Angels and Devils

Today I ventured further afield and went to San Francisco.  It was quite an adventure.

The first exciting thing was discovering that the train was a DOUBLE DECKER.  I embarked and then WENT UPSTAIRS.  It was the 'Jumbo Jet' of trains, I felt like I was in first class, especially with the leather seats.  However, in order to get two floors on the train, the upstairs ceiling was a bit low.  Not usually a problem for those of us who are vertically challenged, until you stand up and bash your head on the parcel rack.

I stepped off the train in San Francisco station with mild concussion.

I asked a bus driver the way to the pier, from where I was going to catch a ferry.  I only wanted directions for walking, but she was insistent I got on the bus and gave me instructions for the next one to catch.  Unfortunately, we didn't make it to the next interchange, as on leaving the bus stop, one poor woman wasn't holding the pole as instructed by the computerised voice (they seem keen on those here) and fell onto the floor.  I started trying to scoop her up, but the rather bossy bus driver shooed me off and berated the woman for not holding the pole.  I was tempted to say something about the jerky driving, but it was a bit scary being in a strange city and she looked like she might have been a part- time wrestler.

Although the woman was OK and sat back on a seat, the bus driver insisted we all got off as she was going to 'get them to come and check her over'.  From her tone of voice this wasn't out of concern for the passenger, more out of concern there was going to be litigation.

Eventually I made it to the pier, where it was very jolly. Coffee shops and nicely planted flower beds, and every so often a trolley bus would 'ding ding' past.  It was quite a thrill, looking out over the bay and seeing Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge.  There was also a herd (not sure of the umbrella term) of sea lions basking in the adoration of crowds on the opposite pier.  They were wallowing on rafts that were probably meant for boats to moor, but they looked very comfortable and relaxed.

Might have something to do with not ever needing to catch a bus.

The ferry was fun, lots of decks (is there a theme here?) and took us right past Alcatraz.  It looked intimidating and dismal.  Lots of decaying concrete and institutional architecture crumbling away.  As the boat went beyond the island, the sight of Alcatraz against the backdrop of the glittering city made poignant contrast.

We first moored at a little port.  Lots of plate glass windows in the houses cleverly built against the hillside and niche shops on the waterfront.  The natural habitat for those men who are photographed wearing Rolexes in the Sunday supplements I felt.

After some more time chugging through the water, we arrived at Angel Island.  A beautiful place, tree lined hills, walking tracks, pleasantly landscaped garden areas, but something didn't really feel quite right.  It turned out the island had a bit of 'a past'.  It has been a garrison in the Civil War, a recruitment  center during the World Wars and used as an immigration center for the Chinese coming to America, where they were held in quarantine.

Oh, and it was also once a missile base during the Cold War.  

The island was marketed as a place to camp.  I had a spot of bother thinking of a family that might want to go camping on a disused missile launch pad, until I remembered that my father, who enjoyed picnicking at nuclear power stations, would probably have jumped at the chance.

It felt a bit odd, that although the island was beautiful, it had a history of human misery not dissimilar to Alcatraz, it just wore it better.

Haberdashery

Haberdasher is such a good word, although secretive.  If you hadn't come across it before, it gives absolutely no indication what its meaning might be.  Unlike say, 'butcher' which helpfully suggests meat is involved, or 'baker' hinting, quite strongly, at bread.

Today I went to what must be one of the best haberdashery shops around.  It was in Santa Cruz.  It was the size of a warehouse and was a treasure trove of fabulous bits and pieces.  The huge rolls of fabric were propped up at one end, and the better quality ones hung on rollers with a quantity draping down to entice you to touch.  I started at one end, stroking the faux fur and imagining my house, completely lined with the stuff.  Forget wallpaper or wood paneling, faux fur is the future for interior design as far as I am concerned.  There is something so reassuring about stroking softness.

The fabulously coloured pure silks were quietly looking glamorous, hanging off horizontal rods in the centre of the store.  So fine to the touch, it was like they almost weren't there.

Some of the material had prints created by someone with a sense of humour - in the 'food' section, there were bolts printed with tomatoes and bacon and eggs.  In another area, there were rolls of material covered with matchsticks, and another with cigars.  Pet lovers were also catered for, with multiple doggie faces staring out, and kittens with bows.  Sadly no guinea-pigs - I do think the power of the guinea-pig is underestimated in art.

One roll of upholstery material had a flock of mallards swimming between the bulrushes, presumably looking for Moses.  I think they were off course in California.

On the walls raggedy rows of ribbons and sequins dangled down, in every colour you could imagine.  One roll of shimmering turquoise sequins reminded me of the sea and I imagined a dress fit for a mermaid.

The buttons were fun too, big square ones, small textured ones, buttons so big they had patterns cut into them like doilies - you could serve fairy cakes on them.

It reminded me that there is something wonderful about specialist shops.  Forget the bland malls with chain stores and bring back the real shops, the ones that make it more fun to spend your money.

Steaming

Today I went to a state park about six miles away from where I am staying.  It was a beautifully sunny day.  It still feels strange that this is so normal, no one comments on it here, unlike at home where the minute the sun comes out, we all rush outside to enjoy the rare occurrence.

There were HUGE redwood trees, and a display with a slice from one cut down in 1934 showing the rings from major events in human history across around 2000 years.  I stood inside one redwood that had been burned out (but was still alive).  Someone in the past had actually cut a window in the bark, which had grown over again.  A little further on I felt quite thrilled when someone walked past and ACTUALLY SAID 'HOWDIE'.

Yay!  I'm definitely in America!

It was a very nice park, one half seemed to be totally natural and set up to admire the trees, and the other side was a wacky, fun pastiche of the Wild West.  Then I remembered.  I was in California.  This was the Wild West, once.

I decided to take the vintage steam train up the mountain.  Just sitting in an open wagon was fun, with the whistle going (and sounding very American, just like in all the old films), and with a commentary coming out of a speaker next to my seat.  The commentary started off quite amusing and helpful, 'Has the little chap who went to the restroom returned yet?  We don't like leaving anyone behind', and 'Welcome to the Mormon Mission in the last carriage'.  As we passed a man balancing a sledge hammer on his chin, the voice intoned 'Don't try this at home kids' as parents looked a bit worried and made a mental note to lock up the heavy duty tools as soon as they got back.  This was reinforced by the man waving jovially at the train with one hand, while wielding a humming chain saw in the other (he was making sculptures out of logs - eat your heart out Michael Angelo).  The disembodied voice continued talking, and talking and talking.  It wasn't clear where the physical presence that went with the voice was, so when it said, 'the tree we are just passing on your right....' it was confusing to work out whether, as the train was quite long, he might have been in the front with the driver, or at the back with the Mormons.  The voice didn't seem to need to draw breath, and only stopped in submission when the train's whistle blew, which it did, frequently.  The peace and tranquility of the forest was being completely overwhelmed by the train, rather like the effect the man with the chainsaw was having on the hapless logs.

We steamed up the mountain, and it was very beautiful.  The voice was promising some 'additional entertainment' at the top, but also warned us to 'watch out for our wallets'.  I started to think about the attractive possibility of ice cream, possibly at top notch prices to match the top notch venue, but I was wrong.   As the train arrived at the highest point some actors dressed in Wild West costumes greeted us with waves and smiles.  Then everything went a bit haywire as some cowboys started shooting the friendly actors.  I couldn't hear the dialogue, so couldn't tell what was happening, so for once, I wished the disembodied voice would chip in and help, but he didn't.  I idly wondered whether he had been shot.  The actors were doing a good job, but I couldn't help feeling a tinge depressed about the lack of an ice cream stall, as it really was getting hot.  

The train wended its way back down the mountain to the Wild West shopping opportunity.  I was relieved to see that the man with the sledge hammer still had his skull intact, and the chain saw man still had both hands fully functioning.  It was quite a relief to not have Mr Invisible trying to enforce jollity any more, he was giving me earache.

I started walking the mile or so back to where the bus allegedly went from.  It was still really hot, and I was starting to feel bothered too.  It didn't help that bus stops are almost invisible here, and I had to ask in two shops where it was.  I eventually saw two small tin signs attached to a bent pole with a bench, and realised this was where I needed to wait.  I did feel quite smug that at least I have got the hang of which direction the bus comes from, and don't sit watching the traffic on the other side of the road, wondering how the bus will get across to me.

The food store was near where I was dropped off, so not to waste a walk back empty handed, I thought I would buy a few additional bits and pieces.  You know how it goes, you only mean to buy this and that, and end up with a large bag full.  So it was I staggered out with my rucksack bulging and heavy into the 90 degree sunshine, with a mile uphill ahead.

I started off strongly, but my pace became slower and slower as I started seriously overheating.  I had sweat pouring off me as if I was in a hot shower.  My one consolation was that, as I climbed the last stage, no one I knew would see me.

You can imagine my dismay as a car pulled up, with a well groomed man inside, who let his electronic window slide down on his smart and shiny car, and said, 'Hello, are you Hilary?'  I kept my distance to avoid sweat dripping into his immaculate interior, and considered looking confused, and turning round to see where Hilary was (having been inspired by the actors on the train trip).  I didn't, I gasped an apology for my appearance, explaining I had just walked up from the town.  He was very understanding, but I really, really didn't want to start making new friends at that exact point in my life.

Back in my apartment it was a case of kick off the shoes and grab a pint of water before collapsing in a heap on the settee.  I tried to console myself with the thought that all the walking must be making me fitter, even if I feel like I am about 100 years old.

It's Posh Here....

I woke up to an ethereal mist hanging in the forest.  The dampness made the earth smell particularly fresh and alive.

Gradually the sun burnt off the mist.  I was due to help with the gardening.  There is a lovely, cultivated square under the grapefruit, lemon and orange trees that needed weeding.  I pulled open the gate and walked into an olfactory delight - the scent of lemon mint mixed with grass and the damp earth.

I started extracting weeds from around the wonderful and abundant mint, and from around the strawberries.  You can imagine how surprised I was to be told that in California, mint is A WEED.  Yes, the stuff we actually pay for in supermarkets is a WEED here.  I took it quite well, and trying to look nonchalant, explained that in the UK, STRAWBERRIES ARE WEEDS.  We have such problems, they get everywhere and destroy all the other plants.......

I don't think anyone believed me.

Another surprise was that the chickens in the run next to us became rather excited about us weeding -  chickens in America EAT WEEDS.  As this included copious quantities of mint, I suspect that the next omelette anyone makes will have a strange after-taste.  I think maybe that OREGANO should be redesignated a weed to stop this becoming a problem.

While we are on the subject of eggs, I have noticed that the shells are much harder to crack.  I went to break an egg on the side of a bowl, it took so many bashes to open up, I felt like I should have been better equipped with a hammer.

I have been told this is because they particularly love their chickens here, and look after them very nicely.  

Now, who's for mint tea?

The other side of the street....

Today, I am very proud to announce, I had my first practice at driving ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD.  Mind you - having given it some thought, and seeing a map of the world showing which countries drive on the right and which on the left, it has to be said that Britain is actually the one, USING THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD.  

I was quite nervous, and read some good advice on the internet before setting off.  The most sensible of which just said to repeat constantly in your head (or out loud for that matter), 'Keep on the right, keep on the right'.  It said something about trying not to open the window when you reach for the gear stick, which I thought was a bit daft.

'I'm not that stupid', I thought smugly.

Out in the parking lot (I am getting the lingo now) I kept hitting the window winder when I tried to change gear, so that bit of advice didn't seem so daft in retrospect.  It's hard to find third with a faster and faster blast of cold air in your face and the engine over-revving.  It was also odd to look up and to the right for the internal mirror, I kept looking up and left and admiring the door pillar.  Not much help in seeing whether there was a large truck bearing down on me.

I drove along a steep, twisting road, with a sheer drop appearing occasionally to one side.  I decided not to be intimidated and instead kept an eye on the central lines, which confusingly were yellow, like our no parking lines down the side of the road.  In America the white lines are at the edges, which adds to the general feeling of confusion about where you should be pointing on the road.

I stalled once, was tooted once and sworn at by a truck driver once, but as I managed to get both the car and 'slightly anxious' passenger back in one piece, I decided to regard it as a successful outing.

Santa Cruz

Today I have been to Santa Cruz.

What a wonderful place, but then California seems to have a lot of wonderful places.  More than its fair share one might say (particularly if one doesn't live in the state and is suffering recurring bouts of envy).

Otters were playing, just close to the shore - barrel rolling and turning somersaults in the water, sticking their paws up and generally looking as happy as could be.

A sea lion was watching all the goings on from his throne, a prominent rock poking up through the sea.  Seals were lying on the beams under the pier and barking at each other.  There were humans too, sitting astride surf boards waiting to catch the next, green glimmering roller.  There was a back drop of mountains and yachts -white sails billowing in the wind - criss crossing in front.

The walk to the beach was bordered with exotic flowering succulents, which cascaded down the rocks towards the sand.  Large yellow and pink blooms growing like you might expect dandelions to in Britain, casually just appearing, like it was no bother at all.

The sand was golden, fine grained and warm underfoot.  It was very obliging sand, moving spontaneously as you laid upon it to make you as comfortable as possible.

Kind sand.

With eyes closed, you were left with just the sound of the ocean breathing.

Just Popping to the Shops - I might be gone some time......

One of the things I hadn't really taken into account on arrival here was that I can't just pop across to the shop when I run out of something.  At home, the 'store' was two minutes walk away, and a flat walk at that.  I didn't have to think ahead to make sure I didn't run out of milk for my tea, or bread to go under the marmalade.  Here, the nearest store is one mile away, and down a near vertical slope.  For those of you familiar with the Lake District, it is akin to a mile of the Kirkstone Pass between me and my chocolate.

This is of some concern.

Not to be outdone, today I prepared my rucksack, a bottle of water and some comfy shoes and set off.  On arriving at the store, I realised it is an interesting discipline, shopping by weight.  As I added each item into my basket, I was thinking, do I really need a heavy tin of tomatoes?  Do I really need another jar of jam?  The pasta twirls seemed quite a bit lighter than the spaghetti and I definitely didn't fancy any potatoes or (and this rather sadly) any watermelon.

I filled up my rucksack and started up the North Face of the Eiger.  I wondered about the thinness of the air as I ascended, (but realised this couldn't be an issue as the kettle takes an age to boil).  I wondered whether the Yeti had been seen lately, but decided it was too warm and he would have melted.  I wondered who I would eat when rations ran out, but remembered I had sufficient supplies on my back, which meant I wouldn't have to take a chomp out of my own arm.

It actually only took 30 mins to get back to the snugness of my apartment.  I had just enough energy left to shrug the shopping onto the counter and roll onto the settee, kicking my shoes off as I did so.

A bit later, I decided that due to all the exercise, I was in danger of experiencing a calorie deficit, so enjoyed opening the fridge and deciding which of my hard won treats was going first.

Little Weed?

The more I learn about redwood trees, the more astonishing they become.  The bark is fire-proof, so some trunks are burnt out in the middle, with just the bark shell remaining.  This gets covered in soft moss and looks rather beautiful.

Also, when a tree is brought down, more shoot up from the stump.  They remind me a bit of celery stalks, but with the middle cut out first.  It seems like they are really just the biggest weeds on the planet.  It might be lucky that they only grow in quite particular conditions, otherwise 'The Day of the Triffids' would have to be rewritten.

When you think about it, any tree that can get to around 2000 years old must have quite special survival techniques.

The area of California I find myself in used to be part of the Gold Rush, so I walk quite hopefully along the streams, watching for any particularly bright, glimmering pebbles - although I suspect the real treasure here takes a non-tangible form.

Finding the Keys

It's hard to put into words how beautiful this forest is.  You step into it and it almost feels other worldly.  I heard a quote that says the English build cathedrals, the Americans grow them, which seems about right from what I can see here.

I have been for a walk to a waterfall, criss-crossing the stream.  I have seen the light mist illuminated by the afternoon sunlight slipping between the trees. I have watched the deer standing on their hind legs to munch the lower branches of the fruit trees on the lawn.

I also found the grand piano in the building next to my apartment.  It was wonderful to unpack my music and to start playing, something that has been neglected for too long.  To start with my effort was rather dismal, but after a while something happened, and I was engaging with the music in a way I haven't done for some time.  Having a large room to myself, I started to throw off my inhibitions and sing along, or simply to sing in the missing notes when my fingers missed, and occasionally to shout out in frustration.  It was fun.

I have been to the store to buy a cell phone, and seen lots of those American trucks with the big bonnets (oops, hoods).  I still get a thrill from the mail boxes on sticks and the hydrants, although it has to be said that the UK postal system is superior in being able to put letters actually through our front doors.

It has been sobering to hear a couple of discussions about the problems of paying for health care.  We must treasure our NHS.

California Dreaming

After months of planning and preparation and a few last minute hitches (why did the washing machine decide to spring a leak the day I was moving out?) I have finally arrived in California at the start of my career break.

I have swapped the concrete suburbs of London for the peace and tranquility of a redwood forest.

It was a good decision.

I have been shedding layers of stress and each stride taken on sun dappled soil feels more springy as a result.  The majestic redwoods compel your eye to travel up the long, straight trunks to the canopy, swaying gently in the breeze.

Mesmerising oscillation.

While lying on a bench, looking up and admiring the magnificent trees, I started thinking they were like my friends grouped around me, with hidden roots intermingling and helping each other stand upright.

That's what happens.

An improved lightness of being lets your mind start doing what it does best.

Thinking.

Chequing in at the Bank

I feel the urge to write, yet again, about banks.

Last week, I went to a local branch for what should have been a fairly swift transaction.  I queued at the counter and after a lot of shuffling around, was told to wait in the middle of the entrance atrium.  The bank had, worryingly, tried to get trendy, and there was a dark circle picked out in expensive granite, surrounded by small spotlights set into the floor.  The effect made it look like someone hadn't swept it for a while, but once your eye was in, you could see they were going for an unusual interior design effect.  I waited uncertainly in this nondescript area, where other people were hovering around looking confused.  A harassed woman with a clipboard was seeing to people at random and pointing them to other places to queue or wait.

It happened to be the bank that particularly prides itself on understanding local traditions around the world.  Well, this is Britain.  We need a well ordered queueing system.

Why hadn't the bank understood that?

After an age, I had to fill in a form with her and then wait on a stool for another age before being shown to a trendy, circular pod covered in large photos of 'sexy' bankers.  A young lady came in and there started a rather frustrating discussion.  I explained I needed to draw a large cheque.  She wrote 'check' on a piece of paper, so I helpfully spelled out 'cheque'.  She said, 'it doesn't matter', but crossed out 'check' and wrote above it, 'check' again.

My heart sank, I knew this was going to be difficult.

After another age she said I could pick the 'check' up on Monday, which I couldn't do as I would be at work.  'Maybe', I suggested,' I could collect it from the Morden branch'.  She disappeared for an age again, came back and said I could collect it from the New Malden branch on Monday.  I said, 'Morden' not 'New Malden'.  She wrote, 'New Morden'.  I resisted the urge to bang my head on the desk.  Then she asked why I didn't write my own cheque.  I said I didn't think I could have a cheque book with that account, but she promised to order me one.

IOff I went shopping, to receive a phone call a short while later, saying I needed to go back as I couldn't have a cheque book on that account after all.

Eventually, a manager took pity on me and said I could have the cheque in half an hour.  All in all, it took two hours and involved five members of their staff.

At another bank, a year ago, I had an employee tell me I needed a 'rabais'.  When I expressed confusion she wrote it down for me.  Much later I realised she must have meant 'rebate'.

I would like to plead with banks that they make the newbies learn a list of frequently used banking terms before they let them near customers.  It can't be that difficult.

The Living Womb

I had a wonderful weekend last weekend.  I went to see my Iron Age pal, who has a horse kept in a field at a friend's farm.

It was pouring with rain, and the inauspicious start to the day involved trudging, up to our ankles in mud, dragging a wheelbarrow to collect piles of horse poo.  It was actually quite hard to spot the poo against the mud, but once I had my eye in, I could pride myself on hunting out the heaps.  Once found the multiple boluses (?) needed scooping up, which was quite tricky as they tended to roll away from the spade.  I was reminded of one joyful day as a lifeguard at a quite smart pool complex, where I had to fish a turd out of the shallow end.  When I recounted this to my friend, she asked whether it was my own poo.  I felt quite indignant - as if I poo in swimming pools, honestly!

When the muddy poo collecting was done, we went to a barn to bottle feed the most beautiful little lambs who had been making a big fuss about being hungry.  They guzzled greedily and bounced around, full of the joys of spring.  I had been warned not to appear to be bonding with them, this is de rigueur on the farm from which they would be sent to be slaughtered before autumn.  I managed to look fairly serious and not like I had just fallen in love, and called, 'number six, time for your bottle'.

After this, we picked some curly kale for dinner from the veggie patch, and then went and sat in the farmhouse kitchen.  It was like stepping back in time, or maybe finding you had walked into an episode of The Archers.  An ancient range was glowing orange and emitting warmth as if from a huge hug.  There were two well sat-in armchairs arranged next to it, and about five friendly dogs agitating to be stroked and patted. I took a seat and was promptly given a mug of tea and slab of extremely tasty home baked cake, with home made jam filling (butter cream icing for those of you who like this level of detail).  It wasn't a living room, it was a living womb.

We went back to my friend's house where the slow cooker had been doing its stuff on two lamb shanks, yes, bought from the farm.  I think we were eating the great aunt or uncle of number six, a thought I had to put to the back of my mind as I tucked in.  It did taste delicious, and for once I felt like I was eating something better than Michelle Roux was busy cooking up on TV at the same time.

All in all a wonderful day.

Thank goodness for...

Radio 4.  I have been off work with labyrinthitis for too long, and daytime TV is just so appalling it is guaranteed to finish off any residual brain activity by day two.  Radio 4 however is brilliant, really amazing.  I have been learning loads, how to avoid food poisoning, how to make sure Big Ben doesn't collapse when you are building a tube line underneath it, stuff like that.  You never know when it might be useful, although the food poisoning information is more likely to be relevant to my life.  Not because I give people food poisoning, but because it is handy to know not to wash your chicken as campylobacter loves water.  I am also up to date with everything going on in parliament, and have been enjoying 'Farming Today', although confess to falling asleep during the recent episode that covered the Common Agriculture Policy (or whatever it's called).

Evening TV is also quite bad.  I haven't recovered from the mother/daughter combo in Benidorm (or similar), where they went 'on the pull' together, after downing more shots than most people would drink in a week, and that was just for starters.  While channel hopping in desperation, I happened across an obscure American cartoon, that was explaining whether cooking with alcohol burns off all the alcohol.  Something I have always wanted to know.  It doesn't.  The water and alcohol combine in an azeotropic reaction, but some residual alcohol remains, depending to some extent on whether you put the lid on or not.

There, has that impressed you?

I have also been pottering in the kitchen and doing a spot of cooking, and have realised that choux pastry isn't that hard to make after all.  I need to get better soon, as all this lying on the sofa and eating profiteroles is going to be really bad news when I try to get my work clothes back on!

Careering Around

I've found a part of the BBC website that teaches you languages.  Having time on my hands I have started to learn Spanish.  This is in case I find myself up the Amazon later in the year.  At the moment I could only cope with emergencies that require the urgent ordering of coffee with milk and a slice of toast.  I hope that by lesson ten I might be able to articulate, 'Help, there is a crocodile and it looks hungry!'.

The adventure is a possibility because, in the depths of the work intranet, I found a page excitingly entitled, 'Career Breaks'.  I blew the cobwebs off and realised it was possible to have the gap year I never had.  I started dreaming of, well, of somewhere I haven't been and was therefore rather tricky to dream about. The worrying bit was, that while the title of the webpage suggests there is a career to be continued on return from circumnavigating the world on a raft or whatever, in reality this isn't the case.  I have to effectively resign and hope something suitable will come up when I get back.

'Live life adventurously' has been rattling around in my head, and having seen other, inspirational people leading alternative lifestyles, decided it was now or never.

After hours of searching around on the internet, interviews, phone calls, letters and e-mails, I now have three months booked being a volunteer in California, three months volunteering in Scotland, and the possibility of three months working for a charity in Malawi as well as the possibility of going up the Amazon on a boat taking medical advice to remote communities.  It all seems a far cry from my safe, suburban life where everything is quite cosy and comfortably predictable.  I realised comfortably predictable isn't the life I want to lead yet.  Maybe in ten years time that will be fine, but not now.

The travelling and meeting new people and having adventures isn't the scary part.  The scary part will be packing up my house to rent out, and being effectively of no fixed abode for a year.  

I will have to get rid of as many material possessions as possible.  Having moved house twice in the last twelve months, I have already rid myself of truck loads of stuff.  I will soon have to go through everything again to ascertain whether I need or like it enough to a) pay for it to be stored, or b) clamber up into the attic with it.  It will be very interesting to see what survives the cull.  

 

 

Iron Woman

I have been busy today, helping to forge brass, feeding pigs and spinning wool.  I have been, in short, Iron Age Woman.

It is a very pleasant way to spend a late summer day, sitting outside a round house chatting, tasting Iron Age food (delicious vegetable soup with yoghurt), teasing wool into yarn and then operating the bellows in a forge.  In between all this, I tried out sling shots - a leather pocket on a long thong (not something in a glass).  I am not so good with the shot as I am with an atl atl, but maybe that was just beginner's luck.

The forge was amazing.  A basic timber building with an earth floor and a hole in the ground for the furnace which was edged with a few loose bricks around the top.  Two large foot operated bellows charged the flames with oxygen as the crucible was lowered, on long tongs, into the pit.  Sparks belched several feet into the air with each compression of the bellows, and wild flames escaped sideways between gaps in the bricks.  Things became more frantic as the copper started to boil and equipment was assembled to pour the molten metal into the moulds.  It suddenly became a bit too exciting when the glowing crucible fell out of its support and red hot globules scattered over the floor.

More relaxing was sampling the unleavened bread with tasty chutney, and the soup was wonderful.  Some people were busy in the same round house painting wood with paint made from elderberries and other fruit. Others were dying wool in beautiful, natural colours and could be seen unwinding long skeins between round houses at various intervals throughout the day.

The clothes are very comfy and warm too, woollen tunic dresses and blanket shawls.  It all seemed rather a wonderful way to live, gentle and sociable, but of course we were sampling it in warm weather, with no fear of failed crops or diseased animals.

The ones who managed that really were the Iron Women.

Oooh! Get me!

Another lovely day on the river yesterday.  I won my third trophy - my second for punting.  This might indicate a talent for punting.  Sadly, I have to correct this foolish notion.  I still can't steer without grinding to a halt, and it generally comes down to luck who wins, ultimately whoever doesn't get caught up in the foliage.  Getting caught up is more of a problem on the bank side of the course.  The lane nearest the centre of the river is safer from the point of view of avoiding hedges and overhanging trees, but can leave you gently spiralling out of control, and out of depth for your pole.  This can be embarrassing.

I haven't really decided  which is worse, trying to reverse out of a shrub without falling in, or trying to look like you know what you are doing as you find your punt perpendicular to the bank and the top of your pole disappearing below the surface.

I shall give this weighty matter further consideration and let you know when I have finished ruminating.

I also took part in a skiff race.  It was a 600m course - not too bad I hear you think.  Sadly, to get to the start line, I had to row against the flow, weaving in and out of pleasure boats.  By the time I was at the start, I was exhausted.  Then I had to row back with great enthusiasm.  I was about two thirds of my way down the course, when I heard the finish bell ring for my competitor, which is fairly depressing, and those final strokes felt a bit dismal.

At the end of the race the pain is not yet over as you have to 'park'.  It is quite off putting manoeuvring a skiff while being scrutinised from the clubhouse by happy, alcohol imbibed visitors.  As I tried to look adept at easing my skiff into a small gap on the bank, I decided it would be easier to simply turn my blades round and row facing forwards.

A more experienced rower tried to help by indicating that I should row facing backwards while mooring, as is customary.  That would have required a rather complicated 360 spin by that point, so I pretended not to have heard.

I have now realised that you row facing away from the direction of travel so you don't get downhearted as your competitor puts more and more water between you.  It suddenly seems so sensible!

I'm off to polish my trophies now.  Carefully placed on my front windowsill so the neighbours can see them and who might be fooled into thinking I am an adept sportswoman.

Messing about on the River

Oh, I'm having a lovely summer messing about in boats.  I used to walk along river banks feeling jealous of people in boats, thinking you either had to be massively rich or sporty to take part. Since discovering the Skiff Club, I have realised that just about anyone can take part.  The good news is you don't have to wear lycra either.  The only mandatory article of clothing for regattas is a rather Victorian looking hooped (stripy to you and me) top.  That's obviously not the only article of clothing you would wear for a regatta, but you can wear any shorts or trousery things.

So, having gone from being the least sporty person in the universe, I am now winning (yes, winning) races in both punting and skiffing.  This is mainly due to the clever points system, which means that beginners only race other beginners, so there is a vague chance of winning a race once in a while.  

There is really nothing more fun than being on the river in the summer.  I am sometimes in punts, with fish jumping ahead and eels wriggling beneath, or in skiffs.  What is particularly nice is that as you potter along, people on the bank start chatting (luckily I am slow enough in both modes of travel to enable lengthy conversations that the likes of Sir Steve or Cath Copeland would generally miss out on).  I also tend to keep going up and down the same 100m stretch of river, so you can pass the same people and continue the thread.

One worry is that the punting takes place opposite a pub, where locals sit out on the river terrace to enjoy the view.  As I wobble across the Thames on my punt, I am acutely aware that the additional sport for these drinkers is the possibility of watching one of us fall in.  It is a very effective incentive to stay upright and also not to leave your pole behind.  It was very interesting in a regatta yesterday to see that the punt poles, left in the water by hurrying crews fighting for first place, looked all akimbo.  Rather like sewing needles that had fallen and become caught in fabric at an odd angle.  Someone in a motor boat has to go along after the race and pull them all out.  Crews carry spares in the punt for this eventuality.

My race was fun, my competitor couldn't steer too well either, and nudged me ever closer to the bank.  As if in slow motion, an overhanging bush came towards me and I had a flash vision of being hung over a branch like washing on a line. Luckily I ground to a halt, mid-root.  After a bit of punt position juggling, we lined up and set off again, and rather surprisingly I won.  Winning has the effect of making you believe you are close to joining the ranks of elite athletes, and making your enthusiasm for your sport start to take over your life.  This is how I find myself spending more and more time getting acquainted with the Thames. This morning I rowed nine miles.   If I did nine miles on a rowing machine I would be bored out of my mind, but being on the river was wonderful.  You have to keep alert and weave in and out of the path of other river craft.  In a single skiff, you are also much more aware of the water, and what it is doing around and under you.  You have to take constant references to your direction.  It all adds many more dimensions to the sterile experience in the gym.

Messing about in boats.  Why wouldn't you?

Epiphany Envy

So I went on my annual trek to my favourite Hebridean Isle, where every year I have an epiphany.  I've got to the point where I almost stand waiting for it to happen as soon as I get off the ferry.  Calmac could add it to the ticket package and charge more.

This year I felt quite grumpy, because everyone else I was with had one. One person even had two.

Two!

I didn't have one at all.  That just wasn't fair!

When the first person had an epiphany in a certain place on the island, I resisted the temptation to hurry along, sit and wait for it to happen.  It was agreed that this was cheating, and that you can't piggy back on someone else's epiphany - however much you might want to.

So it was my first epiphanyless week there.  Maybe was the weight of expectation that fanned it away.  Had it hovered over me and I missed it?  Are we all walking around missing the most important moments of personal revelation because we aren't looking, or conversely, looking too hard?

What is the ideal frame of mind to catch the wafting, ephemeral moment I wonder?

Oh well.  I'm getting all metaphysical again.  It's a habit I keep slipping into lately.  Like finishing off all the biscuits, only more interesting.  Anyway, I hadn't really thought of epiphanies being like buses.  You either have none, or two coming along at once.

Back to the holiday. I just had to make do with the experience I had one day on a sailing boat trip to the Trennish Isles.  A school of dolphins played about the bows of the boat, leaping and twisting at the sheer delight of being in the water.  They were exuberant and joyful, and were so close you were almost soaked when they exhaled through their blow holes.  They drifted away after about half an hour, but then we saw a basking shark, its fin slicing the water.  All the while, puffins landed on the sparkling water around the boat.

Sigh.

Inspiring my Generation

Everyone keeps talking about how we are going to be so inspired by these Olympics we will all be fitter but I think we are all getting considerably lazier.  All this lying on the settee with a glass of wine and bag of crisps marvelling at the achievements of the athletes.  The only exercise most of us get these days is reaching for the tissues when our eyes involuntarily start watering to the national anthem and the sight of an athlete kissing a gold medal.

What I would also like to know is how someone like me who hates flags and national things, has been reduced to crying at the sight of the Union Jack?  AND  how is it that the national anthem is the only moment I feel like doing a bit of exercise, and carefully have to resist the urge to stand to attention, saluting the TV.

What about those horsey types too!  What are they made of?

Mostly platinum by all accounts.

Break your back, neck, rupture your spleen, pin it all back together, get back on a horse and win a gold medal.

They are so brave, jumping over terrifyingly high fences, designed to lull you into a false sense of security by looking like Toy Town.  I tried riding - once there were some logs lying on the ground.

I was scared as my horse trotted over them.

The gymnasts!  Spinning, whirling, bouncing, looking for all the world like they are made of rubber, as well as being superhumanly strong and bendy, and brave.

Really brave.

Then you have those cyclists, looking like aliens from another world.  Strangely half cartoon, half insect as they pick out an orbit in the velodrome.

I am in awe.

Traffic Jam

I spent some time motionless in my car today.  Pick a multiple, any multiple, and that's how much longer it felt it took to travel that particular two miles than it should have done.

As is the way with these things, the sun decided to come out for the first time in forever.  I was baking, motionless and with no alternative to hand, other than to relinquish my car to the verge and walk.  I didn't want to do this, having just paid a substantial part of my wages on a service.

So I decided to sit and think in a meditative mood, and try to imagine I was lying on a sunbed, under a thatched shade, on a Spanish beach.  It worked.  I started having relaxing, random thoughts.

One was about the why queues of motionless cars should be called 'traffic jam'.  This sounds like it should be something fun, tasty even.  Maybe the 'conserve' aspect of the title refers to the opportunity we are afforded to conserve our energy.  Hopefully no one feels 'fruity' while sitting, frustrated in their driving seats......

'Traffic marmalade' has a sunnier feel to it, with reassuring Paddington Bear connotations.  Everyone could get out of their cars and share a sandwich, 'elevensies' style. 


I don't think relating such situations to condiments would work.  Mustard should be English, French or wholegrain, not 'traffic mustard'.


Pickle, now that would be good, as in, 'we've all got ourselves in a pickle on this section of the M25'.  Traffic reports would be loads more fun to listen to, with 'serious pickles', 'chunky pickles' (where there are lorries involved), 'piccalilli' (if double yellow lines and those annoying yellow criss cross boxes were being ignored).


Eventually I reached the conclusion that 'traffic glue' was the most suitable term.