writing Archives - Page 3 of 8

Jenny Antoinette

I feel something like…Mary Antoinette with her eighteenth century pouffe (although without the parrot, fruit bowl, animals, toy ships or other novelty items) but with a great pomp of a towering edifice on top of my head.

MOTH and I took a gentle, state-sanctioned, walk the other day. It was a glorious morning, ice and frost had sugared everything to white and the sky was that wonderful bright blue that seems so particular to winter. As we passed under trees that were in the sun, we were rained on by tiny frozen pellets as the ice melted enough from the branches to fall in crystal droplets, but not enough to turn to liquid.

It was obviously a day that had caught a lot of people’s attention and although I generally avoid social media most of the time, beautiful photos of walks popped up everywhere. It felt as if, for a day at least, there was a shared excitement of the beauty of nature rippling through a collective consciousness. Whether it was because we are once again being asked to stay home as much as possible or just the inevitable grasp at a nice day after bleak greyness and damp I don’t know, but so many people felt the magnificence in the day and went out to experience it. This, I feel, can only be a good thing, especially when we have all just undergone a universal global moment of, ‘what on earth’ with the happenings on the other side of the pond alongside our own home-grown recklessness. (That is as close as I will come to political ranting here, I promise.)

I had to take a quick break from writing to run downstairs and feed the birds. It was a hurried and early off today for my pre-chemo blood tests and I didn’t have time before going out. Goodness, do I feel the guilt if I forget to feed them or even just put their food out late. The sparrows barrel in and u-turn in a huff if they see the feeders empty, the starlings strut about the tray obstreperously pecking at the emptiness, the blue tits perch forlornly looking to where food is not – they certainly know how to show their feelings and frankly they do exaggerate, there are always fat balls and nut butter out as well.

I was very pleased to spot a new bird in the garden recently, a redwing. As well as it being a great year for fungi, there has been an abundance of berries this winter; hawthorn, pyracantha, holly and cotoneaster, particularly and the birds have been gorging. According to the RSPB, the redwing is the UKs smallest true thrush, looking very similar but with a blush of red under the wing. They visit in the winter months and they love berries. There is a possibility I may be mistaken and it is a fieldfare, but I am holding out that I am right if only because it would be nice to be. I’m pretty sure though that I have seen the bold stripy chest of the redwing through my binoculars, the using of which always makes me feel like I am the proverbial nosy neighbour, which I am, it’s just I’m only interested in the birds.

On another short walk, my mum and I came across a small and very neat nest perched among some scrub and brambles about a foot off the ground. It has been suggested that the nest was that of the chiff chaff – perhaps one of the most onomatopoeic of the birds. We also enjoyed the sight of a tree doing yoga or rather, what we think was a huge and old piece of ivy that had entwined the tree to make it look as if it were contorting itself into the tree yoga pose. It seems in lockdown, even nature is taking up hobbies.

It is a very odd feeling to wear a hat over a wig. I feel something like one of the changing guards with their large Bearskin hats or perhaps a little like Mary Antoinette with her eighteenth century pouffe (although without the parrot, fruit bowl, animals, toy ships or other novelty items) but with a great pomp of a towering edifice on top of my head. I know this is not actually what it looks like, in fact, I don’t think anyone would know there was anything out of the ordinary if it wasn’t mentioned, but it certainly feels as if there is rather a lot going on up there.

I don’t wear my wig every day, it is very tight and can get itchy and there is a strange feeling of being disingenuous; looking as if I have hair, when I do not. But, I have to admit it does give me a greater sense of ‘normality’ for a while when I do wear it, not having the glaring, ‘I have cancer,’ look going on. And it is definitely warm, which at the moment is a bonus. Perhaps to garner the mood I should embrace the look and add a redwing representation to my wig/hat combo.

Publish hide and apologise

…there was mention of MOTH holding the clippers still and me just twirling round in the chair.

Well, hi there. It’s been a while, I know. I’m going to start with two apologies: firstly, to everyone who sent me such lovely messages after my last blog. I am sorry I haven’t responded individually but I think I may have gone a little early on talking about things and ended up heading into a low mood for a while. I also have this dreadful affliction whereby I am a writer, who wants to produce things that people read, but am also, intensely, an introvert and am terrified of attention. This means, every time I press publish I effectively run and hide under a duvet for a while. (Currently, this is actually true.)

The second apology I want to make is to those to who I promised I wouldn’t talk too much about my cancer. I think I am going to go back on this. Sorry. Why? Because, as mentioned briefly in my previous blog, this is actually happening to me, I can’t ignore it and it would seem disingenuous to write about my life and not include it. But, also, because I have had so many lovely people say that they do find it helpful and insightful.

I will, however, keep some of the more ‘intense’ details for a later piece of writing. I am considering a book. Quite frankly, this is my second time doing this so I may as well try and do something useful with it. I am keeping a diary of my more, raw and immediate thoughts and feelings, and to give a sneak peek, I have just written this:

It occurred to me yesterday, when I was at the hospital getting bloods done and looking around at the others there, that one of the reasons I hate the bald/turban etc look is that it makes us cancer patients look entirely homogenous. Especially as when our eyesight gets bad we have our glasses on too and due to the intense bloating, we all resort to comfortable clothes And now, with masks as well, there is even less of us to see as individual people. We end up as pink, shiny, bespectacled, baggy sameness. Eugh! I had hoped to style my way through it this time, but I am heading the inevitable way.

From this, you may well deduce that yes, it is the time of the hair disappearance. It has been more gradual this time but there has been significantly enough sloshing around the shower to make me realise – it was time! MOTH obliged with the hair clippers. I did cry. Of course I did. It took three years to grow my hair back to how I felt I wanted it. But, after the tears and with some Dave Brubeck playing we buzzed me down. As I was sitting on the office swivel chair dragged into the bathroom and with a towel draped round my neck, there was mention of MOTH holding the clippers still and me just twirling round in the chair. We didn’t do this but at least we had reached joking point.

So, to give a brief update. yesterday, I had number three of twelve weekly chemotherapies. It is a different treatment plan to last time so I am still getting used to how I am reacting. It is not fun. I am not having fun, but fun was not expected. But I have at least managed to get back to my positive mindset which eluded me for a while longer this time. So don’t worry, my blogs won’t be downbeat.

I am excitedly awaiting the delivery of some oversized loungewear today to accommodate the ballooning which happens as a by-product of some of the drugs. I have already purchased a cape-style coat (those close to me know how much I love a cape in all forms, I’m thinking I need a full on cloak next), however this was for practical reasons. I have had a picc line put into my arm as my veins are still too damaged from my last round of chemotherapies to have a cannula inserted on a weekly basis. (If you are squeamish, don’t look up picc lines. If you want gory details, do ask me 😉 ) But, I found that the bulk of the picc line and its dressings wouldn’t fit into the sleeves of any of my normal coats and with the weather now decidedly cold – I needed something. So a cape coat it was. It is yet another of the many, many extra things you don’t know you’ll need to think about when having cancer treatment, that clothing plays a larger part than you would imagine: hats, accommodating coats, baggy clothes (for when you can no longer do your trousers up), scarves, gloves to hold hand heaters in place before cannulation, eyebrow drawing on kits (we may need another full blog about me learning how to do make-up!), picc line covers, picc line shower covers… it’s an expensive business this cancer, add in parking and petrol for every appointment and, well, it’s best not to think about it.

But, regardless of all this I feel lucky. Lucky because I have MOTH the loveliest most supportive man on earth. I have an incredible family and the best of friends. I have you lovely lot, the cats of course and I am lucky because the NHS are simply more marvellous than I have words to express. I have also increased my cape collection.

Have you tried turning her off and on again. Again.

It would appear that the attempt to restore me to factory settings, three years ago, didn’t work and the genetic malware I inherited, although largely cleaned up, managed to leave a trace of virus behind. I honestly don’t know why I’m using a tech analogy, I am terrible with technology, but you get the gist, or if you don’t, it is this: I have cancer again.

It is the same as before, just in a different place, ergo breast cancer but currently residing in my lymph nodes. I found out three days ago – it has not been a fun week!

MOTH and I tried to think of an analogy for this on our way home from the hospital on the afternoon of getting the results after being asked by a couple of people, how it could be breast cancer, but not in breast tissue. Halfway home in the dark and as the rain started to fall, MOTH came up with this:

Last time I had a digestive biscuit (breast cancer) and dropped crumbs all over the place. Most of these crumbs (cells) got hoovered up (by chemo and surgery) but there was one of those annoying tiny, crumbs you can barely see and that you just don’t know about until it gets inside your top and really starts to scratch, left. Once the hoover (chemo) had stopped, this crumb that had previously travelled undetected to my lymph nodes could go about its business. Here it did not become a chocolate chip cookie (a different type of cancer) but another digestive biscuit – just in a different place.

I blogged before about having cancer primarily because I wanted to reassure people that I was still the same and that it was okay to talk to me and be in contact just as normal and that to shy away from people with cancer because it is hard to know what to say or how to act, merely compounds the difficult time they are going through.

With the dreadful year we have all had and are still having with this blinking pandemic, I was in two minds whether to talk about all this or whether it was just too much for people to take, on top of everything else. To this end, and it being the age we are in, I put out a light twitter poll with the options being:

Yes, shoot the breeze about it, it is useful or

Fingers in ears, I don’t want to hear about it.

The outcome was everyone bar one, said go for it. But it got me considering for a few days. I couldn’t stop thinking about that one person who emphatically said no; but this is the conclusion I have come to:

I completely understand not wanting to hear anything more about negative subjects – completely and wholly and if they want to put their fingers in their ears I say do, do what you need to. But the thing is this: I don’t have that luxury. I simply cannot decide to put my fingers in my ears and ignore it. ‘Okay then’, some might say, ‘but just because you have to acknowledge it, does it mean you have to write about it?’ ‘Good point’, I may counter and yet, ‘yes.’ For this simple reason; when I write, it is about things in my life that I have done, thought about, discovered, learned and experienced and although technically it is possible to continue to do so without mentioning cancer, it would be rather disingenuous. This is going to be a huge part of my life for many months and to write blithely without mentioning the elephant* in the room, would feel wrong somehow. *I always think elephants get a bad wrap with this phrase.

So then perhaps a compromise, as it is I don’t want to be Cancer Jenny I will just be Jenny who happens to have cancer for a while. So, apart from this piece, my blogs will not be about cancer, but in the usual format of all the things I mentioned above which will just happen to be experienced by me as I go through cancer treatment and therefore, the odd mention here and there is bound to come up.

Instead, this time, I am going to keep a detailed diary of the C word and one that is perhaps truer than the cancer-light chat I put out last time and who knows, maybe at a later date there will be a more full piece of writing to read or ignore as you please.

For those who wish to know, I see the oncologist next week to find out when treatment will start. It will be chemotherapy, surgery and radiotherapy. I am more than bloody furious and sad that it has taken three years to grow my hair back to how I like it and now I will lose it again.

I am okay. Well, I have cancer – but you know what I mean.

So that is my one and only cancer-dedicated blog this time. As it will be part of my life for a while though, it will appear in my writing on occasion, but not as the main character. If you can’t face reading about it, that is completely fine but please try to remember that by ignoring such things, you are ignoring the person having to go through them because they can’t separate themselves from it.

Everyone take care of yourself and be kind to others. It’s weird out there, but we’ll all get through.

Close encounters of the winged kind

This week I have been getting entirely too close to nature, or rather, it has been entering my personal space to different degrees of acceptance from me. But before all that, I have just trodden on a slug – with bare feet! That would be me with the bare feet, of course, not the slug although I guess their one foot is always bare. Anyway, that is how my week ended with regard to wildlife interaction. Squishy.

Earlier in the week I was undertaking the all-too-regular event of trying to get one, the other or both of the cats in for the evening. We keep them in overnight these days which is much better all round: better for us having less vets bills to pay from all the night time scrapping, better for the cats as they have less injuries from all the night time scrapping and better for all the other wildlife as there is less night time killing.

On this night, small cat had evaded our early calls and had taken himself off on a long hike. Either that or he was deploying the tactic big cat uses which is to sit a mere few feet away, hidden and absolutely ignoring our calling and cat treat rattling. But it was a warm night and had become that wonderful time when all the crepuscular creatures head out for foraging, courting and the ever popular night time scrapping. As I stood calling to the small beast I was given a close fly-by by a bat. We get at least one on most nights at this time of year and its lovely to see them lapping the garden. I think I must have been in its flight path though, and I’m sure I could feel it touch lightly as it flew by. I love bats, so this was not a problem.

The next morning, I was sitting outside with a hot water and lemon for a bit of fresh air before starting work for the day. Tucked away with jasmine and honeysuckle behind me, buddleia and a eucalyptus to the left and a plum tree to the right I was nestled neatly among flora. Which is perhaps why a beetle was unable to navigate around me in time and came and gave me a bumbling headbutt before making its awkward flight away. This encounter was fine also. In the same place and only a few moments later a female blackbird skimmed my head having taken off from the fence behind the jasmine. I think she was more startled than I was. (I could not help but think of Carl Bovis, a nature photographer I follow on Twitter who posts amazing pictures of birds in flight with wings and legs tucked in and looking as if they had been pointedly thrown at him by his enemies.) But, a low-flying bird is also quite alright with me.

What was not alright was my next encounter of the week. After a spot of gardening I put my jogging bottoms back on and was having a nice chat with MOTH in the kitchen when all of a sudden I felt a rather painful stab on my bottom (left cheek, if you needed to know). Discarding the joggers to investigate it became clear that there was a wasp in there and the little git had just stung me. This was not alright. I was not best pleased in the least. MOTH was very good and managed to stop from outright laughing for some time, including when I lay down and asked him to put an apple cider vinegar soaked cotton pad on the, ahem, area. (By the way, this absolutely works for wasp stings to bring down the redness and itching.) Three days on and I can still feel it, but its ok, you can all laugh, even I find it funny – until I sit down.

Hips, Haws and Fairy Wings

Red and green should never be seen, says…well, it seems perhaps no-one. It is one of those phrases that many of us have heard and yet the origins seem to be somewhat muddy. It might be purely about fashion; that it was considered the two colours just didn’t complement each other. But, it seems as many people know the phrase as blue and green, so down that road we can insert any colour as the one not to be seen with green. There is also a view that it refers to the lights on a ship, green on the starboard side and red on the port meaning that, if you can see these colours when out in your own boat, you may well be headed on a collision course.

But, as it always does, nature defies the rules (whatever they may be) and red and green are often seen – and very pleasingly so. I took a five-minute sit outside after work today. The weather wasn’t particularly pleasant but I find I desperately need at least a few minutes outside a day to feel (vaguely) human. Armed with a warm drink* I sat out by our small pond and noticed that the seasons were showing their turning. Tangled waterfalls of red berries and green leaves are draping from the hawthorn trees. Towering
over my head and reaching almost down to the floor, they are like a vertical carpet of nature having a go at pointillism.

Behind me, a rose has gone to hip. I play the game, each year, of trying to balance the dead-heading of flowers to prolong the blooms coming out, but also leaving enough to turn to hips, because the birds love them so. I have made rosehip tea in the past, collecting, cutting, scraping out the insides and drying the hips and it was tasty – but, a lot of not very pleasant work. The inside of a rosehip is filled with prickly, sticky hairs and they all have to be removed or will be an irritant when drinking. It takes a long time to prepare so many fiddly little hips and I know from experience that I don’t really have the patience.

The honeysuckle flowers are all pretty much all gone now but the tiny, shiny red berries punctuate the long meandering tendrils. It doesn’t seem to matter how much or when I cut this particular honeysuckle back, it soon
swamps everything around it. The weeping crab apple tree is also in fruit now -and occasionally cat. (Big cat is a climber and it is not unusual to look out of the window and see his head peeping out from the top of the tree.)

And there is more to come, the pyracantha (the spiny, spikey, flesh-ripping beast that it is) will keep the blackbirds in snacks all winter and of course, the holly will be ready to decorate the house at Christmas time.

But we also have a scattering of fairy wings in what I (optimistically) call our woodland area (the shady bit under mystery tree**). White and pink cyclamen gather in groups, standing small but proud from their round tubers. Cyclamen have their seed heads on tight coils which when ripe project the seed head and seeds onto the ground – the sticky seeds are then sometimes moved about by ants. Just imagine if you could capture the pinging and flinging of seeds by the release of tensed coils on film – I can’t help but visualise it in some sort of Acme cartoon cannon style with some dramatic full-orchestra music going on behind the whizzing and whirring.

But this week hasn’t been just about flowers; pond life has had its show too. Poking about my mum’s garden, having a catch up on what has and hasn’t survived the ridiculous heat followed by winds and torrents of rain, we spotted a frog making use of the plant pot tray on her patio. It seemed quite happy and we think perhaps waiting for some of the dropped insect-based bird food from the feeders nearby. And we have a new resident, Gary. Gary is a snail who was doing the sterling job of keeping my niece’s fish tank clean. Alas, the fish are no more, which is timely actually, as niece is just about to head off to university. Needless to say, my sister was not about to keep a tank going in her daughter’s absence for just one snail, and so Gary was ferried over to our pond via a small tub with holes in and a fruit basket in the footwell of my car.

*If you’re interested; a mix of cacao powder, turmeric, ginger, cinnamon and star anise with hot water and unsweetened almond milk. Yes, yes I am ‘that’ person.

**We know it is a cotoneaster, but it was unidentified for so long, it will never be called anything but mystery tree in our house. *Whispers* it also has its own theme tune.

The admiral, the teasel and the goldfinch

Recently, an admiral sat on my knee. I was in my back garden, sitting in the sunshine of early (ish) morning and felt a tickle on my skin. I think I had been mistaken for part of the large buddleia I was sitting near and instead of joining all its butterfly friends on the purple blooms, the red admiral stopped off on my knee.

It seems to have been a bumper year for butterflies. I certainly feel I have seen more and I have heard lots of other people say the same. Like so many other nature spotted phenomena in this strange year, it does seem as if the natural world has been a bit more prevalent while we have had to become less so. I wonder, is this the case? Actually, MOTH and I pondered this on a short wheezy walk, edging our way round golden fields that were being harvested. (This is the time of ridiculously bad hayfever for me and I will now spend the next few months breathing as if I had just run a marathon while playing the tuba). What is it that we normally do which we have not been doing that has allowed a boost in such nature as butterflies? Or, is it that we are just noticing them more because of our changed circumstances? I offer these questions with no answers, by the way, I am merely musing. If it is the former then it makes me feel quite sad because that would show the direct negative impact we humans have on the natural world – I can’t help but have the sneaky suspicion that this is probably true.

It has also been a great year for teasels. We have left several to grow, dotted around the garden and one has shot up to the heady heights of taller than me – yes, that is an enormous five-foot three and more! Particularly attracted to these spikey monsters have been bees, hoverflies, pollen beetles, spiders, and butterflies. I am looking forward to when it is the turn of the goldfinch, as they love the later stage of dried teasel where they can pluck out the seeds. I spent the first few years here wondering why we never had goldfinches on our bird feeder (despite the niger seed bought especially) until I realised we have hordes of them, but they prefer to bubble and chatter in the greengage trees at the bottom of our garden. And yes, looking forward to this moment does mean I am looking forward to more autumnal times, which by the already turning of the blackberries in the hedgerows is beginning to wave a distant hello.

Back to the teasels, did you know that it is thought that they might be carnivorous? The teasels’ leaves form a sort of cup in which rainwater collects – and also insects which drown in the pools… If I’m being perfectly honest with you, this is mostly hypothetical, there is some small evidence that the plant gains some benefit from the extra protein of dead bugs, but it is certainly not a proven fact that this is what they are doing – creating their own traps and feeding bowls. But, it’s an interesting idea, isn’t it?

We’ve had grass snakes in the garden this year – I have been most excited about this, although less so because our small, shouty and sweary cat with a gimpy leg did catch one and leave it on our kitchen floor. We have a thrush with only one foot. It seems to be doing well despite this set back, it sings most beautifully-madly, as they do, but I worry for it still. I am enjoying the lavender that is coming into itself now. I have picked some for drying (last year I made lots of lavender bags for Christmas presents, something that I will always remember doing with my grandma, and have lately been enjoying popping a stalk of flower heads into a pot with camomile tea. I’m not sure MOTH has seen yet, but this morning I tied a posy of lavender to hang under the shower head. Giving the buds a gentle squeeze as the water is running makes it smell a little like you are in a spa – go on – try it (in your own shower though, not mine, of course).

It has been a strange, awful privilege to have been forced to stay at home for the last few months. I miss hugging people an awful lot (not random people, my family and close friends, of course) but as a natural introvert, for me, I can’t honestly say it was all bad. Recently, I have stepped back into my physical work, leaving behind the digital content creating I have been doing in lieu. I have been both excited and apprehensive about this. What I love about my job as a librarian is (yes, yes, it’s the books) but also helping people, quietly building real relationships with regulars and knowing you have truly given and made a difference to someone. Things will not be as they were for a while but we adapt. Change can be hard, it can be wonderful, it can be a learning experience, but one thing is for sure, nothing ever truly stays the same.

Pre-baked Potatoes

I have become mildly obsessed with TED Talks and have to ration myself to only starting one when I know I have time to listen and watch many. Like others might binge a Netflix series, I can do the same for these presentations. And it’s not just about the interesting subjects, it also has to do with a strange fascination I have with confident speakers. As much as what they say, I am drawn to the gesticulations, expression, rhythm of speaking and the movement that goes unplanned with their words. It is something we all do, to a greater or lesser extent and I find it an interesting thing that when (in theory) words should be enough to convey what we are saying, our bodies give these impromptu extras.

Recently, when watching a news presenter giving a report while wearing a face covering, MOTH made a passing comment about the gesticulations looking odd without seeing the mouth moving too. My brain being what it is, I now can’t stop thinking about why and how our brains deliver these non-verbal expressions without our conscious instruction to do them. Have we always done it? Does everyone gesticulate? Do all cultures? What is the impact of not doing so? And so on. Perhaps there is a TED Talk about it. (I’ve just looked. There isn’t. Could someone do one please?) A moment to say, please, please wear a mask. No, none of us like it but we do things every day that are annoying, uncomfortable or we don’t like, so let’s all just crack on with this too, shall we.

Speaking of coverings (yes, exceedingly tenuous linking of thoughts – my mum will appreciate that) it is too blinking hot and I am longing to live in the lightest billowing cotton kaftan that will magically never actually touch my skin- does anyone have one I can borrow? I know I am most likely to be in the minority here, but I really don’t like this extreme heat. As someone who is cold ninety-nine percent of the time, you’d think I’d be happy when the sun was blazing. But it’s as if, when I finally get warm, my body doesn’t know how to cope with it. I literally swell up and ache and get very, very grumpy. (MOTH will attest to this with ‘help, get me out of here’ subtle eye movements.) I am longing for days of rain and snuggling up in a jumper. I am writing this in my study with the curtains half-drawn and a fan on while I am sure most of you are probably sunbathing and maybe even at the beach. The fan, by the way, is precariously close to the hanging tendrils of a flowering spider plant and I am aware that there may be a shower of little white petals blown my way at some point. Still, I usually have bits of garden in my hair or down the back of my t-shirt so it won’t make too much difference.

Speaking of the garden – it is wilting and crisping and we are hoping our main crop potatoes aren’t going to be pulled up pre-baked. We lifted our onions recently and are still feeling abundantly smug about the haul. Quite possibly over one-hundred; and ten garlic bulbs as well. As ever we are running out of ways to eat excessive amounts of courgette, it is currently being added to pretty much every meal – and still they come.

Every year I say I am never going to make jam again. This usually happens when I have been cleaning and sterilising jars, prepping huge amounts of fruit and standing over a boiling pan of bubbling fruit and sugar – all in the hottest months (merely adding to the heat I already can’t deal with – yes, I’m still grumping). Well, I have been making jam. And there will probably be more to come. The first large batch has been greenage – it seems we have a bumper crop for the first time. Most years we barely get any as, just at the point of nearly ripe, every single one gets utterly devoured by wasps. So this year, I took my cue from the stripy sugar-loving beasts and at the first signs of them boring into the fruit, I picked a basket load and finished ripening them in a paper bag. Then realised I would have to do something with them all, now that they were picked. Next up; the plums. And damsons. And apples. And blackberries. Oh dear.

It is amazing how much time it takes dealing with a mass of homegrown produce to make sure it is kept well enough to last into winter and beyond. My grandparents had the most amazing cellar which was full of jars upon jars of bottled fruit (as well as Grandad’s home-made wine – of varying successes) and I can only imagine how much time Grandma must have spent getting everything picked, prepped and stored because I don’t remember there ever being a time when there weren’t fruits to choose from, whatever the season. The exciting feeling and glorious scents of going down into the cellar I don’t think will ever leave me. It was the place where the surplus cake tins were kept, the extra cups, jars, large sieves and all manner of not-quite every day items – including (we found when sorting their estate) a teacup, with a special lip to guard the drinker’s moustache from getting wet. (Here is a
terrible picture.)

Back to the courgettes, because, as any vegetable gardener will attest – they are too numerous to ignore. One approach to use a good amount while being able to hide the quantity from those who are not so keen, is to make courgette potato cakes. Make your mashed potato as usual and let cool. Grate as many courgettes as you think you can get away with and wring them out in a tea towel to get rid of as much moisture as possible. Add the courgette to the potato and season: salt, pepper and chives works well, then squish down into a pastry cutter to create the ‘cake.’ Alternatively, make the mixture into balls and roll in flour. Both of these freeze brilliantly and cook from frozen and you can totally deceive doubters by not telling them they contain large quantities of courgette – especially if they are served with a runny-yolk poached egg on top.

The simple pleasure of a pine cone

This week the weather quite clearly has no idea what it is doing. Or, if it does, it is working to some indecipherable plan that we are not privy to. I had to put a jumper and socks on today, for which I was actually more than happy. The few days we had midweek week where the temperatures tipped into the thirties, were far too much for me; I barely functioned. Perhaps it’s because I spend a good ninety-five percent of my life feeling cold and wearing at least three more layers than everyone else (I have been known to wear seven layers in winter) that when I finally get warm, my body has no clue what to do. After the scorching heat and dragging the electric fans out of the cupboard and discarding the duvet, the last two days have been more bearable, even if a little confusing.

We were promised thunderstorms this week; they did not come – which I was annoyed about. We have had some rain, intermittent sun and
cloud but goodness, a lot of blustery wind. But that didn’t stop me taking a post work stroll on which I experienced hot sun, high winds and rain in regular revolutions.

On my walk I had two incidences where I was very aware of how I am becoming more and more accustomed to simplicity and the pleasure and freedom it brings. The first was when on leaving the house I pocketed only my keys and my phone (and a tissue, but there is always at least one of those resident in any of my pockets). A while back, when we were in much stricter lockdown and supposedly not leaving the house but for the essential shop, I tweeted about noticing that bags seemed such redundant irrelevances. They sit there waiting to be filled and carted about and for some reason they struck me as rather absurd at that point. And I am someone who has far too many bags of all shapes and sizes – just in case! But today there was a feeling of lightness and liberty in the grab-and-go of so few items. (I wonder if this is how men have always felt. Perhaps if decent pockets in women’s clothing had been de rigour from the start we wouldn’t have become so accustomed to dragging bags around with us at all times.)

The second moment was as I neared home. I was mildly grumping at this point as the last public footpath, that takes me across a field to my home, has once more not been looked after by the land owner and is again impassable; so I had to take the road route. But, by doing so I passed some large pine trees under which many cones had been scattered on the ground, most crushed by passing cars but one excellent, fat specimen called to me. As I picked it up to bring home I realised I experienced the same feeling as I have done in the past when buying a new item of clothing or the such. I read a book recently which talked about how we get used to new things so quickly that they lose their ‘spark’ in very little time which is what compels us to then buy again and again and again. It’s why some very rich people have multiple cars of huge value and still never feel satisfied. They are merely looking for the next hit of new. That being the case, perhaps a pine cone really can have the same excitement-producing reception in the brain that a new pair of boots can.

In some ways we have all had to live a little more simply recently and at the beginning I had hopes that this would have a positive impact. But, like so many people, I have been appalled and quite upset at the sheer magnitude of people and the destruction and littering they have left behind at some of our destination spots. I dared to dream that out of this strange time we are living through, there might have risen a more compassionate, thoughtful and caring collective consciousness. But it would seem that now, perhaps more than ever, we appear to be a species divided between those that think beyond their immediate bubble and those that don’t. I find it hard to not fall into the thinking that, I am right and they are wrong, nothing is that clear-cut of course, but I simply can’t understand the continued devastation on large and small scales across the globe of the beautiful world we are lucky to inhabit. Nor the drive some seem to possess to split us into divided groups of people based solely on geography, aesthetic, lifestyle choices and all the things that make us so wonderfully rich and diverse and of these differences that we should be celebrating and sharing.

It doesn’t help that there are so many ways now to see so much of this negative behaviour. Sometimes I have to go on a news and social media break just to give my (admittedly very sensitive) heart and brain a break from it all. I want to believe there is more good than bad. It is always worth seeking out happiness and care and opening our eyes to the little things that can bring comfort and hope, and to find the joy in the simple things.

To this end, my pine cone and I will be quite happy at home. It will sit in my bowl of found natural treasures, all of which make me smile – yes, even the skulls. And if you need a break from the treadmill of bad news, you can join me on a very blustery walk in the video below. The wind shaking the trees and rustling the long grasses speaks louder than I can, but I don’t mind being drowned out by nature.

Grazing Bales

Sunday, late afternoon; I’ve just been out for a short post-work walk and am wondering why I don’t do so more often. I always feel at my best mentally and emotionally when I am outside and in nature.

Today, the weather and scenery were stunning. Having just had several days of rain, (which I was most happy to see arrive after the driest May on record had the land scorched to dust) the sun has returned. Yesterday was all big blue expansive skies that seem to be bigger than they ought to, today the blue has been punctuated with white cloud and a slight breeze.

The route I took is quite short and one I have done many times before. If I don’t dawdle (which of course, I always do, stopping to look, smell, feel and listen to all the wonders around me) I can leave the house and be back again in half an hour – if I rush. But why rush? I’ll never understand people who charge their way through a walk. Why aren’t they stopping to trail their hands in the long grass, to peek into ditches, do they not close their eyes and breathe the fresh air pretending for a brief moment that nothing else exists? I can’t imagine going for a walk and not holding stones or picking up feathers or peering as close as I can at insects and lamenting, as ever, my lack of bird call knowledge when I hear the twittering around me. Although, today, I was quite happy that I was able to identify a chiff chaff.

Not all land owners and farmers are great at encouraging people to walk the public footpaths by keeping them clear and easily identifiable – there are a few round here like that. But, others are very good at it, and my walk begins around fields on a path that is kept mown; wide enough for one, or two if you are very close. I was led initially by several tiny brown flittering butterflies who appeared to skip about only a few inches ahead of my toes. One finally settled long enough on a butter cup for me to take a quick (terrible) picture and I think they were small heaths. The area I was currently walking round has been left to go to wild land and long grasses and the beautiful feathery fronds jigged in the breeze with their soft green and purple hues. Beautiful. But, as with as many places there is talk of it being built on which saddens me greatly. I can see brambles beginning to flower in the hedgerows, bringing promises of delicious fruits to come. I will be out picking and eating later in the year.

A little further along my walk I spot a large black shape on a nettle leaf. Looking closer it is a caterpillar, dark and bristly; looking extremely gothic. As I peer further into the nettle patch, I see that there are in fact many of them, all on nettle leaves, and so once more I take to my books and the internet to find out what they are: the caterpillars of the Peacock butterfly.

The reason I had stopped and began perusing the nettles was because I was getting myself back together after being highly startled by a pair of pheasants. I think though that they may have been more startled by me. I gave my apologies, especially as it was a male and female I had rudely interrupted. They flew off in the clumsy, flapping barking that they do without giving me the courtesy of an apology for scaring the life out of me.

Against all the blue, green and yellow of this early summer day, large shining black plastic greeted me next – the covering for bales of straw. My best friend and I have long loved the sight of bales in fields, particularly as we feel they always seem as if they are grazing. Many a time we have sent each other pictures of such with the caption: grazing bales. I may have tweeted a video at her this time.

My head and heart by this point wanted to continue to walk for hours. Unfortunately my body, with its various ails, does not comply and so reluctantly I begin to head home. I can manage an hour of gentle walking but by the end will still be in pain, so I am learning to take things easier than I would like – learning but not liking – I get very grumpy about this.

But I am blessed, I know, to be able to go out at all and also to be close enough to be out in nature so quickly. I know not everyone can and so I recorded just a short part of my walk, which you can watch below. Watching nature and imagining yourself in it can be beneficial too. When I was going through cancer treatment, I would sometimes close my eyes and take myself off for a walk in my mind. I would imagine every detail from putting on my shoes and picking up my keys, to what I would see and feel out there; and I’m sure it helped me. Perhaps, if you can’t get out, for whatever reason, I can give you this little bit of nature.

All about the birds and a little undead rhubarb

Once again we have reached the point where the areas of our garden we leave wild at the start of the year need taming. I always leave a large patch of comfrey at the bottom of the garden as it is such a good source of early nectar for bees and pollinators, but this pretty, although prickly irritant of a plant, romps away and before you know it, everything has been swamped. Now that the bulk of flowering is over I have begun to reduce the area by at least half – and found a lovely surprise under it all – a patch of wild garlic which I had no idea was there. Next to the fenced grass pile (which has been phenomenal at giving us mulch at this time when garden centres have been closed) there peered up at me some rather light-deprived wild garlic; rather sorry leaves but lovely delicate white flowers. I am hoping it will recover now that it is not weighed down by comfrey and I might try transplanting some to a place a little easier to get to and keep clear.

At the same time, I had to re-find the access to the grass pile as the hedge next to it had bulked out somewhat. A lot of people will think I am mad, but I always cut my hedging back by hand with secateurs (although MOTH does do the hedge at the front but only after I’m convinced nesting season is over). Cutting by hand may take longer but to me it feels so much kinder and less intrusive and I am more convinced of that now as, once more, I was given a wonderful surprise. As I edged along gently taking pieces of hedging away, I came across a well-hidden nest with four beautiful small bright blue eggs – a dunnock’s nest. Naturally, I immediately backed off and I am happy to report that I have seen an adult on the nest since, so I am no longer worried about having disturbed it.

The line between gardening for us and for nature is weighted heavily in favour of nature at the front of our house too (much to the neighbours’ horror I’m sure; those that allow nothing for wildlife save an extremely mowed lawn).
We always get a bit of a meadow of dandelions and do you know what – I leave them. The bright yellow is simply gorgeous to see and they are great for pollinators. When their heads turn to clocks, I still can’t get rid of them because when I look out I can see many goldfinches perched on the stems pecking away at the seeds that are attached to the iconic, delicate parachutes. I was watching a line of goldfinches on the telephone wire connected to our house the other day and they were themselves acting like parachutists. All in a row, one by one they dropped off, straight down to the awaiting dandelions below.

As an aside, did you know that the name dandelion comes from the French, ‘dent- de lion’ – lion’s tooth, although, apparently this is not what the French call it, their name for dandelion is pissenlit. The attached name ‘clock’ which appears when the head dries and turns to delicate seeds, has its root in an old bit of folklore when to divine how long you had left to live, you would blow upon the clock and count how many seeds still remained attached.

The song thrush is in full evidence – but this time, not only in its absolutely bonkers song; the garden is littered with smashed empty snail shells, the remains of the mollusc homes left in pieces on paving stones and large rocks. And it is no surprise there are so many takeaway shells about, because we now have two thrushes, the juvenile of which is often hopping about the pots on the patio looking exceedingly pretty and plump.

More elusive birds this week have been the stunning kite that occasionally does a fly-by over the house but which never hangs around long enough to be captured on camera other than as a tiny speck in the blue and also the unseen cuckoo whose call I heard this week for the first time of the year.

The enormous and increasing number of wood pigeons however, I shall not be waxing so lyrical about, although one did entertain me the other day be seeming to get stuck on the second part of its infamous call: whoo whoooo hoooo hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo…

The house martins are about more, flashing their white stomachs as they zip about aerial feeding, I saw a swallow sat on a telephone wire over a field, the great tits with their Pulp Fiction ties are feeding heavily again, the male blackbirds are scrapping at every opportunity and we have two plump juvenile blackbirds always bobbing about the garden together, rotund and with thin little legs, they remind me of Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum; the garden is busy!

But I promised you rhubarb, and if only I could actually give it to you. There was a rhubarb patch here when we moved in. Not being the biggest fans of the vegetable, I have tried to remove it several times; believing last year that I had finally succeeded – but no; it lives again, rising from the earth with triumphant red arms, defiantly waving enormous leaves at me. And so, as I write this, I have a huge amount of rhubarb chutney simmering away as well as three crumbles ready for the freezer. It is the spider plant of the garden – un-killable!