to be out on the hills, feeling the chill of the air on exposed skin and seeing winter softened long distance views. I have missed this.

The path meandered alongside the hills, we did not want to drop too far down only to have to trudge back up. Every step had a memory for me - the grassy mound where I'd made a 'snow mama' that first extremely snowy winter I'd worked here. The field with the donkeys who wore spotty purple and pink coats. The gate I would lean over and watch the rather elegantly nosed Blue Faced Leicester rams.  Seems a life time ago.

The path then found the back route into the small rural town and we trundled along narrow streets. I always felt that this part of the town had managed to stay in the past, almost too cramped for cars except the smallest varieties, a pot or two directly outside the front door which opened directly on to the lane. Privies, coal stores and outhouses either derelict or converted haphazardly as sheds.

We navigated our way along the tumbling lanes and cute cottages and out the other side stopping at a converted pound - a place used historically to hold wandering livestock - now a grassy picnic area with a couple of benches and a cracking view. Sitting carefully to avoid puddles of rain water on the bench we drank tea and reminisced about the many times and years we had brought first tiny boys, then toddlers, giddy youngsters and finally young teenagers to this spot - a good point to have a break before the next part of the walk.

Clouds swirled purposely across the heavy skies as we set off again up a stony track. As we climbed higher on to the hills the mist began to descend, drifting across the tops in a silvery curtain. Himself was in his element - his love for the weather had him grinning. Me not so much - I miss blue skies, I miss the sun - my head and my heart need light and I feel weighed down by the gloom. 

The path continued in a grassy steady upward direction, until we found a somewhat sheltered spot to finish our teas and nibble on snacks. I pulled my hood up and retreated as much as I could in my coat as the mist swirled thickly around us. We did not linger long. 

I always find the silence brought on my mist or fog rather eery - bird song thins away to nothing and all you can hear is the trudging of boots on the saturated path. The mist thickened so that we could only see just a few metres ahead and landmarks faintly drifted into view and slipped away almost as quickly. It is good we know our route, trusting the paths and our feet to lead us back to the van.

We finally reached the track that would return us to that a lumpy bumpy off a lane sort of space where we could put on the kettle, shrug off our damp coats and boots and wrap cold fingers around steaming mugs of tea before we head for home.

Himself was basking in a post walk glow, I have to be honest and admit that despite my misgiving and my need for sun and blue skies, I too enjoyed that walk although it is always retrospectively that I do.

I think writing helps reinforce that enjoyment. 

Vanishing into the edgelands

This last weekend was a simple treasure made all the better by a bit of gentle spring sunshine which managed to slip through the ever present grey cloud - the kind that warms your cheek and feels glorious on your back. I have missed that feeling.

We spent Saturday quietly feral up in the South Lakes - walking along the coast, through woodland, skirting around Leighton Moss and Leighton Hall, choosing pathways less trod. Admittedly with one eye on the sky at all times, we managed to miss getting too wet by staying in the woodland every time there was a passing shower.

On the Sunday we came back down below Lancaster to an area we love - an 'edgeland' where mainstream life seems to have passed it by. Himself and I feel comfortable in these often forgotten 'wastelands' where life is a struggle, jobs are few and far between yet the folk are real, hardy, dogged and somehow make the best of what they have with apparent haphazard joy and defiance. 

We both have jobs where we are surrounded by busy folk, mine takes a lot of from me - not just physically but emotionally. I work with a lot of damaged people, those who trying to claw their way out of poverty, depression, stress, breakdowns, loneliness. So these weekends away are healing.

And it gives both of us the space to breathe.

Post Script: thank you so much for your comments on my last post - I was having doubts about continuing blogging - not because I don't enjoy it, I do - I just seemed to have lost the spark. But, if you are quite happy to read my wafflings, I will continue to waffle 😊

I have read a couple of bloggers saying that it is now difficult to find new blogs to read.  I found Blogger has reduced the ability to go 'shopping' for someone new to read. So, I now go on to the 'followers' menu on a blog I already follow, open a random name (their own blog link is never available) and go and see who they read and find new blogs to follow there. 

One brief weekend

 It must be something about the melancholy of approaching autumn that makes me return to blogging.

I started my first blog in September 2009, which after a few years morphed into my second version mid November 2012 and now this one - my third. 

Why the changes?  Well, like changing the carpet or the car, it felt that it was time to move to 'pastures new'.

I suspect I am a landlocked mermaid - we spent a glorious long weekend up in Dumfries and Galloway and at every opportunity I stared at that liminal line between sea and sky.

Watching the last of the late summer swallows tumble in the evening sunlight was magical and heart breaking in equal measure, when they go, then so does the last of the summer's warmth. 

Plans are being made for a garden make over - I struggle with mine, I can advise and design a garden for anyone - except me. This autumn will be different and my garden will evolve into something new. I am actually excited at the prospect - something I can't say I have felt for my precious little piece of earth for a very long time. 

Here is to turning the earth and tuning in with the turning of the seasons.

PS why are weekends the fastest/shortest days of the week?