A Christmas Postscript

In 1944 I found myself in Canada at an air base at Kingston on the northern shore of Lake Ontario, near the point where the St Lawrence River meets the Thousand Islands as it runs into the Lake itself.

I was there in pursuit of every young man’s dream, to one day fly a Spitfire or in my case, the naval equivalent, the Seafire. The course had been exciting and demanding and by the end of the year we could begin  to look forward to reaching the final stages and the much coveted wings.

The aircraft we were flying was the Harvard, a 550 hp advanced trainer capable of aerobatics and spins, and we spent hours alone at a safe height throwing the aircraft about as we learnt to master the beast. What better toy could be given to a 19 year old in the best of health and just raring to go.

Photographs at that time were not easy to obtain, apart from the occasional official shots of airfield, crashes etc.Before the advent of digital cameras, photography was a more complicated art and not many of us were equipped. I’m therefore obliged to the anonymous photographers who dispensed copies for despatch back to the UK  to grateful parents. (Incidently most of the photos can be enlarged by simply clicking or double clicking on the pic.)

The airfield at Kingston, Ontario

Another Harvard getting close up and friendly

Aviator on duty                                                                And off duty

                               

I loved Canada.There seemed to be an added dimension to freedom – less formality and less deference. Rules were kept to a minimum and anything seemed possible. An amusing example of how  problems could be solved without fuss concerned the Coca cola machine in one of the hangars which dispensed bottles at 5 cents a bottle until the price went up to 6 cents whereon they simply made every 6th bottle an empty one!

I was surprised at how many Canadian men were absent from home, serving overseas in the British armed forces. The group I was in had 2 young Canadians who had found their way to England to join the Royal Navy. It was salutary to realise the vastness of the country when it transpired that one of them was further from his home than we Brits were.

Dancing at the base. This is a summer time shot with most fellows wearing  tropical gear.

So everything was going well – the days were exciting and the hospitality and the weather were just fine.

Then I met a girl. Not just any girl – there’d been no shortage of partners at the base dances – but someone I was keen to meet off-base.Her name was Connie and she was in the Canadian army. We met quite casually at a snack bar. It was the kind of place  where soft drinks and hsmburgers were dispensed.( Ontario was a dry state and the sale of alcohol was strictly controlled – there were no pubs.) Seating was arranged with tables set in alcoves, each with its own juke box terminal. When my fellow apprentice air ace and I arrived all tables were occupied except for one which contained 2 young khaki clad girls who readily agreed to our joining them.I forget what was being played on the juke box but it was probably Bing Crosby “accentuating the positive” and we were happy to follow his advice.

Canada  in winter is a delight. The snow,refreshed at regular intervals, the cold dry air and sunlit days. The young people knew how to make the most of it . Someone spent a couple of days (and nights?) plying a hosepipe on the tennis courts to create an ice rink where Connie and other Canadians could show off their skills while I wallowed about like a beached whale.

One magical evening found us on a horse-drawn sleigh – complete with jingle bells. It was a brilliant moonlit evening . The sleigh was a flat cartlike structure on skis and it set off over the countryside at a leisurely pace.. We were well wrapped up against the cold but youthful exuberance led us to leap into passing snowdrifts and then run to scramble aboard the slow moving sleigh. There must have been at least a dozen of us in pairs and as time went on most of us felt the need to keep close together – for warmth.    Eventually the sleigh ride ended at someone’s house – I know not whose – where coffee and hot sausages were freely dispensed by the hosts.

On another occasion Connie led me to the cinema at the barracks. All was in darkness and she led me by the hand to some seats which turned out to be centrally situated, near the front. At the end of the film the lights went up to reveal a sea of khaki dressed women and one solitary guy in navy uniform. The cries and catcalls that arose would have done credit to a naval barracks had the situation been reversed. I’ve long since forgotten the film we saw, but the memory of the finale lingers on together with Connie’s great amusement.

Although this is a Christmas memorial, we did not share Christmas Day. She had home leave and I went to Montreal with a fellow aviator,to enjoy the bright lights and the hospitality of a generous lady who insisted on paying for our meal. Her husband was serving in the Canadian army  and I wondered how he was faring in war-torn England.

Soon after Christmas Connie and I resumed our meetings and it was great to relax in congenial company. We were happy to stroll by the lakeside on the dark winter evenings and seemed to have a lot of talking to do – and while there was some hand holding and kissing,Rothbury was not on the agenda.

Some weeks later it transpired that Connie’s unit was due to embark for England. This seemed an odd posting since it was clear that the war was nearing the end but there it was, the date and time of departure were announced. We said our goodbyes and I gave Connie my parent’s address in case she found herself in the north of England.

At this stage in our flying training we spent most of the time flying solo and we were expected to simply book out an aircraft and put in the  hours preparing for the final tests. This made it a simple matter for me to be airborn at the appointed hour on the day of Connie’s departure, heading for Kingston railway station.

Circling at 1000 feet, the lowest permitted, I was able to see the army lorries disgorging the army girls who made their way to the waiting train. To my delight, one of the girls stood apart from the crowd and waved vigorously skywards before boarding the train. I waggled the wings and departed to do what I was supposed to do. And that was the last I saw of the delightful Connie – but not the end of the story.

Although I had no way of contacting her, she had my home address and at the Christmas  following my demob, a card arrived with a USA postmark with Christmas Greetings from “Connie and Bud”.  The following year another Christmas card arrive from “Connie,Bud and junior”

Two more Christmases announced the arrival of further additions to the family, and that really was the end of the story.

I wonder what became of the “Connie and Bud” family and where are they now?

INTERLUDE

They say the devil has all the best tunes. In this short interval I hope to go some way to counter that claim.

I’m not alone in thinking that the following are among the finest 2 bars in Western music.

Never mind the words, just enjoy the sound….

Just 2 bars of music with so much to say.

The singers are the Dunedin Consort who employ  only a single voice to each line. It is a beautiful minimalist approach which reveals the structure of the piece with the greatest clarity.Try it again…..

Now listen to another version…

This is from an earlier recording dating from the 1950s or 60s. I don’t recall the name of the conductor or of the company of singers. (If anyone can identify them for me I’d be delighted).

Here we have larger forces and the conductor has skilfully drawn out the very last drop of feeling.

It is a romantic treatment of a piece written by J S Bach, a composer in the baroque period early in the 18th century long before the later romantic composers such as Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff.

One wonders what Bach himself would have thought of the later interpretation.

The music is the central point in Bach’s St Matthew Passion when, following the death of Christ on the cross, a series of supernatural events persuade the crowd who had been party to the cruel acts leading up to the Crucifixion, that the man they derided was “Truly..the son of God”.

It isn’t necessary to be a believer in the Christian tradition to appreciate the shock that such a discovery would have on those present. The growing awareness and mounting fears for the consequences; the rising crescendo of cries reaching a screaming peak before falling away to resignation and repentance.

Here we have contrasting performances of a wonderful piece of music which demonstrate the the effect of different interpretations, each with its own justifiable claim to perfection, and each of which will gather its own enthusiastic supporters.

Here’s wishing everyone a Happy New Year …What does 2012 hold for us all? I wonder….now that I’ve discovered how,there could be more music

The Rising Sap

Some people believe that “sex” began with Rock and Roll – they’re wrong.

Philip Larkin got nearer the truth…

“Sexual intercourse began in nineteen-sixty three,

(Which was rather late for me)-

Between the ending of the Chatterley ban

And the Beatles’ first LP”

That short statement sums up the enormous changes that occurred in the 1960s and lacks only a reference to the contraceptive pill.

Before then censorship applied to the books we read and to the theatre and the cinema where nudity or passionate love making were strictly controlled. Every film was preceded by the Certificate of authorisation by the censors.  According to Noel Coward and other writers of the day, people formed attachments, kissed, married, and lived “happy ever after”. Divorce was unknown, at least in provincial circles.

It was as if the human race had existed for thousands of years without the need for sexual intimacy.

Most youngsters reached puberty without any guidance from parents or school.  Sex was never discussed with adults and “knowledge” was acquired from playground dirty jokes and a pirated edition of D H Lawrence’s “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” which circulated secretly among the hormone-driven youngsters in the Lower Fourth.

Despite such limitations, young men and women growing up felt the same urges as those reaching puberty have always experienced. As the young men grew bolder and the girls became more generous with their favours, they learned to follow a pre-Kinsey code of behaviour.  There was a set of strict  self-imposed rules which governed the behaviour of most “well brought up” teenagers and which exerted a degree of restraint which not seen as repressive, but necessary.

A friend, by name Adrian Plass, a talented and successful evangelist, described the problem as like giving a new car to a youngster with specific instructions not to go beyond a certain distance. From our Morpeth perspective this could have been “no further than Ashington or Seaton Burn” but it was not unknown to find oneself in Rothbury with no clear idea of the way back.  Some boasted of having gone to Berwick-on-Tweed, but this was not believed.

It should also be said that for most young people, alcohol was not part of their experience. As for drugs, they were unheard of. And, since we boys shared many leisure activities with our young female friends – on the tennis courts; the dance floor where we learned to dance “in the old-fashioned way”; country walks and bicycle rides; and cinema-going where the seats in the back row could be hotly contested – so we were bound by feelings of friendship and respect which encouraged us to play according to the rules as they existed.

The 1960s saw a huge explosion with previously accepted standards being thrown aside in all aspects of human endeavour.

The Beatles saw the end of the “moon and june” approach to popular music. The transformation from Glen Miller to Mick Jagger, and the replacement of the dance orchestra in favour of multiple raucous guitars; the now despised Perry Como and his like, in favour of screaming “stars” who delivered words which seemed angry but were to most of us unintelligible , left a slightly older generation bemused.

The advent of commercial radio encouraged the new and contributed to the death of the old.  Classical music also suffered with the arrival of Classic FM with its banal talk of “Halls of Fame” and its insistence on limiting its presentations to single movements, and garnering its audience with a continuous stream of popular bits of larger works. Like a stream of lollipops interrupted by adverts.  Sadly, the BBC Third Programme feels it needs to compete and, to its shame, has become a “show” where “celebrities” are invited to talk about their favourite music with short excerpts as illustration.

With the new freedoms has come new problems among which the inability to maintain an attention span for more than a few seconds strikes me as hugely important.  It all needs to slow down……

Excuse me, my chip is showing – I’ll feel better after a break.

Moving on

My next Christmas memory occurred shortly after my 11th birthday when, still in thrall to short trousers, I moved on from the primary shool to the High School.

My success at the 11+ exam was entirely due to the efforts of the redoubtable Miss Bailey, seen here on the right with her class of young ruffians, including myself, kneeling at  front left. A close inspection of the group shows by the body language of the boys, that they werewell disciplined – several of them standing to attention – all due to the controlling influence of Miss Bailey who knew when and how to apply the rod. I have a lasting regard for her as a teacher who really cared for her pupils and was anxious for them all to succeed.

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Miss Bailey, aided by my mother helped me to deal with arithmetical problems including the question of the time taken to fill a bath given etc etc…

The High School at South Shields was,  a magnificent building which included a fine gymnasium, a large assembly hall capabl;e of seating 550 with a stage and organ, physics and chemistry laboratories, a woodwork room where the master was less than impressed with my early mortice and tenon joints,  and a metalwork room where hammers were wielded and welding apparatus used to produce wrought metal objects.  The school also had a library where I quickly discovered Richmal Crompton’s “William” books, along with”Peter the Whaler” , author now unknown,which had a connection with the River Tyne from which whaleboats departed to northern waters to hunt and marked by the bits of whalebone to be found on allotments etc.There was also an active music room where I soon found myself in a class of 6, each having been provided with a violin and case, and at the outset having difficulty with some very elementary pieces.

This was a new school. It opened to pupils on my very first day and dazzled me with the facilities and the general sense of purpose which prevailed. That such a magnificent school should be built in the 1930s is a tribute to the liberal generosity and far sightedness of the local businessmen, civic officials and dignitaries.

At that first Christmas it was decided that there should be a school ball and we were asked to invite a partner who it would be our duty to escort to supper and to look after during the course of the evening.  Dancing classes were held in the gym where we learned to waltz, to palais glide and other dances long lost to posterity.

My partner was young lady called Audrey Weldon who I must have known from primary school days.  We, the escorts were lined up, knees scrubbed and shoes polished, at the main entrance at the appointed hour and we stepped forward as our partner in her best party dress and carrying a small evening handbag (Was there a card to record dance partners? I don’t remember),arrived in a taxi. The rest of the evening has drifted into obscurity – I hope I looked after Audrey – where is she now? A grandmother at least who could be living  just a stones throw away? And what are her memories of that Christmas Ball in 1936?

Just a few weeks after the ball, my world was turned upside down when, on father’s promotion at work, we moved from South Shields to the relatively prosperous country town of Morpeth.

Thinking aloud at Christmas

The problem with growing old is an increasing awareness, particularly at Christmas time, of the growing number of empty chairs at the feast. The number of absent friends far exceeds the number of those present. This can lead to a sense of isolation, as if one is merely an onlooker at someone else’s party. Which  does less than justice to the generosity of the revellers, who spare no effort to persuade you to share the fun and games. But it is undeniable that the bottle of Grouse Whisky of 2011, though received with relish and gratitude, fails to generate the same excitement as the cowboy hat, gauntlets and pop-gun of 1932.  Discovered by the 7 year old boy long before the appointed hour, his excitement carried him into his parent’s bedroom in the middle of the night where he flashed his torch at the sleeping pair, pointed the gun and cried out with enthusiasm only to find that his alarmed parents were less enthusiastic about this present from Santa Claus.

A few years later,at a Christmas gathering of children and parents in the church hall of St Peter’s Harton  I was expected, as a choirboy to contribute to the sing-song.  I duly obliged with a heart-rending favourite of the day which would certainly have been Christmas No 1 had there been such a thing at the time….

“He”s the little boy that Santa Claus forgot, and goodness knows he didn’t want a lot. He sent a note to Santa for some soldiers and a gun,it broke his little heart when he found Santa hadn’t come.

Now in the street he envies all those lucky boys, and wanders home to last years broken toys,

I’m so sorry for that laddie,he hasn’t got a daddy, he’s the little boy that Santa Claus forgot”.

It was a time when we were slowly recovering from the Great Depression and not yet gearing up for war .They were times of hardship for many – a popular song of the day “Buddy can you spare a dime?” reminds  us that the USA  was also suffering.

But small boys were more interested in cowboys and they needed little more than a six-shooter and holster to safeguard them from marauding Indians, provided that they were accompanied by a cowboy hat, neckerchief and gauntlets.

Girls had yet to invade their territory.

RESOLUTION ?

I left the account of my Italian journey on a rather gloomy note – pondering the imponderable.

In so doing I did less than justice to the trip. It took place in two parts, with 4 weeks spent in Tuscany and Umbria, including a memorable visit to Assissi. Then after a brief return to the UK I set off for another 2 weeks centred on Bologna, It was an adventure which I look back on with great satisfaction. My only regret is that I did not keep a journal of my travels. I simply enjoyed the experience and ended most days tired out by the day’s exertions and sought my reward at the table. As the Italians say,”No-one grows old at the table” – a formula for leisurely dining  helped by Chianti or Frascati, according to your taste or mood.

But growing old is what we do – if we’re lucky. It’s not easy beyond a certain age but it’s well worth persevering.  So where do I now stand ?

Three months have passed since the  Hospital Consultant told me that my future would be limited to sixmonths unless I underwent a course of treatment which could extend that by about a year. Having refused treatment I’ve enjoyed three months free of hospital attendances and have suffered only minor inconvenience.  Christmas now looms large and I look forward to the New Year confident that I shall beat the six months – and then who knows?

This is proving to be not so much a physical trial, as a mental one.  I’m still wondering about the question posed by Cilla Black – What’s it all about ?

More looking back in search of understanding.

For some years prior to retirement I had been studying for an Open University Arts Degree.  The course centred on Italian Renaissance Art and I had learned to appreciate the frescos, paintings, sculpture and architecture of Italy of the period. Regular visits to Florence, Venice and Rome had been occasions of great excitement as I was confronted by works which I’d studied mainly from books and TV programmes. There remained many places which I had not visited and I decided that on retirement I would make an extended visit to Italy, on my own, and simply go where the fancy took me. I began in Florence, the city I knew best, but soon decided to go off into the country and headed for Perugia.  My Italian was sufficient to enable me to ask questions and, occasionally to understand the replies- and I had no qualms about travelling on public transport and finding accommodation wherever I happened to be. I was  no stranger to Italian cuisine and to be surrounded by such wonderful buildings, bathed in sunshine, with a glass of wine at one’s elbow was to feel blessed.

PERUGIA – The Town Hall & Fountain.

One of the strong features of Italian pictures of the Renaissance period is the way biblical characters mingle with portraits of local citizens.  Worshippers of the day would thus see the great biblical stories as highly relevant, and the contact between the viewer and the subject is further heightened by the often penetrating stare aimed directly at the onlooker, from one of the depicted characters. It is a stare that is a direct challenge to the citizen of the day to consider where he or she stands in relation to the events portrayed and the deeper questions that we all need to face…

The close integration of ordinary Italians with their religion is illustrated in this picture in the Civic Museum in San Gimignano where the patron saint is shown holding the very city itself in the Saint’s protective arms.

And this saintly figure asks pertinent questions of the faithful

This 15th century fresco by Masaccio in the Church of Santa Maria Novella in Florence is important to students of Renaissance art who appreciate it for its use of perspective  - the barrel vault seems to pierce the very wall of the church.

Be that as it may, the ordinary citizen would, and probably still may, be in no doubt as to the importance of this depiction of the Trinity with God the Father uppermost behind the crucified Christ while at the foot of the cross stand Mary, the mother of Christ, looking out at the viewer and posing a question with her pointed hand, with the figure of John the Baptist whose red robes contrast with the sombre black of Mary’s gown.

Outside the inner niche are shown the 15th century partrons of the fresco – portraits of wealthy notables who would be recognised by the citizens of the day . The base of the picture shows a skeleton with the chilling statement  which can be interpreted  - “As you are now , so once was I.  As I am now, so will you be”

The picture also demonstrates the “natural” order of things with a strong upward surge from Man as dust, through the short tenure of life, to the Holy Family and the Saints, via Jesus Christ to God on high.

The six weeks I spent in Italy began as a pursuit of the works of the many major artists of the period but as I went into the countryside I met  frescoes painted not by the major people such as Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael et al, but by minor artists producing naive works which lacked the technical skill of the great masters, but retained the drive to involve the local citizenry.

Increasingly my attention was drawn to the Italian people and their daily commitment to their Christian faith.  I spent much time just people-watching.

It was impressive to see the young Florentine businessman entering  the church on his way to the office as he parked his briefcase against a pillar, paid his respects to a particular saint and , after a few words, followed by crossing himself, picked up his briefcase and went on his way.

On another occasion, in Bologna I sat and observed a saintly altar flanked by 2 confessional boxes, with rows of benches occupied by a cross-section of citizens  who prayed to the Saint before taking their turn in the Confessional.  On leaving the Confessional, in one instance a mother and daughter in tears, after a brief prayer to the saint, and the traditional crossing, they left the church and walked out into the brilliant sunlight.

I was reminded of the Doctor’s surgery where people gather, waiting to consult the GP on a physical problem.  The good people of Bologna were seeking spiritual guidance and while I could not join them in their pilgrimage, I could not fail to be impressed by their apparent simple acceptance of the need to compensate for the world’s ills by a profound   acceptance of the healing power of the Church.

ITALIA CON AMORE

Many foreign visitors have fallen in love with Italy – I count myself among them even though my extended stay revealed a few warts along with the beauties.

The sun didn’t shine everyday, there were rainy days. There were also encounters with petty officials who would dismiss me with an arrogance   which would be rare in the UK. At the very beginning I had to deal with customs people who were highly suspicious of this elderly person seeking entry for an extended period with only the flimsiest claim to be a student of Art. My previous visits had been in package tours where all such matters were taken care of without personal involvement. This do-it-oneself involved lengthy form filling, the need for photographs, and the attitude of the officials was unpleasant, and unexpected.  It was a useful introduction to a situation which ordinary Italians meet throughout their lives and went some way to explain their tendency to shrug shoulders and take the blows as part  of life.

I should make it clear that these were my personal impressions and they were countered by many acts of kindness and cheerful willingness to help, particularly as I struggled with my limited Italian vocabulary. But my overall impression was of a land of contrasts – typified to some extent by the trattoria proprietor hosing down the pavement in front of his premises every morning, while maintaining the most disgusting, primitive toilet facilities inside.

It is also fair to say that my visit took place 23 years ago and since then the Catholic church has taken a knock over the scandals attaching to the clergy, which may have encouraged an advance of secularism similar to that experienced in other countries. There could also have been great improvements in the provision of public comfort facilities .

Despite these negative aspects I revelled in the atmosphere of local markets and the many Ristorante where I feasted on pasta accompanied by insalata mista and washed down with vino rosso and aqua minerale. I marvelled at the expertise of Italian waiters who took such obvious pride in their work, and greeted a returning customer like a long lost brother.

Taken all in all, I remain an ardent enthusiast for Italy and the Italians.

And now, with the benefit of hindsight, I see a more profound aspect to my travels. I was at a personal crossroads having just retired after a career which had been less than fulfilling and, although I had scrambled further up the greasy pole than I expected, or deserved, there was a sense of disappointment with what I had achieved. I was asking questions and not finding answers.

I’d long ago rejected Christianity, convinced that it would be hypocritical of me to stand up and recire the Creed with its unambiguous beginning “I believe….”

The years spent studying music and art meant frequent encounters with religious works, but the dramas depicted stood alongside those of Shakespeare and other dramatists without involving me in a personal epiphany.  In my youth I’d been fully involved as a member of the Church of England without ever questioning the details – the virgin birth, the miracles, the Resurrection. And, although I have long been moved profoundly by Bach’s St Matthew Passion,particularly at the climactic scene where the death of Christ is followed by a series of supernatural events which persuade the onlookers, including the Roman centurion who had played his part in preserving some kind of order while the mob scorned and reviled Jesus, to cry out “Truly that was the Son of God”.  Bach provided two sublime bars of music to accompany those words.  I cannot imagine a worse awakening but my response was similar to that experienced at other fictional climactics to be found in the theatre and opera house.  I enjoyed no personal Road to Damascus.

Perhaps I should have taken the advice of the French philosopher Blaise Pascal, who argued that sceptics should lead a committed Christian life as an insurance against the possibility that their scepticism proves to be mistaken. No doubt many churchgoers follow Pascal’s Wager, albeit unwittingly, being simply carried along with the need to live a “good life” and accepting that the Christian religion provides a suitable ethical base.

Cilla Black used to sing “What’s it all about Alfie ?”   I’ve no idea if Alfie knew the answer, but the question remains, and hovers over my Italian pilgrimage……..

High Speed Bedroom link

Today I rode the recently installed stairlift.  It worked.

Joan’s Passing

Joan died on January 3rd 2007  and so ended a life of 90 years, of which I was privileged to share the final 20 years.

She had a huge appetite for life.  I once described her as “71 going on 8″.  She could be mischievous and provocative, but never dull.  Sadly her last years saw a  gradual but serious deterioration as Nature took its toll.

There were, however, a succession of events which put together seemed strangely significant.

For some years we had been greeted in the Spring by a blackbird which nested in a large lauristinan bush.  It often came to us in the summer house and was not averse to scrabbling round our feet for scraps.

The bird became a close confidant as it appealed directly to us for assistance in feeding its family. In recognition of our ready response it regularly perched on a particular tree and delighted us with glorious birdsong, starting each morning at around 4 am.   Needless to say we were enchanted by this brave wee songster and looked for its return in due season.

One day during Joan’s last summer, our faithful friend hurried off, carrying seed for his family, into the huge  bush which provided its summer residence.     Suddenly we were shocked to hear a commotion in the shrubbery which meant only one thing – despite my immediate call to action – the untimely death of our blackbird at the claws of a marauding cat.

We were no strangers to the fact that Nature can be “red in tooth and claw” but we were saddened by this event and could only hope that some offspring of the blessed bird would appear the following Spring to carry on the line.

Joan was not to know.

The next unexpected event occurred a few weeks after Joan’s passing when I awoke after a very stormy night to find the huge bush which had been the home of the blackbird for many years, had been uprooted and deposited on the lawn. The bush had started life many years previously and had long since outgrown its strength, but its demise seemed a somehow ominous event which transformed the garden, leaving as it did a huge empty space behind the garage.

For some years we had been regular visitors to Wells-next-the-Sea…….The Harbour

The walk to the lifeboathouse..

Wells provided a perfect setting for us to admire the incoming and outgoing fishing boats and to speculate on the loud cackling of the parliament of geese who seemed to have serious matters to discuss. What could it be ? The scarcity of fish? The proposed harbour improvements ?

As time passed,our walk shortened and we settled for a favourite bench which looked out on the moored yachts, numerous in summer, less so in the winter. One such boat commanded our attention. It was larger than most and sported proudly the name “Wild and Free”.  Sadly it was the least deserving of the name because it never moved. The years passed and it remained firmly moored to its buoy. We never saw anyone approach it, either on foot over the mud at low tide as it lay at an ungainly angle, or in a small dinghy when it floated “free”.

It was to us a permanent feature and later on, when Joan could no longer walk to the lifeboathouse I would leave her on the bench and set off for some exercise.  Invariably when I returned “Wild and Free” would be in its usual position opposite the bench.

“Wild and Free”

The  bench – with joan in residence. The wild flower plantation on the bankside not at its best.

When I was faced with the disposal of Joan’s ashes, the first priority had to be her own garden in which she had devoted much energy and TLC.  After that, it had to be the bench at Wells where we’d spent many hours looking out on our special friend  ”Wild and Free”

I chose an overcast day with periodic showers and duly arrived at the bench where, to my  utter amazement – and dismay – I found that there was no sign of “Wild and Free”.  All that remained was the unattached mooring buoy lying on the mud.  The shock was palpable.  It was as if a special friend had turned her back on me  and walked away.

With hindsight I now see that the cumulative effect of such a sequence of events – the death of the blackbird, Joan’s passing, the uprooting of the lauristinan bush, and the departure of “Wild and Free” –   was a feeling that Norfolk had distanced itself from me – it was time to move on.

Which is where this blog began.

So much for the past. What now of the future? What am I to do with this new beginning?

Above all else, I want to engage with the future with the minimum fuss.  The details of my condition will remain, as far as possible, with me and those who need to know.  I have no intention of hiding away, but I’d like to keep contacts as normal as possible for as long as is possible.

When all is said and done, this is a very normal happening – it doesn’t need the Daily Mail treatment.

But the questions remain.

As to “where” the obvious answer is to stay where I am, in my home.

The question “what to do with my time?” is what must concern me now.

The need to share my musings with friends in the form of this blog has already kept me busy in a way that surprises me.  Finding the energy is easier when one is driven – perhaps I’ll send further despatches from the front  ?  Time will tell.

Meanwhile there are undemanding things like the daily crossword and Sudoku – and the wine which keeps me sober.

And the need to get my affairs in proper order…

But there are other factors which cannot be ignored. Fatigue, which is already an unwelcome presence, and can only get worse.

And there  is an unavoidable curiosity about what other possible trials Mother Nature has in store.

I ‘m lucky to feel as well as I do with such a short future to look forward to.  But I wonder how long I will be able to  carry on with the daily routine….

Memories

My thoughts turn to the village of Cley-next-the-Sea, with its windmill.

Its enormous church dedicated to St Margaret

Church Lane in the winter of 1987 and Joan, who changed my life.

In sunnier times, afternoon tea in the garden

Book Sales at Keys…Book Fairs at Long Melford.. Antique Fairs all over the place.  Cottages in Sussex, Kent, Wales, Yorkshire and the Cotswolds.. Churches and gardens in the much loved and explored Norfolk and Suffolk countryside.

Flights over Norfolk and out to the Wash..

Wandering the lanes

Dining out at our local pub, the Wiveton Bell, before it went posh

Such impossible dreams lead me only to a dead end…

And a book that must remain forever closed….