#One Week - Summer '14 - South Then North

First there was The South.

Figs in honey. Bresola and salami. Green olives and nutty bread. Pain au chocolat every morning on the sunlit terrace. Ah, The Provence. The bright waxing moon shone silver tongues on lapping waters, cast shadows through palm leaves overhead. My girl in the swimming pool, with arm bands, then without. So many of her family there; mummy, daddy, granny, aunts and uncles. Took it by turns to play pirates in the deep end, or holding her hand, jumping off the edge, making huge frothy splashes. What a joy to watch her confidence in the pool. And I rediscovered diving, swam fifty lengths every other day. Even the yoga mat was subjected to an occasional downward dog in the late afternoon heat. Simple postures, focused on the breath. And evenings spent listening to the cicadas in the trees, their incessant buzzing an electric circuit, jamming the air with their currents. Insect bites, large and swollen, on ankles and calves. The little one late to bed with a smile and satisfied sigh...  

A feast of mussels in white wine sauce. A string of mustard lights hanging slack between two boughs like a clown's smile. A hammock made for a long read. On days the air stood still, the surface of the swimming pool was as still as glass, the bottom paved in mosaic tiles, sloping deeper and deeper below. I laid the dinner table in taupe coloured clothes, added little glasses with flowers hand picked from the garden. Each night a different couple cooked a sumptuously simple dish. A fresh fish or a hunk of steak.

To my dismay, I'd forgotten verbs and nouns and tenses. Now I dearly wished to speak the language again, get by at the very least. Le singe est dans l'arbre... Fresh bread with a slice of tangy comte or a mild sheep's cheese. A flute of delicate rose. The never ending Sunshine. We didn't want to leave...

And then there was The North.  

A road trip. Just me and her. To visit grandma in a little market town on the North Yorkshire border. And how lovely to revisit home turf, it had been an age after all. The sweeping hills and pale Yorkshire stone. Grandma laid on some special comforts; chocolate rice crispy cakes, meat loaf and strawberry crumble. This the first time my girl acquainted herself with the new(ish) additions; two rag doll cats, one called Macho, the other Maisy. Both very, very fluffy. Macho was so amenable, so easy, the floppy thing. He didn't mind a four year old's constant attention; being picked up under his front legs, dragged from room to room like a marionette. Meanwhile, Maisy, wholly terrified, scarpered underneath every available chair.

We took a trip to adventure park. Found ourselves lost in the maze, retracing our steps, a hapless sense of direction. 'Come on,' she said. 'It's this way, I know it is, follow me.' And she was right. Clever girl. Then a walk avoiding determined rain drops in the enchanted forest. A tree with chiming notes. A damsel in distress. A witch's empty cauldron. And the following day we spent a delightful afternoon in the company of my God mother. Plates piled high with smoked salmon sandwiches, homemade malt bread, moist elder flower sponge, raspberry brownies and strawberries coated in chocolate. And of course, a proper pot of Yorkshire brew. What a delicious treat.

We shared a double bed in grandma's spare room, my girl and I. I think my fondest memory of the entire summer was climbing under the duvet, turning on the bedside light, and her arm curling around my stomach as I read the final chapters of The Goldfinch. A sleepy voice half-whispered, I love you Mummy...        

This is the second day of my One Week series. Due to the amount of work involved, I've decided not to run this series as a linky anymore, but please feel free to join in if you want to...

A Little Relief

It's the morning after. I'm tired. So darn tired. And the car's movement is making me more sleepy.

'...and this is the order of the day,' he continues at the wheel, 'we're going to test drive (this car) and (that car), and (this car) is brilliant and it's got (this) and (that) and (all this other stuff), and I can't wait to try (that car), it's completely electric, just like a toy...'

'Uh huh.' I look out of the car window, blinking at the sunshine. The flowers lining numerous front gardens merge forming seamless lines of colour; red and yellow, and orange and purple. I feel quite dizzy. And my head is mulling over the last 48 hours. Or I should say it can't escape immediate history. I am not very present. I am one of those merging flowers.

The memories are random and shoot like darts. Wine at 11.30 am. The Wensleydale on sticks. The straps of a new bra digging into my shoulders. The faces. The numerous hello's. But not enough time. The amazing discovery that jeggings are really rather comfortable. And the not-so-small matter of winning an award. It hasn't sunk in. I am still in shock. I remember shaking. I remember squeezing the hands of two close blogging friends. I remember saying s**t and thank you into the microphone. I remember all the hugs. I remember the celebratory curry. But most of all I remember the aftermath; sitting dazed on the end of the bed in the hotel room, responding to tweets, watching fireworks pop and sparkle and cascade through the opened window.

But one word forms at the core of my thinking. Enough. And another. Overwhelmed. And more follow, stringing themselves together like spaghetti. You've earned it. It's time to step back. You need to reassess. One of the things I enjoyed the most about Britmums Live this year was sitting outside underneath a colourful canopy of soft artificial flowers. There were flowers in wellington boots and flowers in watering cans hanging from the clear ceiling. It gave the conference a festival feel, especially with the wine and cake. And being in this space gifted me a quiet moment to reflect. I've been writing this blog for three years now. What now? Where next?

I've been forging plans. To do's for the house renovation. Lists for the summer; fun activities, the reduction of piles of admin neglected in the paperwork basket. In the months ahead, I want to read and work on my novel. I want to spot faces in puffy July clouds and water the over growing flowers. I want to spend time listening to the blackbird's charming song. But most of all I want to spend an uninterrupted summer with my daughter; it's about me and her before she begins reception this September. So I have decided to take a two month break from blogging and social media. I will probably check-in here and there, and I do intend to continue reading my favourite blogs, but I may not comment as much as I usually do (sorry). My head and heart needs this. I will be back in September with #oneweek; I fancy one last cycle, one final hurrah.

It feels a relief writing the last line of this post.

Thank you to everyone who reads Older Mum in a Muddle, and for all your lovely comments and support. Have a wonderful summer!

Tears in Welsh

Tap. Tap. Tap.

'Does that hurt?'

'Uh-uh.'

Tap. Tap. Tap.

'Does that hurt?'

'!!**!!'

The sea was most days so noisy. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine it, what else it might sound like. But it sounded just like the sea, rough and tumbling and bubbling. Behind me lay a protective bank of pebbles that stretched the length of the beach. Blue stones. Purple stones. Cream stones. Some with lines, some mottled with spots. Piles and piles of muted colours. We collected the shells she and I, tiny things of mauve and palest green. On the days of rain, it was hard distinguishing between sea and sky. Both heavy. Both grey. But one choppy with temper; surfers falling away from their boards, breaking the illusion of continuity between water and air.

'F**k,' I said holding the hot water bottle to my cheek. 'F**k. F**k. F**k. Then the outcry. Then the tears. Everything felt like agony. Hot. Cold. The bumps along the road on our way to the emergency appointment. The dentist prodded and poked, his instruments, precise and clinical, laid out like a silver army on the trolley. 'You have a deep pocket,' he said, 'full of bacteria.' 'Uh-uh,' I said with his finger stuffed inside my cheek. It might have to come out was his prognosis, gave me a prescription for antibiotics and painkillers, sent me on my way, 'see your dentist as soon as you get home.'

It still hurt. A lot. Stabbing and intense, like boulders cracking thick ice. Wednesday night I couldn't sleep, was sat up-right in bed rocking backwards and forwards like a child, my arms wrapped around my chest, my jaw hung slack like the open cavity of a basking shark. By 3 am I'd had enough. I pulled the covers aside, climbed down the stairs. I watched a lame movie on the ipad, rocking without thought in the leather chair. Dawn appeared, the first I'd seen in many, many years; the sun like a fresh orange over the hills, the tide ebbing, quiet behind the window, shy and sleepy. Covering the nearby field was a sheen of dew kisses like a blanket of candy floss. I wondered how satisfying it would be to run barefoot in that grass, feel the cool against my ankles. I held my hand against my cheek, watched gulls flying in pairs, heard the crows echoing inside the chimney in the cottage next door. Anything to distract me. How could tooth ache be so all consuming? Reduce me to this? Crawling the walls. And at this time in the morning FFsakes?

Hooray for Younger Dad who looked after her; built sand castles during the day, told her stories before bed. I hardly saw her during our week long stay on the Pembrokeshire coast. Too tired, in bed, not joining in. So I attempted sleep in the spare twin in her room, anything to feel close to her, hear her movement and breath. Each day she appeared with more colour in her cheeks. Each day she gave me one of her gentle hugs.

We left two days early. 'Poor Mummy has a really hurty tooth,' she said. 

And now I need a holiday.

Winter Sun

'Mummy, don't be afraid, flying is fun.'

And when I looked out of the window, down below seemed very, very far down indeed; shades of weak tea brown, white spots, threaded black lines. Over a Spanish mountain range I thought I saw a giant alligator etched in its peaks. Shapes in the earth, not in the clouds. I was nervous. Over an hour in I was still wearing the seat belt. This was my first flight since the honeymoon. It didn't matter then, it was just Younger Dad and me. Now there was Little A to consider; all week I'd worried about the plane crashing, that sequence from Flight on auto replay, over and over. I couldn't be sure if the pilot steering our plane - flight something, something, something, bound for Lanzarote - had the same skills as Denzel Washington.

How would I save Little A?

And I wasn't ready to die. My novel wasn't finished, not even the first draft.  

On the toilet, the plane hit turbulence; one hand clung to the sink, an elbow propped against the opposite wall. Balanced. Just. I couldn't concentrate, that annoying ping-pong sound and red - red for danger - image of the seat belt sign.

I returned to my seat shaken. Certainly not soothed.

'Don't worry Mummy, it's just a bit bumpy.'

And if in panic, boiled travel sweets are the best remedy by far. Half the tin had disappeared by the time the plane circled over the volcanic land of seal skin grey. Welcome to Espana.

Lanzarote is made for moon people. If you took a small jump, you might float in the air, weightless. The villages - tightly clustered, their low lying white buildings brightly off set by their dark, arid surroundings - like the out postings of an interplanetary mission. There is an other worldly beauty and grace here, empty of complication, naked, a severity of truth.

We stayed on the blustery north east coast in an eco retreat, a finca, consisting of varying sized yurts and villas. Ours was a family villa originally converted from an old water tank. The lounge housed the most ornate day bed. In fact, throughout the entire property such exquisite detail had been paid to all the decoration and furniture. There was a donkey called Molly, and well over a dozen chickens, their fresh egg yolks like baby suns.  

I didn't write. Instead, I read, flopped in the sunshine, enjoying the simplicity of words, or I spent precious time with my family, burying our feet in cool, wet sand, splashing about in the water with Little A. The temperature was perfect, like an English summer's day; it was the end of November, winter, and the time of year didn't seem real. On the afternoon of my birthday, we paid a visit to a Cactus Garden set in a circular walled enclosure. Hundreds of varieties. Aliens. Unsure of the prickles, Little A admired the various forms and shapes and colours, 'that one's furry Mummy, a silly furry cactus.'

It was an easy holiday. We woke up late, spent most mornings in our pyjamas, the odd morning scrambling a bag of essentials together for a spot of sight seeing; the Timanfaya National Park was a favourite, Little A's face pressed against the window, jaw dropped, 'WOWSERS, look at the volcanoes Mummy and Daddy, they're AMAZING.'

The afternoon's were enjoyed either on a beach - not all the sand was midnight black - or by the pool side back at the finca,Younger Dad, his teeth clenched, taught Little A how to swim in the not so solar heated water. I rediscovered the art of deep relaxation; a reflexology session and a yoga class kissed my worries away. I had forgotten, had become addicted to the tension held in every sinew and muscle. My body sighed with the release, the relief. And I remembered.

On the return flight home, I was too relaxed to care about dying.

And in the fortnight after we'd arrived home, I revived my yoga practise with gusto, and bought Little A her own mat, and DVD.

Breathe In. Breathe out...