Nature Writing Archives

Hints of crumble and hope in the wild

And there is hope showing itself again with the return of what was thought lost and done.

Late July and it seems as if the bees and butterflies have finally abandoned a long lie-in and are out and about. Like a lot of people, I have been struck by the drop in numbers this year; it has felt palpable and overtly obvious. But today, sitting in an on-off shade as the sun is drawn in and out from large rolling white clouds, I have seen a small resurgence of bees, butterflies and hoverflies. No, not as many still as previous years, but enough to give me hope.

They are particularly taken with the wild oregano which is flowering with dusky pink frothy heads. It is a bit of a thug of a plant really, spreading itself widely, taking over long grasses and liking surrounding the bases of trees and hedge lines. But I let it do what it wants for the very purpose of knowing the sustenance it gives to insects. It is also a delightful scent that gets released as you brush up against it; warm, slightly spicy and invoking of warmer climes.

Spires of hyssop are also beginning to flower in blue and white and these too pull in the pollinators.

Our garden has gone a little wild and rogue this year as I haven’t been able to do as much as usual. Part of me is desperate to get it back under some kind of control, another part is enjoying sitting back and watching what happens and who arrives amid the chaos.

A month or so ago we had dreadful trouble with a deer who had found a way into our garden. It would come in at night and chomp its way through various plants. Its favourite snacks seemed to be the Japanese anemone, geums, pink sorrel, strawberry plants and the young thin branches of the apple tree I planted last year. Now, as much as I encourage wildlife into the garden, we had to draw the line at this. So it was that we spent a few weeks putting off planting out our vegetable crops while we tried to figure out where the deer was getting in and then putting things in place to try to stop it. This saw me each morning doing a round of the garden in my pyjamas, dressing gown and boots stealthily trying to see where the deer (who was found lurking under the trees on many occasions) would suddenly dash off to and run away via. If anyone saw me, I must have looked quite insane and this view likely compounded by the putting up of fencing at possible entry points adorned with bells, ribbons and shiny strips to try to put the deer off. My covert dashes in bedwear failed, however Darling Husband managed to spot the place of its egress and successfully close off access.

Now, I sit and see that against the odds of munching decimation, everything has grown back fully and flowering. And there is hope showing itself again with the return of what was thought lost and done.

I picked the first plums and blackberries today, the latter though deep, black and soft, were face-pulling-ly tart; too early and without enough consistent warmth to sweeten them. There is a bramble which always grows within the branches of the neighbour’s apple tree which hangs over our fence. The spiny stems adorned with wild fruit lying next to swelling apples, always makes me think they are producing some kind of hybrid ready-filling for an apple and blackberry crumble.

I know most people wish days away in the later months to hurry spring and summer forward, but I have a kind of aching love and comfort in autumn. I do not long for the days to pass quickly to get there, every day is to be savoured, but I am not one to fear or dread the changing of the seasons to the one where I feel most at home.

And I’m not even sure that we have seasons any longer. We often appear to have each one every month for just a few days at a time. Change is happening, it is undeniable and it is hard at times not to see only the negative shifts. But nature continues to show us there is hope and we must build on that, and perhaps a starting place might be to make sure we also notice the good and the hopeful. Never lose sight. Never lose heart.

Difficult things

Hello

I thought it was far past time for a little catch up – but where on earth to begin. I guess we go back to Christmas, which already seems a long time ago. I was in for treatment over Christmas as well as an oncology visit and, even though those of us in the thick of it already knew, it was here that the words were said aloud, ‘treatment isn’t working.’ Despite three months of weekly chemotherapy, the cancer still spreads, the cancer still grows.

Even though I knew this was the case, I find new tumours on an almost daily basis and feel the very real growth of those already present, the saying of it between me, my darling husband and oncologist just made it too real, it felt like all last bastions of hope dashed on the cruellest rocks. And I fell into a huge hole of all-encompassing grief.

When someone dies you have to say goodbye to that person. When it is you who is going to leave, you have to say goodbye to everyone. The heaviness of this is just too much and it breaks my heart on a daily basis. There is a lot of help, a lot of information and organisations out there to support people when they are about to, or have, lost someone. There is very little, if anything, to help the person it is happening to. And so, although I have a most amazing group of very close people that I know are always there for me in every way, this feels a very lonely process to be trying to learn to negotiate. Some days I feel I do okay, others, I really don’t.

On the physical side my days are now largely spent revolving around pain management and then managing the side effects of pain medications. Having been dealing with cancer for seven years now, but it previously being quite a different thing, I wasn’t prepared for how much pain would be at this stage and it has knocked me sideways a little, not least because I am somewhat spacey a lot of the time from medications.

Oh, and I’ve recently had a suspected mini stroke – you know, just to add a little more spice to things.

So there is a very brief outline of things at the moment. Hard, difficult and sad…

But I still believe there is so much good and love and joy to be found, even among the worst days.

As such, I have reprised my nature diary podcast, Swallows on the Wire. It shall be intermittent because I have had weeks where I’ve been in hospital more days than not and so keeping up with the daily entries has been impossible. But there really is something so magical about looking to the small beauty of nature that is just there for all of us, that I hope in whatever format these mini recordings can bring a little joy, for others as well as myself.*

I have found that being open about the fact that my cancer is incurable, I have often been asked my advice on life. For anyone who follows my musings you will know that I do do a lot of thinking about all sorts of things and share thoughts when I can. I have many and they will follow but today I’m going to be really boring with what I think is an important thing… peers over glasses…

‘Sort your paperwork and have the difficult conversations now.’

We all have to-do lists, whether we write them scribbled on backs of envelopes, enter them electronically on various apps or devices, make beautiful artworks of them in bullet journals or just keep a vague running commentary at the back of the brain. And they generally consist of things such as, washing, shopping, pay tax bill, call dentist etc etc.

Well, my list looks more like this: attempt to access decades old pensions to update, write a will, plan funeral, expression of wish form, DNR disclosure, get a lasting power of attorney. As you can imagine, several of these things lead on to…have those difficult discussions with those closest to you.

I cannot stress enough how much better to do all this before you need to. I wish I had so I wasn’t trying to do it at the same time as negotiating treatments, emotional fallout and exhaustion. I would rather be spending my time painting, writing or pottering in the garden than battling with pension companies asking for details I cannot remember from over twenty years ago.

As for the difficult chats well, that is something that I am having to gently, but a little more firmly, instigate. I could just make all decisions myself to be read when the time comes, but to me, it is important to know the wants and needs of my husband and family and have those things reflected in the decisions and preparations I make. But I am aware I am asking my loved ones to have to think of things they don’t want to. No one wants to think about these things but I really feel that we all need to have these conversations, however hard they are, before any situation arises where they are actually needed.

I find I am having to learn to be a bit more selfish in thinking about what I need and to try to find ways express those things. I’m not talking practical help, I am stubbornly trying to do as much as I can still, although my independence has been further thwarted by not being allowed to drive at all due to the possible mini stroke. I am talking about recognising things I need to say and want to know even if others may not feel quite ready yet.

I can only ever speak of my own experience and the things I am learning about what I need and want as we progress through this very strange time. Here is something that it seems I need to reiterate all too often: I want everyone to still be having fun, to enjoy life, to do fantastic things, go places, have experiences, laugh. And I do not want anyone to be feeling guilty about doing so. More to that I want to know about these things too. I can’t bear it when someone tells me they felt bad because they were having a good time when I am going through this. That just makes me feel awful. ‘Is that how you see me?’ Is what I want to ask, as someone who wants others to be miserable? I am not having that at all.

In the spirit of trying to be truly honest in a not much talked about situation I will tell you of one of my biggest wants right now. I can only ever speak about my own experience as I am navigating my way through things but I see so little of what I feel being talked about. I want a stake, however small, a glimpse into the futures of my closest loved ones. I won’t be here to see or join in with so much and it just adds to my grief. And so I want to hear of their plans and hopes and dreams, I want to know what holidays they will go on, whether they will move house, go travelling, whether my husband will continue growing vegetables…I want with all my heart to have just a tiny fraction of feeling like I can see them a little in the future and feel connected to them there.

So what’s the plan? Well, we plod on taking each day as it comes. I will be adding in another chemotherapy starting next week and if everyone could cross everything and have a word with their deity of choice about it actually having a positive effect, that would be simply marvellous, thank you. I will be tackling a lot of paperwork it seems and trying to write a little more frequently.

I will leave you with a word which keeps coming to me. I am not sure why yet, these things generally reveal themselves with time so maybe by the next time I write it will have made sense to me, but I keep getting called to the word, ‘softening.’ It feels important somehow. I shall let it percolate.

In the meantime I urge you all to slow, to look for the little joys, hug rather than niggle, cry when needed, laugh whenever you can. Soften.

You can listen to the first two episodes of Swallows on the Wire, a nature diary wherever you get your podcasts or click here

Death of a Garden

I feel the pain of sap drying in stems as assuredly as I feel the sharp prick and spike of dead grass.

I am sure that I am not the only one who is currently feeling a sort of grief every time they look out at their garden. I have felt immeasurably lucky over the last few years to be blessed with a large garden. It has been my sanctuary, my nemesis, my workout, my joy and my healing, many times over. But at this time of heat and drought, I feel the pain of sap drying in stems, petals curling and falling before full colour has blushed, and the tightening and constricting of green just as assuredly as I feel the sharp prick and spike of dead grass under my bare feet.

Things I have planted, pruned, tamed and nurtured, I now mutter apologies to as I pass them: “I just can’t water you all,” I say. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

We prioritise the food; peas, courgettes, onions, potatoes – anything we are going to eat gets watered – but still, it is not enough. Beans that normally flourish all through August stopped producing before the month began. The flower borders near the house and the pots on the patio get an irregular dousing from grey water we collect from the sink. Again, it is just not enough.

It is not about aesthetics. Of course, it is far more pleasant to look out on colour and vibrancy, but it is as ever, the breaking of the chain. No plants producing pollen and nectar – no insects. No insects – less food for birds. Fruit dropping off early and unripe – again leading to famine for wildlife. We move up the chain; no insects – no pollination – no food – for us.

I feel that since an early age I have been scared and worried for the world. At the age of about nine and without fully understanding what it was all about really, but with a sense that it was important, I did a sponsored walk for wildlife. I bought ‘save the whales’ notepads and when peers were wearing band t-shirts, I had ones about global warming. But this is the first time I have ever felt that perhaps we have gone too far to turn back. I always had a slight militant feeling that the world could be saved; but now I’m not so sure and my heart breaks for my niece and nephews because I don’t know what world they will have to grow into.

But, it is a funny thing that despite this fear and grief I find myself collecting seeds. To collect seeds is still to hold hope. It is a way to try and preserve what can be saved from this year to try again. It may be that we have irrevocably lost some of our plants and that we might have to rethink what is going to be possible to grow in the years to come. For now, I can do nothing about that. But I can hope and so I will keep collecting seeds and as an invocation to carry on and to encourage you to do so too; I will leave you with the beautiful spell of their names:

Clary, aquilegia, salvia, snapdragon, nigella, sweet peas, silver moon

Deploying tactics 1 and 2

I am under the heavy warmth of a beautiful quilt I bought for myself as a gesture of love to me…it feels an empowering hug of a quilt for that.

I find myself, once again, lying in bed exhausted and in pain and feeling like I am missing out on the world. I have been at work, but am now in the spare bedroom downstairs, the back door is open and I can feel a breeze and see a slice of the garden.

A chaffinch is calling its funny eighties keyring sound-effect call and a greenfinch screeches a nasally whine on occasion. Mr and Mrs blackbird are as busy as ever collecting insects and stopping now and then to drink from one of the bowls on the lawn. They flick through old leaves and cut grass not caught up after mowing. Cowslips stand tall and bright with spring-time yellow under the weeping crab apple tree; the long thin stems of which are laden with pink blossom and sway in an easterly wind.

I long to be outside; walking, biking or working in the garden, but I have absolutely nothing physically left to give, today. I started slipping towards more than frustration and feeling quite down, so deployed tactic number one – message MOTH to say I needed a, ‘buck the f*ck up’ and to at the very least slowly walk down the garden and back, once. We went out together; he brought in the washing and we both checked on the seedlings in the greenhouse. I returned to bed, utterly exhausted.

So, tactic number two – “What would Josie do?” Josie George is the author of, ‘A Still Life,’ and a fantastic woman I follow on twitter. (I don’t know about you, but I still feel misgivings towards, ‘follow’ as it feels either cult-ish or stalker-y.) Josie has, throughout her life, had enormous physical difficulties to deal with, compounded further by at first these being of the ‘invisible illness’ variety. As someone who was diagnosed with ME at age thirteen and has since had cancer twice and all the fallout from the treatment of, I feel I completely understand the pain, grief, frustration and anger of living with an ‘invisible’ illness.

But, although Josie does address these things in both her memoir and social media, she is somehow the most positive and inspirational person. Since reading her book, I have often deployed the, “what would Josie do?” tactic, when I find I am starting to feel a bit sorry for myself. She has shown me that there is always something, no matter what you are going through. Sometimes for her it is fully paying attention to her pain as when it is all-encompassing, she may as well explore it with curiosity.

So here I am, doing something. I am telling you about a brilliant book and an excellent person. I will also give you a little slice more of my imperfect, perfect world…

I am under the heavy warmth of a beautiful quilt I bought for myself as a gesture of love to me when I was living on my own for the first time. It feels an empowering hug of a quilt for that! There is spring warmth in the air but an enticing whip of wind that blows coolness on my face. A regular black bird has found a song he loves and sings it many times each day; it is a waltz and he is clearly smitten with it. I can see cones of lilac, not fully open yet, but can recall the strong, sweet honey scent clearly and it will fill the garden again soon as, all things cycle round; the seasons, the days, the good and the bad – a comforting thought as I know the pain will pass as my own seasons cycle. Until then, I will try to not feel I am missing out, but will instead focus harder on what I have, right here, right now. And it is good.

Furiously forty and more settled than ever

I don’t want to work my way up the ladder. I don’t want to be a millionaire. I don’t want to be famous or stay looking twenty forever.

When I wrote this, I was sitting in bed at ten to five in the evening. The light was fading to dirty rust colours outside and I had a cat snoring next to me. It was a Friday, I was considering a glass of wine and whether it would embolden me to hit go on the payment for a large amount of pounds worth of books that were in my online basket. MOTH was playing guitar in the room next door. I had a hot water bottle. Apart from the intense pain in my legs (a by-product of cancer treatment) it was quite a lovely moment. I had been given some money as a Christmas present, I could by the books…

After having lost it for some time (it happens occasionally), I have recently regained my reading mojo. I have found that deleting any social media apps on the phone adds greatly to the recovery. It helps that I have also hit upon a seam of fantastic authors and titles and am feeling like a kid in a sweet shop. All these new discoveries seem to have come into my life at a time I feel I am finally settling into ‘me’ and they speak to me about things I find myself attuning to. I turned forty recently and I wonder if that has something to do with it.

With average life-spans in general getting longer, forty really shouldn’t be quite the epic milestone it was once viewed to be. Having reached it, I certainly don’t see it as anything but, quite young still, really. But whether it’s psychological, societal or actually physiological, I do feel a change – and it’s a good one.

I give both less and also more of a damn about things. These sentiments may have been propelled by going through cancer twice by this age. Priorities become much more obvious when you have to have a chat with Mr Death especially when he turns up uninvited more than once! I have at one and the same time become someone who can throw off the trivial more easily and yet break harder and further at the things that really matter. I have a much more focused view of what is important: my loved ones, health, the natural world; and a rather refreshing laissez fair attitude towards a lot of other things: been walking around with mascara smudged under my eyes – oh well, I am but human.

I have much more peace about who I am. Instead of agonising over my flaws, physical, mental or emotional, I am kinder and try to understand and comfort myself. But I also have much more anger – righteous anger at that. When I see what we are doing to the planet and the way we are fracturing as a species and the cruelty we impose on each other and the world, I can barely contain the pain of it.

I have always envied people who have known ‘what they want to do with their lives.’ It is a horrible imperative we have thrust on us at an early age to pin down and work towards. I have never known and I’m pretty sure I still couldn’t articulate exactly. But, I am closer to feeling what I am about and it is my intention to follow such inklings and enjoy the things that feel like me and see where they lead.

I don’t want to work my way up the ladder. I don’t want to be a millionaire. I don’t want to be famous or stay looking twenty forever. I want the joys of what’s really important; small life, family, love, nature, laughter, quiet. If you see me with mud on my face and bits of garden in my hair, scribbling in a notebook with a pocket full of wonders like conkers, interesting stones and a sundried stag-beetle, then know that I am happy. And if there’s a glass of wine in it too, there may well be a fair few new books as well.

If you’re interested in books on life and nature, this is my basket of temptations. (There are more, but even I had to stop somewhere.) You may enjoy them too:

‘Earthed’ Rebecca Schiller

‘Light Rains Sometimes Fall’ Lev Parikian

‘Wintering’ Katherine May

‘The Woodcock’ Richard Smyth

‘The Eternal Season’ Stephen Rutt

‘Rhapsody in Green; A Writer, an Obsession, a Laughably Small Excuse for a Vegetable Garden’ Charlotte Mendelson

‘On Gallows Down’ Nicola Chester

P.S. I had a glass of wine.

P.P.S. There may be books on the way…

Swallows on the Wire

I invite you to join me in slowing down and taking some time to immerse yourself in the small wild of the nature that is all around us.

I have been quiet lately and that quiet has allowed me to make some changes.

Firstly, the reason why I’ve not really been communicative: well, to start with I got a bit down when I was told by oncology that they wanted to extend this latest lot of chemo from three to six months. Having originally thought that all treatment would be done by late spring for it then to be extended to late summer; to then have to go, ok, now it will be early December, felt a bit much.

The second reason was that the world seemed to have become very loud and very angry. It is as if we can no longer entertain nuance and everything became polarised and you were either one way or the other, for or against, a good or a bad person.

Being in a pandemic is hard and straight off the back of years of infighting regarding our status in the EU made the already prickled even pricklier. Add into that being diagnosed with cancer and having to do all the treatments by yourself and not even being allowed to hug your own mum – well, quite frankly, I wasn’t coping well and knew I had to make some changes. And I did.

I have been off social media now for six weeks and you know what – it’s been wonderful. There are elements I miss but if I’m honest, those elements were getting lost in the angry noise. I shall use it again, but to a much lesser extent.

An unexpected by-product of being off all social media is that my long-form reading has returned and I am back to devouring books, but more excitingly for me, my creativity has been creeping back in.

As part of my self-care (to use a perhaps vastly overused phrase these days) I had to make my world small for a while, to cope. I am sorry to have not been in contact with many of you who are wonderful in checking in with me. It is not that I don’t care, just that for a while, there was only so much I could manage. I have also slowed my way of life. Yes, partly because after more than nine months of cancer treatment I don’t have an awful lot of energy, but I have been focusing down on the things that I feel are essential to me at my core.

And that brings us to nature. I have noticed that at any crisis point in my life the only thing I can contemplate doing is to be outside; walking, gardening, just sitting; I need to be in the natural world. Normally I busy myself working in the garden but in my state of slowing and bringing the world in close, I have spent more time just observing. Really looking, feeling, seeing, hearing and tasting. From out of this I began a diary of my observations, and from that something new came: my podcast – Swallows on the Wire. In this podcast I invite you to join me in slowing down and taking some time to immerse yourself in the small wild of the nature that is all around us. I believe the smallest of interactions with the natural world can be beneficial – even just taking full notice of the dandelions that grow in the cracks of an industrial estate. We don’t have to jet off around the world to experience true wonders, we can find them everywhere – if we look and listen.

The title of the podcast came from a morning walk I took in early August where I stood under telephone wires on which perched swallows, dotted like notes on a stave. I scribbled the image on a bit of paper and added two more stave lines; the swallows I changed to dots. Out of this was born the title music, written by the swallows, interpreted and performed by my best friend Ilona, for which I give huge thanks.

Episodes one, two and three are available to listen to now on anchor fm and spotify. These are short nature diary entries and bring us up to the present date. They will then be weekly, with perhaps the odd bonus episode in between. To listen, click here

If you need a moment of calm or some time to reconnect with the natural world, just listen to the Swallows on the Wire…

Swallows and snow globes

It is okay to recognise that some things are hard and sad and difficult.

The other day, I both stood on my own in a field giggling and also had a bit of a cry. The cry wasn’t in the field but back at home and was because, quite frankly, cancer treatment is flipping hard work, and I think we all know what I really mean by, flipping. Most days I am pretty okay and just get on with it all, but overwhelm can sometimes creep through the cracks.

I am now half way through radiotherapy and the worst so far is feeling very, very tired and generally a bit sick. The latter is probably that my poor little liver might be getting a bit of a poke from the laser beam. (I know, I know, it’s not a laser beam, but it’s more fun to think of it that way. I can pretend I am in a James Bond film and will at any moment cunningly escape with excellent martial arts moves and then nip off to the bar for a swift martini.)

My ability to concentrate, think or focus on anything appears to be dreadful on more days than not. This will be a heady mix of chemo fog, tiredness from radiotherapy and the underlying continuous emotional and physical weight of six months of treatment in one form or another and with more to come – all in a pandemic. Well, if you’re going to do something, you may as well go the whole hog.

This is why I took myself out for a walk. Physically sluggish, emotionally a little messy and mentally unable to concentrate on anything, I had to get outside. My legs may have moved like lead and as if I were walking through treacle, but my heart instantly felt lighter especially when only a few minutes later I saw a swallow perched on a telephone wire in the bright sunshine after a rain shower.

I stood in a snow globe for a while. No, I haven’t completely lost it. A tree* was shedding soft motes of pollen which were being swirled in the breeze, barely perceptible in the sun but a blizzard against the backdrop of stormy clouds; I stopped to watch. The other snow storm at this time of year is the absolute froth of the umbelliferous cow parsley (also known as Queen Anne’s Lace and related to the carrot, don’t you know). Much to the horror of many gardeners I’m sure, I am letting this wildflower grow quite prolifically in our borders.

*I am leaning towards it possibly being a goat/pussy willow but I stand ready to be corrected because my tree identification game is bad!

Almost home and with the clouds gathering overhead, I stood for a while as swallows swooped above me. It was a magical moment of watching and listening to these birds as well as others singing further afield. All around me was the buzz of insects enjoying wild honeysuckle wrapped around the limbs of trees and the air was generating that exciting electric feeling that comes before a storm – and then a horse gave an almighty neigh, and this is what set me off giggling.

I went home and had my little cry. My walk broke the spell of me just pushing everything to the back of my brain where it sat growing and growling for attention. Sometimes you can work so hard at getting on and through things, you can forget to stop and feel what you need to feel. It is okay to recognise that some things are hard and sad and difficult and I am advocating allowing yourself a little cry sometimes if you need it.

Lovely little things

And, let’s also not forget the most important part of the plan, to look for the pockets of joy each day.

Six months after her release, Veronica is being put back in the loft. I am talking about my wig. I actually bought her (and I feel weird saying her, but they all come from the shop complete with names) the last time I had cancer. The only reason I didn’t get rid of her was because, well, how do you get rid of a wig? In the end it turned out to be a good thing that she lay in waiting for three and half years, because I needed her services again. But now that I have tiny hair, she is being packed off once more and if this weather ever improves, I can abandoned the hats on occasion too, which will be nice.

There have been some lovely things over the last week; on a short walk with my mum along a small portion of the Gipping, we saw our first swallows of the year. They took us by surprise zooming overhead and off into the distance near the end of our amble which had been otherwise bereft of noticeable wildlife apart from a pair of ducks. We then proceeded to have herbal teas and cake outside at a garden centre café. After all the lockdown and my own shielding, I still have the strange feeling that I am doing something naughty when I go out now.

On the way to my radiotherapy planning appointment, MOTH and I took a cross country cut through and passed a herd of sheep with happily gambolling lambs. A trio of tiny sheep bouncing about together is exactly what you need to see on the way to hospital and I am distinctly aware of just how lucky I am to live somewhere where these sights are never far away. One day I will find the donkey who, from our house, we can hear braying on clear days when the sound travels so well. I have an idea of where it resides but am not at all sure how one elicits a donkey introduction.

The annoying thing of late though, is just how cold and miserable the weather has been and how because of it, very few of the vegetables sown have germinated. Looking back at, ‘this time last year’, photos it seems that everything is so very far behind. We were particularly surprised at the lack of courgettes coming up as usually these are the easiest things to grow. We did a second sowing and out of curiosity I had a poke about in the first pots. Well, it turns out there was a very good reason they had not germinated, I had forgotten to put the seeds in! I blame this entirely on the fact that I had been doing some of the sowing in my very distracted time of pre surgery worry.

On that subject I would like to give you some nicer news. I have had my full body scan and it has not shown that the cancer has spread anywhere else in my body. I am of course extremely pleased about this but have to admit to being a little restrained in celebration. The reason I am not doing cartwheels (apart from the reluctance to increase the potential of head injuries and broken bones) is that I have been told this before, and it wasn’t accurate. As this cancer has been a recurrence of the first, I’m not sure I will ever be able to completely believe that there isn’t anything lurking, too small to be picked up on the scans. But I will try. In the meantime we carry on with the plan: radiotherapy which starts in two days and then another, different chemotherapy. And, let’s also not forget the most important part of the plan, to look for the pockets of joy each day.

One last amazing thing: my mum and two of my sisters are being brilliant and taking on a marathon walk to raise funds for Macmillan. I am unabashedly saying click here to donate. I can tell you from first-hand experience that this is a very good cause. I am so very lucky to have the support that I do from so many wonderful people. Not everyone is as lucky as I am but, Macmillan are there to provide care and help for anyone who needs it when dealing with cancer and this is a way you can be part of that support.

To help raise funds, click here

Winter, Act 2: The Jewelled Dual

A courteous bow

Strut, abreast they walk

With puffed, pumped chest, they talk

All with manners at this early part

While waiting for a sign to start

Full starch, back and forth they pace

Feigning manners and grace, until

With a gentle sloping arch of golden tail on icy ground

The rapier black and brown soft trails to demarcate and bound

Grand stand and boast

In jewelled and shiny coats

Puff and ruffle, intent and show

And it begins – crouch low

Jump high

Feet and legs to opponent’s chest extend

Push and serve a blow, then land to defend

Another turn around the ring

Cock heads bobbed, out-stretched wing

Beady eyes, take size the foe

Scrape low and here we go

A feathered flap, lift hard and haul

A clash of claw

A civilised brawl

A pant and puff of breath from beak

Hangs clouds in frozen air, it speaks

Of old ways, rites and honour

Of settling scores with brutal glamour

But, gentlemen of landed gentry know rules that we do not

For just as soon as battle starts, then it is stopped

The ritual has been played

A settlement now made

Who victorious stands, I do not know

But I watch as side-by-side, they go.

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.