Travel - I'm Not Backpacking

When I was young, going on travels and planning adventures was the most exciting thing. I bought a new, top-of-the-range, holdall style bag for a trip to Europe. It was expensive, but it was within the specifications for airline hand luggage and was perfect for my needs. I was travelling light for an expected stay of a couple of weeks. Returning home, after my visit which was mainly sight-seeing but I did some shopping here and there, I surprised myself with how much stuff I could squeeze in, including 500g of knitting yarn – irresistible – from a local market somewhere in rural Switzerland.  It is forty-odd years ago and that well-travelled, well-used bag still looks like new and is taken with us on nearly every holiday.

On a warm, clear evening in North West Scotland, we sat outside our cottage watching the summer sunset and looking over The Minch beyond the coast of Skye to the Isle of Lewis, visible on the horizon. A future trip would have to be the Outer Hebrides and eventually, it was.

With a car suitable for the journey and the amount of travelling we expected to do, we packed it with everything we thought we’d need and more. We had enough supplies of tinned food and drinking water to last a couple of days if it should be needed. We always support local economy wherever we go, so main groceries would be bought on the islands, but we needed to be prepared for any ferry delays and shops closed on Sundays. Home for the first week was a renovated crofter’s cottage on South Uist. Our second week was a chalet on the Isle of Harris. I can’t tell you how amazing it was. I urge you to go and see, feel and breathe it all. Every turned corner introduced another breath-taking view of a different world. The following year we returned, this time to the Isle of Barra at the southern end of the archipelago.  

I like to be coastal, ideally within sight and sound of the sea. There’s something soothing about the gentle rhythm of an incoming tide, or hearing waves crashing on rocks. We’ve sat near Corbiere Lighthouse on Jersey watching how fast the sea covers the causeway and clears it again just as quickly. Another trip is planned for next year.

Meanwhile, we’ll go wherever the fancy takes us either in our caravan to pastures new, or to stay at a fabulous place we found in Shropshire, or the lodges we love in Dumfries and Galloway. We will travel while we can.

My Haiku,

My trusty holdall
With passport in my pocket,
On an adventure.

Corbiere Lighthouse
Majestically rising
Above ragged rocks.

Pack things in the car
For any situation.
Don’t forget the dog.

Swoon at the beauty
Of the natural landscape,
Outer Hebrides.

PMW 2024

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Music - Saved by the Music

“If music be the food of love, play on…” Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare.

 

Lots of us have an ‘Our Song’ or a piece of music which is meaningful and special, above and beyond all others. I find it uplifting when something significant comes on the radio and transports me back in time. If that particular time was happy, it’s nice to re-live that fond memory. If it belongs to a dark time, it’s good to reflect on how we coped and what changed. Challenges and experiences make us who we are.

I love music. I grew up with Sing Something Simple on Sundays long before the contents of the pub juke-box became important to me. My mother listened to the wireless Light Programme or played records, so I was effectively drip-fed her favourites. Tommy Steele’s Little White Bull, Acker Bilk’s Stranger on the Shore, Anthony Newley, Billy Fury, Neil Sedaka, Dusty Springfield, Joe Loss and his Orchestra, Elvis, and of course Russ Conway, amongst others. This was before The Beatles. She was young and trendy, my mum. I still have her record collection and just looking at them brings back childhood memories. There are lots of Russ Conway, singles and a couple of LPs. I don’t know if they were called albums in the 1950s. I think I’ve mentioned before that Russ Conway was responsible for me longing to learn to play the piano. I wanted to lift the lid on the old upright in the concert room and make music come out of it, not the out of tune honky tonk sound that someone knocked out of it on a Saturday night. What a blessing a juke-box was in later years.

I had years of classical training but I do not have musical talent. Occasionally I play on our electric piano, a cast off from a very talented nephew with a music degree. Our son can play piano, keyboard, guitar and bass, all perfectly well by ear. He’s amazing at that. Our daughter has a beautiful singing voice.

The first album I bought was The Rolling Stones, Through the Past, Darkly. The second was The Moody Blues, A Question of Balance followed quickly by In Search of the Lost Chord as I discovered there was MBs stuff I needed to catch up with.

The pub juke-box and The Moody Blues was and is the soundtrack to my life, as it constantly grows. No juke-box now, but the radio is always on, or a CD, YouTube or MP3. Music will always surround me, in any form.

When I was fortunate to meet Moody Blues bassist, singer, song-writer, John Lodge, I took the opportunity to tell him how glad I was that he had included ‘Saved by the Music’ in his solo tour. It is a song that means so much.

Hymns have their place amongst my favourites. As a child I was more than happy to sing in church. As an adult, I enjoyed teaching my Sunday School class new songs or hymns. It was a small group but they were enthusiastic and we had lots of fun.

 

When I started to write this poem, it seemed to grow legs and run off taking with it all the thoughts that were buzzing round my head. As a result, it is more personal than I intended, but what it is, is me.

 

 

My Music

 Music, my music, my loud surround sound,

I smiled and sang as my nemesis frowned.

Her eyes swept my room, not an inch unexplored,

But for now, my feelings were carefully stored.

I’m with The Moodies In Search of the Lost Chord.

 

I made that room spotlessly clean and sparkly

While the Stones carried on, Through the Past, Darkly;

Then busied myself with the next task to hand

And wasted no effort to understand

Her jealous resentment or what might be planned.

 

I’d given up wond’ring what she even means

As I sewed fabric flowers on my old jeans.

And Stevie belted out For Once in my Life

And I join in fully, like he knows my strife.

We could have slashed the atmosphere with a knife.

 

All I was saying was Give Peace a Chance.

I’m off at the weekend to spend time in France,

Away from that border-line aggression

When she hits the drinks in rapid succession

Attempting to cover her sick obsession.

 

Music, my music, my means of survival

And sanity, with her hasty arrival.

Bad mem’ries and nightmares, too much have amassed,

But those times are now long since gone, in the past,

And I’m Saved by the Music, myself, at last.

 

PMW 2019

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Loneliness

I couldn’t figure out what my late aunt really meant when, in her later years, she warned me that loneliness was a terrible thing. She had been a lively young woman. She had run pubs with her husband and continued to do so for another decade after his sudden death, thriving on the social scene of her work. In retirement, life was quieter. Too quiet.  She bought a house for herself and my widowed grandfather. Her social life was reduced to occasional bingo nights with a couple of ladies she had kept in touch with, and our rare family gatherings.  I visited her often, increasingly so after my grandfather passed away. She lived an hour’s drive away and sometimes I would go straight from work, have tea with her then go to her local social club for a while.  I thought she was happy but as time went on, she seemed to have less company and she couldn’t be bothered to make an effort.  Towards the end of her life she had fallen out with most of her friends and she’d been unkind to me and my sister. We were both busy with our young children, but continued to do what we could for her.  Our much loved aunt had turned into a cantankerous old soul, pushing our patience to the limit.  I like to remember the many happy times I shared with her.  Auntie used to be a ‘people’ person, generous with time, money, belongings, whatever she had to spare for whoever might need it. I don’t remember her ever having a hobby or even reading a book.  It is clear to me now that in the last couple of years of her life, not only was her health failing, she was also suffering from loneliness and possibly depression and with regret, I didn’t realise until it was too late.

 

I know how lucky I am to have family, friends and lots of interests to occupy myself with. I feel great sympathy for those who long for companionship yet remain alone to the point of loneliness.

I understand that evenings and nights are worse than the daytime for those with loneliness. I've chosen this poem by Charlotte Bronte, 

Evening Solace

The human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;­
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame’s or Wealth’s illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.

But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart’s best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.

And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back - ­a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others’ sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie !

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress­
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come.

Charlotte Bronte  1816 - 1855

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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