Is it a sign?

Almost every day, no matter the weather

I walk the same walk

down the busy farm road we live on.

Me -- the trucks, the cars, the horses, and the odd bicycle.

I've had to jump in the hedgerow

more than once.

I can be amazingly, embarrassingly unobservant

but in five years

I've never noticed so much variety

in the hedgerows.

Doesn't lots of berries mean

a harsh winter to come?

Or is that

just another old wive's tale?

Wales

Curves ahead

For years now, my husband has been saying "We need to take Mum back to Wales."

My mother-in-law's family came from a small village in western Wales and during the war years she and her sister lived there.

I've always imagined a dramatic evacuation from London:  waving good-bye to her parents at the train station, along with the other millions of city children who were sent to the countryside in 1939.

As it turned out, the "real" story was a bit different.  Apparently, the family was already in Wales when war broke out.  My mother-in-law was thrilled at the turn of events, as it meant she would be able to go to the fair.

"Yes, we had a marvellous war," giggled my mother-in-law's childhood friend as we discussed those years.

My children and I had never been to Wales.  I don't know what we had expected, really -- something gray and wet, I suppose.  Something old-fashioned and fusty and dull.

The dramatic cliffs, the huge expanse of Irish Sea, the blue sky:  it was all such a surprise.

Setting out

The week in Wales was on the calendar for the middle of August.
As far as my oldest daughter was concerned, it was a black hole in her hectic social life.  She dreaded it and complained about it with the full force of adolescent hyperbole.
The thought of sentimental journeys, of a visit to the past, is anathema to her.  She wants only to live in the present.  The future is a bit frightening, and the past just seems irrelevant.

Over the stile

 My children's great-grandfather and great-great grandparents are buried in the village of Cilgerran.  We visited their graves.  My mother-in-law doesn't know how deeply rooted her family in Wales; like her granddaughter, she has never been that interested in the past.  It gave me a chill, though, to think that my children are part of this place.  It is there, somewhere, in their DNA.

To my fanciful eyes, Cilgerran was a bit of a Brigadoon.  For a hundred years, and maybe more, it's hardly changed.  There is Aunt Mary's house, but someone replaced the old door.  There's the Teifi River, where we used to fish.  There's the ruins of the old Norman castle, where we used to play. 

We climbed the steep path from the river to the castle, and I worried that it was a bit much for my mother-in-law.  I scolded my husband about it, but he defended himself by saying that she knew the climb was challenging.  I wonder, though, if it is difficult to remember that you are 80 when you visit one of your childhood places.  In any case, she declined to join us for our walks on the Pembrokeshire Coast Path.

There is no escape route

My girls are good walkers.  Even when they were really young, I forced them to trek across Boston, Amsterdam and Den Haag -- because I like to see things by foot.  These experiences have become part of our family lore. 

We walked every day we were in Wales, but one day we hiked the 10 miles from our cottage in Moylegrove to the Newport Sands Beach.  It was a sunny day, but you could feel -- in the wind -- that a storm was approaching.  On the top of the cliffs, the wind was fierce.

The sign, above, reads:  This is a remote, rugged and challenging stretch of the Pembrokeshire Coast Path.  Please keep to the path.  Avoid the cliff edge.

Stay on the path

Rather worryingly, it warns: On this stretch there are no escape routes or exit points.


Once you start down the path, you have no choice but to keep going. I couldn't help but think that, like much of life, it's better that you don't know how hard it's going to be.

Avoid the cliff edge

It's a trick of perspective, but in this picture the girls seem so far away.  I let them get a bit ahead of me -- and there they are, tiny figures on the edge of the cliff.

After what seems like a summer of too much togetherness, they will be off -- on their own -- in only two weeks.  The oldest daughter is off to boarding school, and the youngest daughter is going to Dartmoor for a geography field trip.

Rise and Fall

There's almost no cell phone coverage, or Internet access, in this part of Wales.  My husband complained that he got better coverage in Angola.  He and my oldest daughter walked around, cell phones held aloft, trying to find a signal.

Before cars, before trains, there were ships -- and then, this rugged coast was well-connected.  I read that Newport, where our walk ended, supplied the herring for Queen Elizabeth I's Navy.

These cliffs are actually part of the Preseli Mountains -- the source of the blue slate, or "bluestones" that make up Stonehenge.

This bit of coastline, near Cardigan Bay, is one of the only places in the UK where you can find dolphins and seals.  Sadly, we didn't spot any . . . although we kept looking for them.  Even without dolphins, there was more than enough to marvel over.  She might not admit to it, not now, but even my teenage daughter wasn't immune to the magic of this place.

Resting (and reflecting)

Family Life

"Felicity in family matters is as rare as hen's teeth,"

I once read.

I tend to think of myself as the keeper

 of the family happiness,

but is that a thankless task,

or even possible?

I am like the self-appointed shepherd

of a small, ornery flock

who only want

 to be left alone

to go their own way.

My idea of a blissful family day is a pub lunch,

all of us together, 

followed by a long walk afterwards.

Only rarely is this wish indulged,

because one person doesn't like to eat out

and the other doesn't like to walk

and the third wants to listen to a radio programme

instead.

Let's go to Combe Gibbet, I said.

High upon Combe Down

is a long chalk pathway

with incredible views

of Berkshire and Hampshire,

and maybe even Oxfordshire.

I remember reading about Combe

in  A Genius in the Family.

In her memoir about

the intense love and rivalry between sisters

Hilary du Pré says

that her famous sister, Jacqueline

described Combe as "the top of the world."

Jacqueline du Pré took her husband

Daniel Barenboim

up to the Combe Gibbet.

She loved it; he loathed it.

It is a wild, beautiful place

but a little haunted.

This is a two-person gibbet, apparently.

George Broomham and Dorothy Newman

were hung in this place in 1676.

For crimes against family: adultery, which led to murder.

I wonder if the sky looked as ominous

on that day.

The day was full of clouds and intense, muted sunlight.

Against this backdrop,

even the haystacks look a bit menacing,

and lonely, too.

And yet, unexpectedly,

the sun will sweep across

the landscape.

Family life is like that, too.

 Here we go

over the stiles,

one after another.

Sometimes with a helping hand,

sometimes entirely alone.

These oak trees have endured

who knows what.

They seem to have grown together.

I think that can happen in marriage, too

if you are fortunate.

If there is anything that makes me happier

than seeing my children happy, together

I can't think what it might be.

Winter's Walk

Ralph (incarcerated)

I fed the prisoner some oatmeal

to warm his tummy on such a cold day.

Greedy thing! He ate it so quickly that he got

an oatmeal mustache. But when I returned with

the camera, he had rinsed it away.

He fixes me with an accusing eye.

When I can't get outside for my daily walk, I start to feel like a caged thing.

I walk, almost every day, for exercise and mental health - I'm not sure which comes first, or even if I could differentiate between them. I will walk in most weather conditions: hot, warm, cold, spitting, raining, snowing, or blowing. I draw the line only at pelting it down and that horrendous combination of wet and wind which is, for me, most insalubrious.

I know that only a Texan (or similar) would find England cold. Compared to what the Canadians and Finns (for example) have to put up with, England's winter is practically balmy. However, I think that most people would agree that England does specialize in a form of bone-chilling damp that has evolved a hot tea/hot fire/hot AGA loving people.

It might seem contradictory, but I think that proper cold is preferable to all the wettish, grayish mucky muck. After a few teasing little snow flurries and sub-degree temperatures, we awoke to a beautifully frozen world on Saturday morning. Suddenly, all of those sad shrubs and sodden grasses acquired an elegant frosting. After bundling up to feed the chickens, I felt inclined to wander out and inspect the changes that the frost wrought.

The field to the right of our back garden.

It looks so pastoral, but I have left out the view of my neighbor's junk car collection. (We live nearby the English version of Sanford & Son.) But don't those weeds look lovely?

Hillview Farm, next door on the left-hand side

Usually, it is a world of mud.

On a clear day, you can see the hill

of Watership Down on the horizon.

Our road cuts through old farming ground.

The road is dense with houses on both sides, but tiny parcels of farmland lie behind. It feels rural and strangely suburban at the same time.

I climbed up onto a high bank to take this picture.

Again, the solitary splendor of the view misrepresents the reality: a busy thoroughfare full of speeding cars, cyclists, walkers, horses and the occasional inconvenient lorry. The one-lane road must make room for many.

This rather steep hill is so densely thicketed that it stays dark on even the sunniest of days. Although it is only a mile from the bus-stop at the top of the hill to our Barn at the bottom of the hill, my daughter has successfully argued that it is a hazardous journey.

She requires car service; unlike her mother, she doesn't enjoy a nice walk.

English winter, even when frosted, is monochrome.

My Moonwalk

Becky, Me, Karen and Judith (aka "Walking Partner")

We have just arrived at the event -- with four hours to go until official take-off.

Way back in the fall, when Walking Partner convinced me to train for the Moonwalk with her, I think that I secretly believed that the day would never come. Oh, sure I will walk 26 miles with you in the middle of the night. Sounds like fun!

As I look at this picture, I can clearly remember feeling gripped by anxiety -- despite the game smile. The four of us had caught an early flight from Heathrow to Edinburgh, done a bit of shopping, eaten a late lunch, attempted to nap, and finally made our way to the massive pink tent that served as official Moonwalk headquarters. From 8:30 pm to 11:30 pm, we had eaten vegetarian pasta, been treated to a neck and back massage, danced a bit of salsa, (well, that was just me), queued for the port-a-loos, and admired the creative genius and exhibitionistic daring of 12,000 women and men -- most of whom were wearing nothing on their top half but a decorated BRA. Flowers, ladybugs, fried eggs, birds in a nest, bagpipes, and numerous sequined and feathered concoctions were among the many interpretative possibilities. Overall, the display reminded me (once again) that I am one of the least creative and most cold-natured persons currently dwelling in the UK.

In case you weren't aware, the Moonwalk raises money for breast cancer research. Some bright spark lit on the clever idea of having the participants compete in their bras . . . a gimmick that certainly draws the crowds. Although we were wearing our bras throughout, I will freely admit that a t-shirt (and a hooded sweatshirt) covered my bra for the duration of the event. (Even in June, Scotland is COLD!) Only this picture preserves our brief moment of bra-very.

(Check out Becky's tan! That was from Sports Day!!)

By the time we actually started walking, just before midnight, we were feeling pretty cold and tired. Thankfully, a surge of adrenalin got us fired up again. (Truly it is impossible to explain the anticipation and excitement one feels when massed with so many costumed others.) At the very beginning, Judith and I "lost" Karen and Becky -- who had, shall we say, such a "laidback" attitude to the event that they were drinking pink champagne on approximately Mile 19. My competitive spirit, previously unknown to my Walking Partner, carried me through a great many miles. (I'm sorry to say that I took great pleasure in vaulting ahead of other walkers. Yes, I know that it wasn't really a race.)

Unobservant at the best of times, I retain only the vaguest sense of where we walked or what we saw. At times, the narrowness of the road, the darkness, and the crowded conditions meant that I kept my eyes mostly trained on whatever was likely to trip me up. At the darkest bit of the night, we walked around a great hilly mound and I remember seeing swans. It was rather eerie and peaceful -- quite a contrast to walking down the Royal Mile, where we were surrounded by cheering crowds on both sides. I was conscious of not giving very good value to the voyeurs, as I strolled by in my t-shirt, but happily we were walking by a young man who was a real crowd-pleaser -- and we benefited from his reflected glory. Not only was he wearing a bright pink wig, but he also had a sort of conical bustier (think Madonna on the Like a Virgin tour) which was adorned with flashing "fairy" lights. (Fairy lights would be the correct "technical" term here; I cast no aspersions on his character or sexual persuasion!)

Although I would have remembered this young man anyway, our brief acquaintance on Miles 4 and 5 blossomed into a walking partnership by Mile 15. At this point, he had lost both wig (scratchy!) and walking partner (bum knee), and so our duo become a trio. Named "Bayne" -- a family name, he assured us -- all I could think of was the obvious potshot of "you are the bane of my existence." Even chattier than I am, Bayne semi-annoyed WP by personally thanking every single volunteer who had showed up to cheer us on, hand out water bottles and warn us of oncoming traffic. Poor Bayne: He obviously felt that his life's objective was to defy the dubious legacy of his name! As one people-pleaser can certainly recognize the traits of another, I had nothing but sympathy for him. Also, he really made me laugh.

Bayne and I had an ongoing joke about "catching Bunny" -- and this bit of silliness carried us through most of the last 10 miles. The "Bunny" in question was wearing bunny ears, of course, and always seemed to be just ahead of us -- just out of our reach. Every time we threatened to catch up with her, she would start running to catch up with her own (really fast!) walking partner. It made us feel rather like greyhounds who can never quite catch the mechanical rabbit who spurs them on. The funny thing about Bunny is that she had quite a large backside, and it seemed to move in a rolling motion that was counterpoint to the rest of her body. (WP found it deeply mesmerizing.) When I offered up that Bunny had a lot of "junk in the trunk," I discovered that this particular bit of hip-hop lingo was a foreign language to my walking partners. Wherever you are, Bunny, I've got nothing but RESPECT for you.

My favorite bit of the walk was in the middle -- when we were walking down by the sea. The sun came up around 3:30 am, and it was so beautiful to see the streaky dawn sky reflected in the water. (As you can see, I've got my own "bunny tail" -- that crumpled silver ball is supposedly a high-tech blanket.)

The first 20 miles were relatively easy, so I was surprised to discover that the last 4 miles were, well, tortuous is a word that comes to mind. I felt like nothing but sheer willpower, Bayne's good natured joking, WP's consistent lead on me, and a small handful of peanut M&M's kept me going for the last hour.

Unfortunately, the last two miles of the walk were uphill and decidedly "urban" in smell and scenery. Our hotel was in the same insalubrious area, known as the "Pubic Territory" (Edinburgh's version of the Red Light District, apparently), according to our taxi driver. Although it was tempting to take the shortcut straight back to the hotel, we persisted to the finish line to get our "medals." WP figures that our official race time was 6 hours and 33 minutes. Quite respectable, really. Although we had to hobble back to the hotel, and stop briefly for me to heave, we were having toast and tea by 7 am. Coincidentally, it is the same meal that you are served after giving birth in the UK.

As with childbirth, it has taken me several days to feel normal again. Even though we found the energy to shop for several hours on Monday, and drink two of the most delicious margaritas I have tasted outside of Texas, I experienced a near total collapse yesterday. (Delayed reaction, perhaps? Or just my body's natural defense mechanism against the threatening piles of laundry and to-do list stuff?) However, I did manage a "gentle" walk of four miles or so this morning, and discovered that I have, indeed, recovered the full use of my limbs.

Just like I never thought that the walk would actually have to be walked, I now have a similar feeling of disbelief that I DID actually walk the walk. The whole experience feels rather surreal, actually. But then a lot of life feels that way . . .

I suppose that's why you get a medal. So you know you've been there.

Moonwalk postscript: The only blister I ended up getting was from that bloomin' bra!

Moonwalking

I'm off to Edinburgh for the Moonwalk . . . (wish me luck!)

On Top of the World

As requested, a "piccie!"

(But sadly, not a very impressive one.)

Here are the Walking Partner and I on top of Uffington Castle on the Ridgeway.

Am I missing something? I thought that the "castle" bit was the stone remnant that we are almost completely blocking . . . despite the fact that neither of us is taller than 5"6. Please tell me if I'm being dim-witted.

One funny thing about this picture is the difference in our walking garb.
Check out the English person with her shorts and sleeveless top.
Note how the native Texan has not yet found it necessary (despite having covered more than 12 miles at this point) to remove her red fleece!!

Walk the Walk

(Frankly, I think that I'd rather talk the talk.)

Some of you are aware that I've been training for the Moonwalk for a couple of months now. Back in the fall, my walking partner suggested that we commit ourselves to this physical challenge -- and, oh well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Several friends of mine have had breast cancer, and one dear friend recently died from it. So despite the fact that I tend to think of 4 or 5 miles as plenty of exercise, I had a blithe belief that I was going to be able to walk 26.2 miles for Breast Cancer Research. I didn't really stop to add up how many hours of walking that actually is . . . or how many hours I would have to walk before I was ready to take on the big event.

Well, friends, today I walked for FIVE HOURS . . . and I was reminded, once again, why I have a moderate disposition when it comes to pretty much anything.

One hour of exercise per day is a good thing: it gives you a shot of endorphins, it tones your body and mind, and it enables some excesses when it comes to baked goods. Two hours of walking is fine; three is okay; at four, I start getting weary; but after five hours I am sore in all kinds of places, I need to go to the bathroom, my bottle of water is only a distant memory, and I am very, very bored of walking. Even if the scenery is beautiful -- and believe me, we had some beautiful scenery -- I grow immune to its charms. Five hours of anything is just too much. If you can do anything for five hours, and not get a little fretful, please let me know.

Luckily, I have a good walking partner -- and not only does this person understand that she has to be firm with me, and listen to a fair amount of whining from my corner, but as an extra bit of cajolery, she also plans interesting routes for us to walk. Today, we walked along the Ridgeway -- more than 80 miles of "ancient chalk ridge," which is thought to be the oldest "road" in Great Britain. By "road," think chalky, rocky path -- most of which seems to be going uphill, although I know that's an impossibility. There is an "upside" to walking uphill, though, and in this case it is a stunning view of great yellow and green swathes of Oxfordshire countryside. The whole country looks like a living, blooming quilt. At the highest point, we visited the ancient ruins of Uffington Castle -- not much to look at now, but rather awe-inspiring to think how long it has stood in that place. As with many ancient places, a strong, chilling breeze seemed to blow there . . . but perhaps it was just that high plateau, catching the winds.

In all of those hours of walking, we saw only three other humans -- but lots and lots of wildlife. We skirted the edges of Lambourn, serious horse country, and from our perch we could see several pairs of horses at a full gallop. We crossed through Sheepdrove Organic Farm (check out the interactive farm map) -- and saw hundreds of what must be the most contented sheep on the planet. These sheep were the very definition of fat and happy; all of them either lounging or lazily munching on the soft, emerald-green grass. We walked down woodland paths, and byways for horses and cattle, and grassy tracks that the wild flowers and cow parsley were doing their best to reclaim. We walked and walked, for once not having to dodge cars and transit vans which are our usual companions of the road. (It was a little hard on the ankles, though.)

As far as the eye can see, for miles and miles, there is nothing but carefully tended farmland and the protected downland. It is truly stirring to think how little the land has altered in the centuries, and that the ancient Saxons had trod the same paths -- although not with the same purpose!

It was, indeed, a beautiful walk . . . and I would be happy to do it again. However, on the next occasion I will limit the walk to 5 or so miles -- and make sure that my route deadends at that nice pub in East Hendred.

May Day Magic

Although I am a self-proclaimed city girl, even I do succumb to the beauties of nature around this time of year.


We have had a miserably wet week so far, but today the clouds parted long enough to let my Walking Partner and I get in a 10 miler. You can see our route if you wish -- from Marlston to Bucklebury to Stanford Dingley to Yattendon to Frilsham and then back to Marlston -- but you will just have to imagine the hills, the forest, the dappled light, the looming dark clouds, and the narrow country roads. There was mud, yes, but at least it was confined to the road and not dripping down our necks!


The cherry and apple trees must be gorging on all of the cold spring rain, because the trees look full to bursting with pink and white blossoms. Blossom time is so ephemeral -- for some trees, only 10 days or so -- and I want to soak up the sight! If only it would last . . .


My WP is highly attuned to the natural world, and as we walk she points out cowslips, a swooping red kite, tiny violets, the petals of a wild strawberry plant, and all of the animal babies -- calves, lambs, and piglets -- who have just staggered into the world. Much of our route is heavily forested, and the bluebells seem to be in every shaded spot. They are enchanting -- just as the snowdrops were before them. If you want to really see some of the glories of an English spring, visit "A Walk in the Bluebells."


I have been fretting a lot about the environment, and trying to compose a post about issues which frighten and confuse me, but today I just want to acknowledge that pagan urge to celebrate fecundity . . . and beauty of the earth renewing itself.