Wanderlust - Travelling Eternity Road

Like everyone else I’ve been at home for months with little prospect of going anywhere. Luckily, I don’t mind. I’m happy and safe at home, or at my place of work for a couple of days a week. Over time, I’ve become so contented at home that I dread going out to anywhere busy. Social media showed pictures of Blackpool taken this Bank Holiday weekend of the crowded promenade, not a face-mask in sight. I don’t see the resort as getting back on its feet after lockdown, I just see fear, but that’s my problem to overcome. In a few weeks I will be travelling over the border into my beloved Dumfries & Galloway and our home from home – pandemic permitting. I’ll be fine, doing my own thing, keeping to my own space and allowing my wanderlust to take me into Galloway Forest and the quiet, hidden beaches along the Solway Firth. I will have plenty of face-masks.

My photo: somewhere on the west coast of South Uist

I wish we had a motor home or a camper van. In my wanderlust dreams I pack it with everything we need and set off, northbound, stopping wherever the fancy takes us, then destination, the Outer Hebrides. It is another world. We could stay as long as we like and be more relaxed about it. Up to now, our trips have been governed by annual leave and it isn’t long enough, even with a bank holiday tagged on the end. Things will change soon. Time will be our own and we’ll be able to just go for it – pandemic, lockdown and personal worries aside.

Back in the good old days when The Moody Blues did a UK tour, we’d be with them, going to places we otherwise wouldn’t go. I suppose that was a form of wanderlust, even though we booked everything in advance and knew exactly where we were going and for how long. We were ‘Travelling Eternity Road’ if you like, including Manchester Apollo, or now I think it is called O2, we would drive home from there; London would be part of a sight-seeing holiday, Birmingham, got to be in their home city, often where the last concert would be, and anywhere else we could factor in. Lots of concerts over many years. It was always worth it.

If I felt ready to mingle with the rest of society, I would have travelled to Wembley, supporting Blackpool F.C. in their successful play-off final against Lincoln City. Instead, I watched on TV at home. Feeling stressed and holding my breath for the most of ninety-odd minutes isn’t healthy. In my house there were shrieks, screams, tears and much applause. The neighbours knew we were home.

I found this, by Alfred Joyce Kilmer:

Roofs
(For Amelia Josephine Burr)

The road is wide and the stars are out
and the breath of the night is sweet,
And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet.
But I'm glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my face,
And to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling place.

I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to roam
All up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home:
The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of day
Will wander only until he finds another place to stay.

A gypsy-man will sleep in his cart with canvas overhead;
Or else he'll go into his tent when it is time for bed.
He'll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as the sun is high,
But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep away the sky.

If you call a gypsy a vagabond, I think you do him wrong,
For he never goes a-travelling but he takes his home along.
And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows,
Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which it goes.

They say that life is a highway and its milestones are the years,
And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears.
It's a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far,
But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.

                                                                     Alfred Joyce Kilmer (1886 - 1918)

Thanks for reading, take care if you're out there, Pam x

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Silence - I'll Settle for Quiet

“Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence.”  (From Desiderata by Max Ehrmann, 1927)

How refreshing it feels just to be quiet with no distraction. I like to have the radio or a CD on, but sometimes it’s good not to bother and go about my housework duties in silent prayer or lost in my thoughts. My thoughts are bordering on torturous at the moment. A mini crisis which I needn’t bore you with and I’m sure it will blow over with some self-counselling and a quiet word above.

The place that offers the most silence is our favourite lodge in Dumfries & Galloway. Off the beaten track, hidden by trees and foliage, any sounds come from nature – and the fridge thermostat kicking in – owls, foxes, deer and the ripple of the nearby stream. Dare I believe that we’ll be there in just a few short weeks? Recently arranged and neatly in line with my retirement, we will sample summer time at the lodge. Very rare, we’re usually out of season visitors, but very welcome after lockdown.

The back garden offers tranquillity, depending on the day or time. The sheltered side, nice for a quiet read, never on a Sunday, though. Someone in the neighbourhood will fire up their lawn mower, strimmer or electric hedge cutter and kill the moment. No one around here has a massive garden, so what takes hours with some extra loud machine, I do not know. Someone else nearby likes to entertain outside and after winter and lockdown, it is clearly back on the agenda. Raucous laughter, which we hadn’t missed, and, I am told, the smell of a barbecue was apparent at the weekend. The best time to sit out is on a week day during school hours, until the boy across the back comes home and starts kicking his football against their wooden fence. They have to start somewhere, bless him.

At work, we hear the sound of silence at the end of the day when the fluorescent lights are switched off and the high-speed drills stop buzzing in our ears.  It isn’t my domain but there is something I find peaceful about a spotless, empty surgery, prepared for the next day. I accept that I’m a strange one. Somewhere a phone will ring and an answer-phone will take a message. I won’t miss much of this.

I am happy to fill my house with the noise of four lively grandchildren coming to tea, make sure they have fun and enough to eat and enjoy the peace and quiet when they’ve gone home.

My Haikus:

My washing machine
Is torture to all ear-drums
When it’s in a spin.

Stressed and troubled, then,
When dental drills stop whining
Serenity calms.

When the noise has gone
And there’s a moment to think
About what makes peace.

Hushed in the darkness
The unsettled baby girl
Loved and nursed by me.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, keep well. Pam x

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Retirement - Bring It On!

I looked forward to retiring at sixty, as many of us did, and then, a bolt from the blue took away plans and wishes and sat firmly on our state pension for another six years. I’m there now and I still haven’t received the explanatory letter ‘sent to everyone’ when the changes were made. WASPI (Women Against State Pension Inequality) campaigns and protests seem to have been sympathetically listened to in some quarters – Jeremy Corbyn, when Labour leader, said that women were “misled”, the situation “needed to be put right” and “We owe a moral debt to these women.” It was included in the Labour party manifesto. Even if nothing changed, it was going to be looked into. The flicker of hope died with the election result.

Anyway, politics aside, my time has come and I’m trying to decide exactly when to hand in my keys and cross myself off any rotas. I’ve spent lots of time at home during the pandemic, shielding at the beginning, then having to isolate a couple of times when I eventually returned to work.  I like being at home. It’s been good getting a feel for life in retirement and spending more time with my husband who retired early a few years ago.  In normal circumstances we would enjoy the freedom of having lunch out, seeing friends and spending more time with family. These things will come back to us, hopefully before too long. I reduced my hours at work so I’m actually at home more than I’m there, yet I still can’t wait to leave.

I yearn for the freedom to just go where I want, when I want without having to plan in advance and ask permission. Deciding one day that we’re off to Scotland, or anywhere the next day, is the life for me. Spending summer afternoons reading in the garden was bliss last year and I look forward to doing it again. I knit and crochet a lot and love making baby clothes so with a current baby boom going on amongst colleagues at the moment I’ve been  a one woman cottage industry.  My writing has been on a back burner for too long. I was trying to use shielding and isolating time to write a best-selling novel or a brilliant TV series, but they’ve both been done, not by me, by the way, and I’ve been struggling to concentrate lately.  There are lots of things on my retirement list and I certainly won’t get bored. I might get fat(ter) on home-made baking, but never bored. I’ll enjoy finding out who I am, so let’s bring it on.

My poem,

When I can please myself on what I want to do each day
Without the stress and strain of doing my job in the way,
I will take time to rest, to think and to learn who I am,
Apart from a wife, a mother and a nanna called Pam.

My wardrobe’s full of Marks and Spencers matching navy blues,
Formal skirts and cardies and some uniform slim-line trews.
Tunic length NHS blouses, navy with polka dots,
Pockets stuffed with tissues and hair-ties, a tangle of knots.

Let’s get rid of such strict clothing and find a nice, new style,
Dresses, ear-rings, beads and things I haven’t worn in a while.
Skinny jeans, knee-high boots and a home-made Aran sweater,
My family and freedom will soon make me feel better.

I’ll wear long, floaty skirts and lipstick, and I’ll paint my nails,
I’ll join in with other WASPI girls on some campaign trails
And hope some good may come of it, though it’s too late for me
So many ‘50s women need to set their pensions free.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe, Pam x

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Home is where you lay your hat? .... Nah!

What's in an address? Many may say it's your home, but I don't feel that way.

In my 38 years of being on this planet, so far I have had 8 addresses. The first 3 of those were the family home shared with my Parents and siblings. They really were home to me. The remainder were houses or flats shared with housemates, the significant other in my life at the time, or latterly, with just my son. None of those later 5 I would class as home, just a place that I have resided. To me, a home is yours, mortgaged or not. I have only ever rented as an adult, and short of winning the lottery to enable me to buy, it is highly unlikely that I will ever get on the property ladder myself.

I try my best to make our current place of residence feel like home for my son. I like living there. It is a cosy little 2 bedroom cottage style terraced house. But to me, it isn't home. It may be because of the mess, or because I didn't get that feeling people talk about when buying a house, where they love the house as soon as they see it and feel like it's home. It saddened me to realise, that I may never have a home of my own.


The Nomad

From a loving home
Setting out on my own
Finding my own two feet
First here and then there
Adventure turning to despair
Never finding my welcome retreat.

I have had many abodes
And hospitality bestowed
I am thankful to all and to each 
But a little place of my own
Just mine, not on loan
Eludes, always just out of reach.

So I drift ever on
Searching over yon
Realising it may never come true
To have my own door
A roof, walls and floor
I'm a Nomad with an ever changing view.



Thanks for reading. x ;-)

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To My Daughter

To My Daughter On Being Separated from Her on Her Marriage

To My Daughter On Being Separated from Her on Her Marriage

To My Daughter On Being Separated from Her on Her Marriage

By Anne Hunter

Dear to my heart as life’s warm stream

   Which animates this mortal clay,

For thee I court the waking dream,

   And deck with smiles the future day;

And thus beguile the present pain

With hopes that we shall meet again.

Yet, will it be as when the past

   Twined every joy, and care, and thought,

And o’er our minds one mantle cast

   Of kind affections finely wrought?

Ah no! the groundless hope were vain,

For so we ne’er can meet again!

May he who claims thy tender heart

   Deserve its love, as I have done!

For, kind and gentle as thou art,

   If so beloved, thou art fairly won.

Bright may the sacred torch remain,

And cheer thee till we meet again!

Poetry ought to be collected, like soft pillows, about oneself.  You never know which one you will require at a given moment, but it’s safer to keep them all around – so that they can lift or support you when the moment is right.  

This poem by Anne Hunter chimes with me at the moment.  No, my daughter isn’t marrying but she is a young woman now and is soon to turn sixteen.  It’s the first of a series of customary coming of age markers which reveal that she now able to smoke (or continue to berate others for doing so), play the lottery (or keep her pounds to spend on pretty things) and even marry (or the modern, less expensive equivalent).  

I find it difficult to express the closeness of my relationship with my daughter but these lines rang true:

For thee I court the waking dream,

   And deck with smiles the future day; 

The image of decking a day with smiles makes me think of all the times, as a mother, you feel tired or gloomy but are able to put those feelings away, instead igniting the warmth of a home fire for your children.  That fire would be impossible without them.  It’s the reciprocation which enables the flames.  Their enthusiasm and guileless honesty inspires in you the effort to mirror that openness to a ‘waking dream’ in which anything is possible and goodness is present in abundance.

And o’er our minds one mantle cast

   Of kind affections finely wrought?

Hunter clearly felt this same closeness to her daughter, which feels so different to any other relationship.  The mantle is present when we are alone, giggling, exchanging shared observations and memories, jumping to the same conclusion simultaneously and finishing each other’s sentences.  In those moments, we are as one mind, with absolute affection for each other, knowing that we will be there for each other whatever the storms beyond that mantle; that this cloak of affection protects us to some considerable measure from anything the outside world might throw at us.

Bright may the sacred torch remain,

And cheer thee till we meet again!

But daughters do leave the home.  Perhaps not to marry, perhaps to study or to work.  That is, after all, the reason for our mothering efforts.  We want them to thrive beyond the mantle.  So we feed the torch while they are so close, knowing that it will continue to shine for them wherever they travel.  Knowing that, should it start to dim, they can always return to replenish that flame.  And when my daughter comes home, from wherever she travels, she will reignite my torch too.  And we’ll deck our days with smiles whenever we think of each other.

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An Adventure in Blackpool, 1991

I didn’t grow up in Blackpool...

I spent the first 9 years of my life in Coventry before moving to a small village in Bedfordshire. Therefore, I know what it’s like to come from a place that is stigmatised by non-habitants. I was used to hearing the South’s negative opinions about my Midland home, ‘It’s an ugly concrete breezeblock,’ people would say. And shy me would stand as tall as I could and defend my City. I’d explain how Coventry was bombed during WWII, that concrete was the cheapest and quickest way of rebuilding – of rising from the ashes.

I was proud of my hometown, of my roots, and I could see things that most outsiders missed. I could see the Coventry Cross (made from the timbres of the destroyed cathedral), which stands in the ruins as a symbol of peace. I could see the old silent monastery, which coined the expression ‘Sent to Coventry’. I could see the grade II listed Tudor buildings down Spon Street. I could see the Godiva clock, which we’d stare up at on the strike of the hour and watch Lady Godiva riding her horse as Peeping Tom emerged from the window above. I could see our three spires, defiant and proud.

You’re probably wondering what any of this has to do with Blackpool, well, when I was seven I saw a Blackpool that most outsiders miss. I went on an adventure that allowed my independent spirit to stretch its wings...

We (my parents, my younger sister and I) were staying in a four-berth caravan at Newton Hall, Staining. It was July and the British weather – for a change – was behaving itself. My sister and I ate breakfast; we fought over the free toy in the cereal. We fought over who used the yellow pencil crayon first, we fought over whose socks they were, and then we fought some more.

Today has been cancelled, said Mum. She sent us both off to bed, my sister went into one bedroom and I into another. We were to stay there until we learnt how to be civilised.

However, I had a different plan. I decided that it was too nice to remain inside. Therefore, I decided to go out...

Now, I wasn’t a particularly rebellious child, nor was I very confident, but I was bright with a rather prominent independent streak. And I knew that holidays were for doing things, for exploring new places, and for being outside. So at the time – as I sat on the single bed feeling sad – my decision seemed to make sense.

I grabbed my ladybird rucksack, and quickly packed it with a few essential items: a cardigan (in case it got cold), Sunshine Bunny, a book, a pack of Opal Fruits, a hat embroidered with butterflies and two five pound notes. I opened the caravan window as wide as it would go, before jumping out and beginning my adventure.

When I could, I followed the brown signs for the promenade, and when I couldn’t, I just let instinct lead me. I stumbled upon the zoo. I saw penguins and lions and antelope and ostriches and camels through gaps in the fence. I brought an ice cream (one of those white Mini Milks) and a carton of orange juice from Stanley Park. I read a chapter of Barrie’s Peter Pan by the boating lake. I played on the swings.

The walk to the promenade seemed like a very long way. I made up games in my head to distract myself, and eventually I was standing on the bustling sea front. I was a little scared, initially, so I counted to twenty. By the time I reached fifteen, I felt much better.

I skipped on the sand without shoes. I paddled in the Irish Sea. I tried to make a sand-snake, using only my hands. I wrote ‘Lara’ in big letters on the damp sand under Central Pier. I treated myself to a pound of 2ps, and spent them on the arcade slot machines. I walked back to the caravan site...

Poetry is about seeing what other people miss. It’s about being brave, taking a risk, pushing the boundaries. It’s a lifelong adventure that allows you to feel free.

Thank you for reading,
Lar

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