Upside Down

At the beginning of last summer, we spent a few days on the south coast of England, between Worthing and Brighton, or thereabouts. I really liked Worthing and could be quite at home there. Brighton was pleasant. Being a holiday resort, it was busy, as to be expected. On the front, a quirky upside down house generated interest. I believe it is a tourist attraction. We didn’t visit. At the time, it didn’t occur to me that our own holiday resort, Blackpool, might benefit from the same thing, but sure enough, as I sit typing, an upside down house is under construction somewhere on the sea front at South Shore. While I’m having my daily whinge about the state of roads and pavements in my locality, and wondering why we need special food waste bins when it’s simple enough to bag it separately – oh, yes, someone said rats, ok – I remind myself that Tourism Planning and Town Planning are probably not the same, and don’t share an office, or if they do, it’s all upside down. Was I dreaming about Blackpool being put forward for a future City of Culture status? Let’s wait and see. Mr Bickerstaff had a daft idea about a tower and that worked out just fine.

Upside down, topsy-turvy, inside out. This is still how my house is and has been for nearly a year. I wish the fairies would come during the night and sort it out. Packing up and getting rid of things no longer needed takes forever and I’ve got to be ruthless to downsize. It goes against my nature to part with most things. We’ve spent weeks in our caravan, quite happily with not much more than the basics. Funny, that. We haven’t moved house before. At this rate, it might not happen until Blackpool has City of Culture status.

The family home, children raised here now grandchildren treat it as their own, which is how I like it. This is how sentimental I am. Old photos show the changes through the ages. Furniture, carpets, décor, all a mix of good ideas, or not. We’ve always had painted walls, apart from the lounge. It is painted now, but until recently it was wall-papered. When we did the papering, I did the cutting and pasting, my husband did the hanging, smoothing and finishing trim. Once, we had the entire room papered with the pattern upside down. My fault, of course. Luckily, it was a subtle design, mostly hidden by book shelves and tall furniture. I don’t think anyone noticed.

Imagine the horror of being stuck upside down on a malfunctioning ride in an amusement park. It has happened. A group of people spent thirty minutes suspended upside down 100 feet high for about half an hour when a ride they were on stalled. Everyone was rescued safely and without injury, apart from the discomfort of blood rushing to their heads giving visual problems, dizziness and headache. This occurred in Portland, Oregon, USA in 2024. It might have happened elsewhere, too.

A poem,

Upside Down

It’s funny how beetles
And creatures like that,
Can walk upside down
As well as walk flat.

They crawl on a ceiling
And climb on a wall,
Without any practice
Or trouble at all.

While I have been trying
For a year (may be more)
And I still can’t stand,
With my head on the floor.

    

                                 Aileen Fisher

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Blackpool Rocks - UTMP

Blackpool Rocks. It certainly does. I’m out on the fringe, away from the excitement of most of what Blackpool offers as a holiday resort, but still close to the main roads for any of the emergency services. I’m always complaining about sirens disturbing the peace. Another reason why we’re looking to move.

Blackpool became my permanent home in the mid ‘60s. Dad achieved his goal of having a pub on Blackpool prom and we stayed long after that. The family was settled. Those earlier times were fun and some of my best memories are captured in my poem, ‘This Was My Blackpool in ‘68’. I’ve previously blogged about that particular summer, so I’ll say no more, but the poem can have another airing.

This Was My Blackpool in ‘68

Taking a tram from North Pier to Starr Gate.
A summer of fun and staying up late.
This was my Blackpool in ’68.

Anne, Auntie Kath and me, all holding hands
Crossing the Prom to get on to the sands
Where the grumpy deck-chair man always stands.
This was my Blackpool in ’68.

We were young ladies with panache and style,
Playing the penny arcades for a while,
Frittering our spends on the Golden Mile.
This was my Blackpool in ’68.

Spinning the Waltzers three times in a row,
Make it go faster, we don’t like it slow.
And then the man said, “That’s it, off you go!”
This was my Blackpool in ’68.

Out to a summer show, straight after tea,
Engelbert tonight at the ABC,
A back-stage delight for my mum and me.
This was my Blackpool in ’68.

Got to get ready, there’s no time to lose!
My trendiest outfit is what I will choose…
A pink ‘Biba’ dress with bright orange shoes.
This was my Blackpool in ’68.

We wanted peace, love and Flower Power,
Charlie Cairoli and Blackpool Tower,
Seaside and sunshine for hour after hour.
This was my Blackpool in ’68.

My first visit to Blackpool FC was with a group of school friends in 1970. If memory serves me well, the match was against Chelsea. I don’t remember the result. It wasn’t a pleasant afternoon. I found the whole experience scary, loud and lairy, full of the sort of men that would frequent our vaults, to be avoided. In future, I would stick to beat nights at the ice rink.

Oh, I’m just hanging out with the lads on this photo. They make me look so small.

Forty years passed before I became keen on following Blackpool FC again. This was a random invite to watch a match but I was lured in this time. The stadium had been transformed into a female friendly, welcoming place to be, greatly improved from 1970. I got the bug, well, we both did. Season tickets soon followed and since then, it has become a way of life. Before that, a promotion to the Premier League prompted a poem.

Sea Sea Seasiders 2010

Everything tangerine and white,
Fans all meet in great assembly.
Blackpool FC in the top flight,
They’ve beaten Cardiff at Wembley.

Open top bus in ’53,
Everything tangerine and white,
The FA cup for all to see,
Bill Perry’s goal, the town’s delight.

It really was an awesome sight
With deafening applause and cheer;
Everything tangerine and white
And flowing champagne and beer.

Open top bus like ’53,
Everything tangerine and white,
The play-off cup for all to see,
Ormerod’s goal, the town’s delight.

Ollie’s team have got the power,
Premier League, a dizzy height.
Blackpool flag atop the tower,
Everything tangerine and white!

The beach and the promenade were my playgrounds as a child. I’m happy for those carefree times and I’m lucky to have had such a diverse upbringing that moving around with a family and extended family in the pub game gave me. I love my memories. The Golden Mile is wonderful for all those who seek it, but there’s no interest for me anymore. I like the sea air and the Blackpool coast line, maybe a walk on the beach, but it needs to be firm sand these days. That’s what Blackpool rocks for me.

Some time ago, I read ‘The Blackpool Rock’ which is an intriguing and interesting book about aspects of Blackpool that are not in my personal experience. A gripping read. Steve Sinclair tells his story with honesty and integrity about the side of Blackpool he knew very well through his work as a doorman. Reading about it is close enough for my comfort and satisfies my fascination. There is also a TV documentary with Danny Dyer. It is definitely not my Blackpool in ’68, or maybe it was and I didn’t notice?

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Summer - Making Memories

It is here, at last, the moment we’ve been waiting for. Proper sultry, summer weather of hot sun and blue skies from dawn until dusk, which is around nine-thirty, and I would like to say it goes on day after day. It won’t. I think this is two days of heatwave, then rain, possibly storm, and cooler temperatures. My house is currently thirty-four degrees and I feel sticky and uncomfortable.  The heatwave may not be completely responsible.  After two and a half years of sticking to guidelines and looking out for myself and family, Covid has got me. I tested positive at the weekend after feeling unwell for a couple of days. There are no signs of recovery yet. When it cools down, I’ll rest in the garden, admiring the fruits of my labours, especially the planter I’ve called Tangerine and White.

The summers of our youth were everlasting and full of ice cream, the park, the beach and sometimes a holiday. Our holidays tended to be spent with family, when my dad could escape from running the pub for more than two days together. It was always good to spent time with our cousins. They are in the USA now, but they lived in London and the south of England when we were all children. My sister and I loved their big garden offering lots of room to play, even space for badminton.

For years home was a pub on South Promenade. We had the beach on our doorstep. Day after day we were there, not a care in the world and not a thought for how lucky we were. Someone would be with us until I, being the eldest, was considered old enough to take us across four lanes of traffic and the tramlines. My sister would choose an ice lolly or ice cream. I loved a portion of shrimps in a tiny paper bag. I can still taste how delicious they were. Better than anything sweet.

When our children were young, summer holidays meant the long road trip to Pembrokeshire and a couple of weeks staying in a static caravan. It was owned by family members who didn’t use it during the busy months of July and August, but were very happy for us and others to enjoy it. We were so privileged. We had holidays that wouldn’t have happened if not for the generosity of our extended family. Our children, and us have great memories of those wonderful times.

Making memories is what we’ll be doing in a few weeks when we take our grown up children and all our grandchildren to have a blast at Butlin’s. It’s our treat as grandparents and a one-off. It will be fun for all of us, of course, but it is centred on giving the grandchildren a fabulous time. My grandparents used to take me to Butlin’s when I was small, before I had a sister. Now I’m the nanna. It’s my turn.

Allow me the indulgence of my favourite of Shakespeare’s sonnets,

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

William Shakespeare 1564-1616

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Harlequin - A Knitted Memory

From Wikipedia – ‘The oldest versions of the word harlequin – the Middle Dutch hellekijn and the Old French hellequin, reference hell and a mean kind of demon. In the translation from French to English, the harlequin lost his demonic quality and became a clown.’

My maternal grandmother was college educated, bright and well-informed. I would doubt that she was aware of the above, but I would love it if she had been when she knitted my grandfather a slip-over in the harlequin pattern. The subtle sentiment would have suited her. She was an exemplary knitter. The colour changes of grey, bottle green, navy and maroon were perfectly matched and blended, the end result better than any shop-bought machine-made knitwear. My grandfather wore it nearly every day.

By the time I was on the scene and taking notice, Nanna had worked as a secretary, left to marry Grandad and raised a family. By now they were running a pub and later helping my aunt to run hers. They bickered constantly, only being polite to each other when they were downstairs in the bar. There was never an obvious cause for a fall-out, not to me anyway. They had an active social life as a couple, they went away on holiday or on trips and the usual things that people do. They took me to Butlin’s a few times when I was a child, often with my aunt’s extended family from Ireland. We were a close family. I remember Nanna having the upper hand and Grandad conceding in their everyday spats.

When I was older, I learnt from my aunt that Grandad had given Nanna the run around on more than one occasion during their marriage and she held him on all sorts of ultimatums. They were married for fifty-three years. Up to now, I have been unable to prove any of the misdemeanours. Everyone has passed away, so no one to ask and only me who is interested enough to have another search occasionally. Truth or fiction, it hardly matters really.

What does matter is that I adored them and I knew they loved me, and of course, my sister, too. Nanna taught me to knit, something I do all the time. I mastered crochet after she’d died, though could never do it when she tried to teach me, with more patience than she ever had for anyone else. I’ve tried harlequin pattern and I can do it, but it’s fiddly, time consuming and better off left with the lady who turned it into a work of art.

Nanna was a strong minded woman, northern grit.  She’d survived two world wars, an errant husband, the death of a three year old daughter and the death of a thirty-five year old daughter (my mum) and somehow kept going. I’ve said many times that I wish I had a fraction of her strength, and that of my great grandmother.

I have my grandfather’s rocking chair. It’s a shame that I don’t have his slip-over.

My Haiku poem,

Grandad’s rocking chair
Now lives upstairs in our house
Recovered to match,

But not re-varnished,
So my hands rest on the arms
Same as his once did,

While he read his book
Or scanned the morning paper,
Keeping to himself.

My nanna was cross,
I’d heard her berating him.
It was just their way.

I’m sure she still cared.
She knitted his slip-over
And kept tabs on him.

She kept her tongue sharp
Behind Golden Wedding smiles.
Hiding the heartbreak.

PMW 2022

(As I typed the year, I realised it is 100 years since they got married, bless them.)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Jets - Comet or Jumbo?

It was a very grown-up thing to be doing, again I was reminded. Perhaps my mother expected me to ‘kick off’, to use modern parlance, though I never had done before and any slight attempt on my part to be anything less than perfectly behaved would have met with her cross face and a warning tap. I hated that face. Something strange happened with her mouth and her eyes, transforming my otherwise glamorous, attractive mother into an old-looking scary witch. Of course, it’s not a look I was overly familiar with. I was born flawless and had impeccable, lady-like manners by the age of two, apparently.  So, here was my sensible, six-year-old self waiting patiently in the departure lounge of Ringway Airport – Manchester International these days – clutching my chosen toy from the airport shop, a Comet aeroplane, the same sort of jet that we would be flying on. Soon we would be embarking on the real thing. Air travel, and I was grown-up enough.

I was going on holiday to Jersey with my parents and uncle, my father’s brother. I sat by the window with my toy Comet resting on its stand, placed on the pull-down table in front of me. We were airborne before I knew it. The mosaic I could see through the window was actually the ground so far below me and I was fascinated but what thrilled me more than anything was the miniature salt and pepper shakers we were given with our in-flight snack.

Many years later, I found my first Atlantic crossing filled me with apprehension. I hadn’t been up close to a Jumbo Jet before and I couldn’t imagine something so huge would make it off the ground. It did, but I found the physical force of take-off a little worrying. Trust me to be making this trip when the popular aeroplane disaster movies were fresh in my mind. I was travelling alone to stay with family in the U.S.A. and would be met at the airport.  It was a relief to arrive unscathed.

     After our honeymoon in Jersey, we made return trips and it became a favourite place of ours before we had our children. We returned for a family holiday which was their first trip in a plane and a grown-up thing to be doing. I had come full circle.

I think I might need a refresher course in ‘lady-like’. If my mother is watching over me she might agree, as long as she’s not doing that cross face.

 

 

 

 

Here’s Simon Armitage, our new Poet Laureate,

 

Thank You For Waiting 

At this moment in time we’d like to invite
First Class passengers only to board the aircraft.

Thank you for waiting. We now extend our invitation
to Exclusive, Superior, Privilege and Excelsior members,
followed by triple, double and single Platinum members,
followed by Gold and Silver Card members,
followed by Pearl and Coral Club members.
Military personnel in uniform may also board at this time.

Thank you for waiting. We now invite
Bronze Alliance Members and passengers enrolled
in our Rare Earth Metals Points and Reward Scheme
to come forward, and thank you for waiting.

Thank you for waiting. Accredited Beautiful People
may now board, plus any gentleman carrying a copy
of this month’s Cigar Aficionado magazine, plus subscribers
to our Red Diamond, Black Opal or Blue Garnet promotion.
We also welcome Sapphire, Ruby and Emerald members
at this time, followed by Amethyst, Onyx, Obsidian, Jet,
Topaz and Quartz members. Priority Lane customers,
Fast Track customers, Chosen Elite customers,
Preferred Access customers and First Among Equals customers
may also now board.

On production of a valid receipt travellers of elegance and style
wearing designer and/or hand-tailored clothing
to a minimum value of ten thousand US dollars may now board;
passengers in possession of items of jewellery
(including wristwatches) with a retail purchase price
greater than the average annual salary
of a mid-career high school teacher are also welcome to board.
Also welcome at this time are passengers talking loudly
into cellphone headsets about recently completed share deals
property acquisitions and aggressive takeovers,
plus hedge fund managers with proven track records
in the undermining of small-to-medium-sized ambitions.
Passengers in classes Loam, Chalk, Marl and Clay
may also board. Customers who have purchased
our Dignity or Morning Orchid packages
may now collect their sanitised shell suits prior to boarding.

Thank you for waiting.
Mediocre passengers are now invited to board,
followed by passengers lacking business acumen
or genuine leadership potential, followed by people
of little or no consequence, followed by people
operating at a net fiscal loss as people.
Those holding tickets for zones Rust, Mulch, Cardboard,
Puddle and Sand might now want to begin gathering
their tissues and crumbs prior to embarkation.

Passengers either partially or wholly dependent on welfare
or kindness, please have your travel coupons validated
at the Quarantine Desk.

Sweat, Dust, Shoddy, Scurf, Faeces, Chaff, Remnant,
Ash, Pus, Sludge, Clinker, Splinter and Soot;
all you people are now free to board.

by Simon Armitage

 

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

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Colours - The Future's Bright

The future is looking bright, tangerine and white.

I’m looking forward to Saturday’s football match. I’m looking forward to a fantastic cheerful atmosphere from a capacity crowd. The chanting, the singing, the drum roll, all will be there, at last.

Bloomfield Road football ground is clean and tidy with colourful, tangerine seating. It’s a far cry from 1970 when my friends and I stood on the terrace to watch Blackpool, trying to avoid whatever skirmishes were happening around us. It was a male-dominated place in those days. I don’t think there were any facilities for ladies, but a few of us die-hards were not put off.  Blackpool F.C. were in the First Division at the time and I couldn’t wait to see George Best play when Manchester United came. Sadly, it was not meant to be. I was many miles away on a fortnight’s holiday in Majorca with my family when that match was taking place.

One of my close school friends was one of Bill Perry’s daughters. I knew he was a former player for Blackpool but I didn’t appreciate the significance at the time. He scored the winning goal for Blackpool in the 1953 FA Cup Final, but to me he was my friend’s dad and the man who fixed our vacuum cleaner in his electrical shop.

 In the early ‘70s I stopped going to matches. Time had moved on and my weekends were taken up with other things. I followed the fortunes of the team from a distance and that’s how it stayed for a long time.

A new era is about to commence. Colour the town tangerine and white.

 

My poem from 2010,

 

 

Sea Sea Seasiders  2010

 

Everything tangerine and white,

Fans all meet in great assembly.

Blackpool FC in the top flight,

They’ve beaten Cardiff at Wembley.

 

Open top bus in ’53,

Everything tangerine and white,

The FA cup for all to see,

Bill Perry’s goal, the town's delight.

 

It really was an awesome sight                                                            

With deafening applause and cheer;

Everything tangerine and white

With plenty of champagne and beer.

 

Open top bus like ’53,

Everything tangerine and white.

The play-off cup for all to see,

Ormerod’s goal, the town's delight.

 

Ollie’s team have got the power,

Premier League, a dizzy height.

Blackpool flag atop the tower,

Everything tangerine and white!

 

 

PMW

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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From Russia - With Love

The ‘Beast from the East’ sent us a hint of snow to wake up to, here on the Fylde Coast.  A more substantial ‘white out’ further inland caused the closure of schools and brought transport to a full stop. Such extremes rarely reach us, but even so, I keep a well-stocked larder of tinned and packet food in case we can’t get out. I am the first to agree that this is hilarious, considering that there are two shops a very short walk away and we usually have our weekly groceries delivered. In my defence, I have explained to the mirthful ones that it isn’t only the weather I’m prepared for, but illness and disability as well, even though we live in a neighbourhood and not miles from anywhere in the far reaches of East Siberia.

I think I’d like to visit Siberia. I don’t know where it figures on the tourism market but it looks interesting.  First we’ll tackle Scotland next week. Hopefully it will be warmer than the -50 Celsius that Siberia has been experiencing.

When I was a child I picked up on things called ‘The Cold War’, ‘The Iron Curtain’ and ‘Eastern Bloc’. It was nothing to concern me, I was far too young to understand, but I was old enough to sense solemnity and worry myself about it to the point of nightmares which baffled my mother. It came from news bulletins, rather than adult conversations and affected me so much that I avoided having the news on as much as possible when my children were young.

Years ago, a work colleague was going on holiday to Moscow. She liked unusual places and always went on her own. It is fair comment that she wasn’t popular at work and those of us that had to put up with her hoped she might not be allowed back into the UK, the naivety of our youth. We didn’t get our wish, of course. She sent a postcard saying simply, ‘From Russia, with love’.

As a football fan, I hope that this summer brings something else home from Russia, the World Cup.

One of my favourite poems:

I Loved You (Ya Vas Lyubil)
I loved you; even now I may confess,
Some embers of my love their fire retain;
But do not let it cause you more distress,
I do not want to sadden you again.
Hopeless and tongue-tied, yet I loved you dearly
With pangs the jealous and the timid know,
So tenderly I loved you, so sincerely,
I pray God grant another love you so.

 

Alexander Pushkin, 1799-1837

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

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Mountains - Come Out, Let Me See Ya!

Geography and Geology were never my strong points and I didn’t carry the subjects any further than 3^rd Year high school, so forgive my ignorance in only just discovering that there are five basic kinds of mountains.  I’ve been looking on a Primary Homework Help website and read about Fold, Fault-Block, Dome, Volcanic and Plateau mountains, formed when slabs of the earth’s crust crashed into each other. It’s never too late to learn and I’m developing an interest.

 

When visiting the Scottish Highlands, I’ve looked forward to the drive through Glen Coe, in anticipation of seeing Ben Nevis. So far, I’ve been denied this treat as anything taller than the roof of the car has been shrouded by Scotch Mist. I believe the area is beautiful and I hope for a clear day when we head out that way in the summer, though I’ve seen a translation for the meaning of ‘Ben Nevis’ which is ‘head in the clouds’.  In case you’re wondering, Ben Nevis and the mountains surrounding Glen Coe are volcanic.

 

Ben Nevis is not the only mountain to hide from me. Very many years ago, I was based near Grindelwald for a week on the Bernese Oberland trail in Switzerland and never got to see the top of the Eiger as it was constantly obscured by cloud. The film ‘The Eiger Sanction’ was still popular and boosted tourist trade, not that a boost was needed. An excursion to go sightseeing in the Bernese Alps was cut short due to heavy snow and this was late Spring.

 

We took our daughter and her friend to North Wales on holiday when they were both just teenagers.  We were all looking forward to a day out in Snowdonia, especially the mountain railway to the summit of Mount Snowdon which we could all enjoy. We would be on top of the world. It was not to be. The train track was being upgraded or repaired and was out of action. The climb was not suitable for all of us so we chose something else.  The adventurous ones had lots of fun riding the cable cars up and down the Great Orme to Llandudno.

 

 It was Burns’ Night this week, so I’ve chosen something by Rabbie. It starts with mountains before he becomes distracted…

 

Yon Wild Mossy Mountains

 

 Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde,
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed,
And the shepherd tends his flock as he pipes on his reed.

Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores,
To me hae the charms o'yon wild, mossy moors;
For there, by a lanely, sequestered stream,
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path,
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath;
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove,
While o'er us unheeded flie the swift hours o'love.

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair;
O' nice education but sma' is her share;
Her parentage humble as humble can be;
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me.

To Beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs?
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts,
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts.

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond-sparkling e'e,
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me;
And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms,
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms!

 

 Robert Burns

 

 

 Thanks for reading, Pam x



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Wind Farms - Illness and Holidays

There’s nothing like some morning sunshine and a glimpse of blue sky to raise my spirits and wake up some dormant energy. At least, enough energy to leave the warmth of the sick-bed and wander downstairs to flop, exhausted, on to the comforts of the rocking chair in the window, next to the radiator.  From here I can spend an hour or so pondering over what to do next and grumbling about why Radio 2 is playing so much ‘music’ more suited to Radio 1 or is it me? I suspect it is the choices of the chirpy young lady DJ covering for someone. I think I’m starting to feel better.

The last couple of weeks have passed me by as I have drifted from one illness to another, or perhaps it is different stages of the same thing. ‘Flu, pain, dizziness, rash, fatigue, blurred vision…I’ve got it or just had it and it might come back. Any medics reading this feel free to diagnose and tell me how much longer I need to rest.

During my alert moments,  I’ve really got into ‘Peaky Blinders’, something I’d promised myself was too good to miss and I’d never seen it. I’m making up for it now, but not last thing at night, bad dreams. And while I’m wide awake and can literally focus, I’ve been trying to plan a holiday for the summer and possibly a little Spring break.

We’ll be off to Scotland, of course, but other places are very worthy of a visit and a short break somewhere closer would be nice. I’ve looked at so many cottages, shepherd huts, lodges and hidden B&Bs that they are all lining up to greet me as soon as I check emails or social media. One thing that struck the cynical side of me, as I fell in love with unspoilt countryside landscapes used to advertise the properties, was, what if the lovely view isn’t real? What if there’s an army of wind turbines in the way? I’m probably over-thinking and over-worrying as I’m prone to do, but our chosen place for a summer holiday is North East Scotland and the Orkney Isles. Lots of wind farm dots on the map, but not a single blade or paddle on any promo photos. I’ll have to let you know. I understand the green energy bit, but I still think they are ugly things that spoil the countryside and it’s a shame they can’t be built from something transparent or less noticeable, if we’ve got to have them at all.

Well, wind farms or no wind farms, I expect to go back to work in a few days, after a few more episodes of ‘Peaky Blinders’ can set me up to face the outside world.

 

I found the perfect poem.

 

Windfarms by Malcolm Mackellar

 

I too, love a sunburnt country, And I love its sweeping plains. I can tolerate our years of drought, And our destructive flooding rains, But I hate the sight of wind farms, That in our rural lands abound. I hate their jerking, twitching arms, And their swishing, hissing sound. I hate the way they blight our view, Of our once proud fertile soil. I hate their ghastly ghostly hue, Where farmers used to toil. I hate the endless sleepless nights, And the headaches that they bring. I hate the ugly metal sites, Which used to bloom in spring. And instead of trees and fields and flowers, And clear blue open sky, We see slicing blades and tall white towers, Where eagles used to fly. So take these monstrous things somewhere, And build them far away, Where our deserts have more room to share, And the wind blows every day.

 Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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A Pair of Idiots Abroad

When our children were small and we had very little spare money we used to pack the rusty old Sierra to the roof, squash the children in the back like sardines, between coolboxes, sleeping bags and frying pans, and set off for the long drive to the French Vendee. 

Sadly, this was never the pleasant, exciting journey I'd envisaged (the husband was always the realist, not to say pessimist).   As we set off in the middle of the night from Onslow Road and onto St Walburgas the arguments would begin.  These could be between any combination of passengers and driver, although mainly between three tired, over excited children or two exhausted, stressed adults. 

There were the usual, 'Are we nearly there yet?', 'What's to eat?' and, 'He/she is annoying/touching/speaking to me.'  These from the back, where Laurey always got to sit with her legs crushed by the coolbox and Dan was squashed in the middle with his knees up to his chin due to the hump in the floor.  Joe, meanwhile would be flicking Dan's ear or something equally annoying. In the front there would be the hissed disagreements about directions (the handy Satnav was yet to be invented, although, when it was, the husband, of course, knew better); or one of us, usually the husband, would explode about the kids' behaviour and the other (usually me) would surreptitiously slide a hand around behind the seat to find a leg to quietly grab or slap (difficult with the coolbox and the hump and the frying pan, despite plenty of practice), whilst calmly muttering, 'They're only kids, they're excited...'

Most years we were the idiots abroad and sadly have plenty of evidence to back that up.  One year we were the idiots before we'd even got out of Blackpool, although we didn't know it until we returned two weeks later.  A neighbour told us, with great pleasure, that we'd driven off and left the front door wide open.  Of course, the husband blamed me and I blamed him, but the truth was our brains had been frazzled by the planning, the packing and the children. 

As idiots abroad, we were the best.  Although I'd done A level French and my mastery of the language wasn't bad I resented being the only one out of at least nine of us (we went with another family, sometimes two) to do all the talking - all the asking about directions, the ordering of food, the bartering in markets, the buying of goods) and eventually persuaded the husband to at least have a go. 

I soon realised this was a big mistake. 

His first job was to get the bread. With dismay I heard him asking confidently in French (with a broad Accrington accent) for a dozen large baguettes. I leapt across the shop and quickly amended the order to the two that we needed. 

Then there was the petrol station where he greeted the attendant with a 'merci' and drove off with a 'bonjour' as I slid down in my seat and stared fixedly in the opposite direction. 

But by far the most idiotic and dangerous thing we were both responsible for was the day that we adults were so exhausted we allowed five children, aged from five to ten, to go off fishing. On their own. Unbelievable in this day and age. Anyway, off they went on their bikes, with a couple of fishing rods between them, while we settled down outside the tent, with a few luke warm bottles of beer (camping fridges were in their infancy and more likely to heat things up than keep them cool).  In due course, miraculously, all five children returned, albeit wet and rather subdued. There was not a fishing rod in sight and Joe, the eldest, was pushing his bike, rather than riding it. Laurey disappeared into the tent and lay on the bed, telling us in passing that she didn't feel too well.  

The Motley Crew

The adults, after rather half heartedly asking the children if they'd had a good time (there were subdued nods) carried on laughing, chatting and drinking the warm beer. 

Reading this now, it seems the whole arrangement was the height of irresponsibility. In our defence, thirty years ago, kids were given a lot more freedom than they would be today, but even by those standards we had acted like idiots. 

The full story didn't emerge till years later.  Apparently, all had started well. The little convoy had wound its way to the beach, Joe as the eldest, leading the way, Ben, the youngest bringing up the rear, pedalling as fast as his little legs would take him.  Then, at a bend in the dirt track, Joe's fishing rod which had been balanced precariously on his handlebars, somehow became entangled in the spokes of his front wheel and he was catapulted head first onto the ground, simultaneously grazing his face and knees and giving his wheel a nasty twist. 

Despite being somewhat shell shocked the little group gathered round the injured party, made sure he was still alive and carried on to the beach.  

And this was where things got seriously scary.  After a short while fishing with one shared rod between them and not a fish caught, Joe decided (probably in a show of bravado) that he would swim across the bay.  Against advice from some of the others, mainly his sister, he set off from the rocks and headed for the other side.  Halfway across he realised, with mounting panic, that it was further than he thought. Laurey, by this time, was crying hysterically, quite sure that she would be going home without one of her brothers.  Spotting a boat bobbing about a little way out, she managed to get the fisherman's attention and waved wildly towards Joe, who was still ploughing through the water in growing desperation.  

Of course there was happy ending. Joe was rescued, he managed to ride his bike in a somewhat wobbly fashion most of the way back to the campsite, followed by the motley crew, and if I remember rightly a rather drunken barbecue ensued. Laurey eventually emerged from the tent, still looking pale, and assured us she would feel better in the morning. 

I'd like to tell you that the holiday ran smoothly from then on, but two of the bikes were stolen the following day - by another idiot abroad.  But that's another story....

No time for a poem this week unless I add one tomorrow.

Thanks for reading     Jill

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Sheep on a hill

WHAT IS THIS LIGHT!

Oh it's morning. Daybreak bursting through the crack in my curtains infecting my light starved eyes with blurred pain. DAM! It's like this every morning but never happens the same way twice. I didn't even have a drink last night. I don't drink any night.

The constant sound of a pen tapping on a wooden surface relaxes me. Some people find it annoying, like nurse Gemma. She grabs the pen off me and throws it in the bin. The look on her face is one of utter violence. I'm sure if she thought she'd get away with it she'd stab that pen into eye socket and grind it round until the clear plastic started to scrape the bone. Fat cow. Who does she think she is?

Breakfast is simple flaky powdered crap with milk. Good for me they say, good for no one. It's Tuesday so yesterday was Monday. On Monday's we get post. I got a postcard from my mother.

According to the picture on the front she's in Eastbourne with Derek. I hate Derek, have done ever since he took mother away from grieving for father. She wasn't ready, it had only been 4 years, he could see how vulnerable she was and...

Sheep on a hill; sheep on a hill; sheep on a hill...

I stared at the message on that back for 16 hours 27 minutes and 32 seconds. I couldn't believe what she'd written; I don't believe it. Blue ink from a ballpoint pen. You can tell by the way the card indents under the pressure of writing.

It wasn't the “Having a lovely time” or the “Weather is nice, bit blowy”, those kind of formal statements are just part of the course. The line that threw me, that made me dream and hope before I realised it was bull “Wish you were here.”

Filled with cruel intention and disingenuous feeling “Wish you were here.” as if. She never wanted me in her in the first place. Would have had the doctors rip me out if she could have. Couldn't wait to put me in here with nurse Gemma, get me out of the house, get me as far away from her as possible.

“Wish you were here.”

I WANT MY PEN BACK!

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