A Whisper Away

It's that time of year again, that time when you can smell droplets in the air, when the bulbs have been planted, and the soil fixes on the lines in skin, in the heart line, and the life line, and underneath nails, dry and chipped. I feel viral. I feel tired. But I have seen a russet moon, the colour of a dog's tongue.

Summer is being covered in yellow leaves and toadstools over the lawn. Is it a toadstool or a mushroom or a fungus? I never know the difference, and the spores make my breath rasp, my chest yearn for inhaler. But it has disappeared, the heat, the longer days, and with that I'm fattening up on crumpets and cake, sausages and mash. Most things baked and fried.

I love all the colour, it's just all these damn colds.

And she, she is six weeks into year one. The stories. How so and so chased so and so. The ongoing battle of girls against boys. Who is marrying who. The grazed knees and the cut fingers. It's hard to keep up. She is happy, she has friends, and I am happy too. She is reading, she is eager to spell. When I write a letter to a friend, she must also write one too. Mummy, how do you spell birthday? Mummy, how do you spell friend? And now she has discovered a love of numbers, loves writing number sentences she says. 4+2 = 6. 15+3 = 18. I think she has her father's precise mind, he's an engineer, a lover of logic and solution. Where as I, well I'm not sure, my brain is.... I was branded unclassified in maths.

Her new thing is sewing. I draw the picture on the material, a shape, a butterfly, and she carefully eases the needle with the red thread through. Her stitches to begin with are a little erratic, set wide apart, and then she finds her flow following the pencil, finding the coordination in her hands. She prefers it to the IPad. She prefers it to Pinky Pie and Princess Twilight Sparkle.

Any clues to Summer have now faded from my face. The colour. The freckles. All gone. I look a little wan, a little waxy under the eyes. And I try pulling back the warmer days but even their memories are as pale as my skin. A holiday home - an old vicarage. An ancient town built on a hill. The harbour. The cobbled streets. The tea rooms. The back garden disappearing under lavender, under holly hocks, under fallen apples. The wonky floors and the old beams. A princess castle with a moat. A grand old house with old, old wall paper and the smell of dusty, unread books - the smell of history. Days on a beach over-turning shells, adding height to sandcastles, running from an incoming tide. A weekend spent with Granny, and an aunt in her new pub. And a few days in a forest lodge with dappled sunlight and roaming deer. The discovery that peacocks can fly and the gift of a fallen feather. A morning spent purifying in the steam of a Japanese salt bath and the eucalyptus of a Turkish Hamman... It all seems a whisper away now.    

And half term is around the corner. She has a new coat and new wellies. The zip on my coat is broken. And the winds are coming and so is the rain. One last mow of the lawn. One last pruning back of the shrubs and the clemetis overgrown.

I have my light box switched on: I am galvanising myself for shorter days...

#One Week - Summer '14 - A New Rhythm

I did it. I gave Little A the best summer ever. Probably my greatest achievement this year, I think. We grew courgettes and tomatoes and sweetcorn. We even grew butterflies - bright red admirals - setting them free in the garden. One crawled up her arm, stretching its orange wings before it disappeared among the branches of the silver birch. A magical moment. And there was the festival, the holiday, and numerous play dates, and a brand new trampoline. But then, for me, there was also the tooth extraction. Not the tooth which had become infected back in June (and which I still haven't done anything about). No, not that one. The tooth directly above it. After a week of tender gums, the dentist declared that the crack in the tooth (what crack!?) was so bad, my poor tooth was beyond repair. So out it came, in pieces. I didn't feel a thing, only tugging; not unlike having a c-section. 'Do you want to keep your tooth?' she asked. 'Er, no,' I replied. Little A was subjected to the entire medieval procedure, but she found it fascinating, and afterwards incessantly requested view after view of the bloodied gap in my mouth. Nice. 'Wow,' she gasped, 'it's huge!' This has categorically not been a good summer for my dentures.

And I did it (again). I had a wonderful two month break away from blogging and most of social media. What a breath of fresh air. When I had the chance, I worked on my novel and read a good book (or two). The most relaxed I've felt in a long while. And happy. I saw my life from a different perspective, reevaluated my priorities, and I made a promise to myself; that upon my return in September I was going to spend a lot less time on the likes of Twitter and Facebook, and blogging. Oh I will still continue to write posts, just not as often as before, or just when the urge really takes me. I need to focus on my other writing aims (or I'll never get them finished), and there just aren't enough hours in the day....

Still, it's great to be back.

This is the final 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... Thank you for reading!

#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...

#One Week - Summer '14 - Outdoors.

One lone portaloo. Bright blue among nature's greenest. The only amenity in a field of rough, overgrown grass and dense nettles; tall thickets that sprang with the sudden jolt of whooshing geysers. And the loo was barely a beacon of hygiene; an anti-tardis of function, an-almost-merger of sink and lavatory, and a roll with the thinnest stretch of muddied paper. I began to cry. I want to go home. I don't like this. T'was also a certain time of the month. Not the ideal context for a night in rural Buckinghamshire. We need to do this, Younger Dad urged, this is the tent test for two weeks time. Oh God.

In the adjacent field was a cricket pitch with a small white pavilion on the farthest side, and tucked behind the ageing shack was an ever-so-slightly-more-refined toilet. The paper was damp. A tap didn't work. The mirror was cracked and broken. And curiously, a neon pink loom band lay unused and forgotten under the browning sink on the broken tiles of the floor. I closed my eyes, brushed my teeth, determinedly focused on the sweet, sweet aroma of falling dew beyond the gaps in the flaking door. I am fine. I can do this. It'll be fun!  

The fire wood was too damp. All smoke, no flame. So Younger Dad gave up fanning the tentative sparks, and the bag of marshmallows remained unopened. She was too excited to sleep. She clutched my hand at every strange nocturnal sound. A bat's high-pitched cry. Wind rasping through the branches. A fire works display beyond the hills in Henley. Boom. Boom. Boom. But as it went, I slept so soundly and when I took those first fresh breaths the following morning I decided that camping wasn't so bad after all.

...and fourteen days later we arrived at the festival. I wrapped bunting around the tent, hung solar lanterns above the entrance; a canny reference point for our temporary home. Around us there were bell tents and tee pees and palatial domes and flags and fairy lights and children tearing around in face paint, chasing the tails of escaping balloons and the path of tipsy butterflies. And in the family field where we'd pitched, to my delight, a yoga tent, and, and... flushing toilets and hot comforting showers (even though the queue was longer than a blue whale). The air smelt good and clean and delicious, of bubbles popping and BBQ's sizzling.

Over those three days of music, literature and laughter something reawakened. Was it the sunshine on my brow or the way it warmed the nape of my neck - the touch of a small downy feather - as an author read from her novel? Was it the tug of war of bass, my auditory canals spoilt for choice - which stage was it going to be? Daryl Hall singing I can't go for that... (the saxophone solo that felt like rippling silk, and tasted of butter-soaked crumpets and melted chocolate)? Trying to decipher the words of Kate Tempest, so in awe of her boundless spirit and passion? Was it watching my girl fly down the helta-skelter, her face lighting up at The Cat in The Hat, the way she created a fairy wand from stickers, twisting and moulding it until she found the correct shape? Or how the wind whipped up before the storm? The lightning colouring the sky in flashes of burnt orange and the deepest purple, the rain beating heavy rhythms on the nylon canvas and bouncing off the grass? Or was it the simple observation that at a festival the English stop being so very English; no one minds the changeable weather or claggy mud - we stop frowning, and finally start smiling....

.... it was all of the above, all rolled into one sweet wrapper of experience. I laughed over my hysteria with the lone portaloo, realising how easy it all was, and how enjoyable; why had I flustered so much? I'd caught a sense of wonder and adventure I'd not experienced since before Little had arrived, when I'd cycled everywhere and spun records at parties in the mountainous foothills of southern France. Life. This was what it was all about. Spontaneity. Creativity. Freedom. The big, big outdoors.... the stuff of childhood I want her to remember, to always be enchanted by....

This is the first 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...

#One Week - Summer '13 - Not Vintage. Just Good.

I've returned from a holiday. Seven days and seven nights. It's never enough. I need more time... More sunshine. More sunsets. Ankle deep in warm waters and sands as fine as golden breadcrumbs. I'm not in shape for Autumn. After only two months of visible sun, the stock pile of vitamin D is low. I could do with an Indian Summer - a complimentary burst of happiness. One last hurrah.

It could have been the Algarve. It wasn't. We were in England. Lounging on The Lizard. And Carbis Bay was a delight. Palm trees. Clotted cream. Daily triple chocolate ice cream. An open view of St Ives and flat, turquoise seas from the decking.

But Little A was in a grump. Insistent whining. She just pushed and pushed....

"What's up Little A? What's upsetting you?" I asked kindly as we walked down a slope towards the beach.

"You're upsetting me mummy... you're annoying me."   

"How am I annoying you?"

"All you do is go blah, blah, blah."

Pardon? What had my three year old just said to me? Blah, blah blah?

Her cheek was out of the ordinary. I knew it, and I knew what it was. Anxiety. Apprehension. The lack of structure over the summer. That Younger Dad would be returning to working away from home the following week.

Little A has had a landslide of change thrust upon her this year. A new home. A new school. Younger Dad's absence five days a week - Sunday evenings regularly infused with bedtime dramas. And if she needs a target for her confusion, I will happily play the bulls eye to her angry darts, reassuring her that all is well in her world.

This summer has notched up a tally of new experiences.

Play dates with friends (that's Little A, not me).

An ant invasion. An army of pesky crawlers over the hallway and kitchen work tops, found behind cereal boxes, on top of the microwave, in between supermarket coupons. Younger Dad enticing them with noxious, sweet, sticky stuff. Then one day, they were gone.

Wasps. A first sting. Little A screaming for her Daddy. A remedying cocktail of vinegar and anti-histamine. Soft cuddles from Grandma and Mummy.

A little wooden garden house. Painted in sea grass and holly. A new secret hide-away. Home to special treat tea times and clandestine talks with teddies and rag dolls.  

A very steamy stroll through the rain forest biome at the Eden Project. Electric blue butterflies gliding like gulls.

I have salvaged a forgotten garden. Grown courgettes. Courgette tart, grilled courgette, chopped courgette in salad. Have harvested half a dozen plump ripe tomatoes. Charmed strawberries, lettuce and sweetcorn.

And such precious time with Little A, a budding comedian and philosopher....

"Mummy we have to drink lots of water or our pee-pee will turn like Daddy's beer."

"When someone dies they go to the moon and stars."

And at last, she has reverted back to addressing me as Mummy again. Answering to my first name was starting to grate....

I took my blogging hat off over the summer and put my novelist's boots on. The words came marching out. I am not the fastest of writers, but I am pleased to say that I have now written thirty thousand words of Four Gigs. Getting there. And this weekend I am going to a three day Writer's Festival in York. I can't wait but I'm so very, very nervous as well #goingonmyown. Wish me luck!

I guess it's time to close the curtains on summer. The heating's already on. I've already worn the first woolly jumper of the new season. Summer 2013 was a good one. Not vintage I don't think. Just good. And that will do for me.


This is the third and final day of the seasonal linky One Week. I wanted to say a big, big thank you to all those lovely bloggers who joined in, and those who commented, and tweeted, in support of this project.

One Week will return this autumn 18-20 November. Get your cameras at the ready and imaginative hats on! For more details about One Week, take a gander here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full three days...

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#One Week - Summer '13 - In Full Bloom

I think I am forgetting.

May be I have forgotten?

What it's like to be young(er).

I can barely see my twenties, faintly sniff my early thirties, but fully taste my forties. Oh I'm gorging on middle age alright, fat and full on lattes and chocolate fingers. I've swapped clubbing and guest lists for weeding the borders and a vegetable patch. Hundreds of records lay piled in storage, their place taken by giant sized jigsaws, miniature tea sets, organza princess frocks, and boxes of glitter and pipe cleaners and glue.

And a walk down Brick Lane with a good friend one warm July evening sealed the deal. We were misfits among the younglings, their ironing board stomachs, their kicker-length dresses. Oh the curry was good. The curry was wonderful. An in-the-know curry house down a side street. Prawn Pathia (no 52.). Tarka Dhal (no 83, as a side). Tiger Beer (cool, straight from the fridge). For the first time, I didn't feel part of a London jigsaw. All the pieces were in place elsewhere. Snug. Watertight. I was an outsider looking in, a suburban creature now, petunias and lobelia hanging from garden baskets.

But do I care? Do I really care? Actually no, not one minuscule jot. I always thought I'd spin vinyl forever, hearing aid on, false teeth floating in a glass beside the 1210's. So glad it won't turn out this way. I became a mother. Anxious, terrified, hormonally insane. Fragile. The meniscus formed on water. But over time, the edges levelled and rounded. I greeted the hidden notes, I met myself, all the shitty narrative. Acceptance. I discovered love without limit. My skin was safe, a good place to be.

I am in full bloom. Not the brilliant petals of a young flower, they belong to years gone by. My cells are dry and sagging. No, I'm like an ageing sunflower head, one you might find at August's end. Hundreds of seeds. Dark grey and tear shaped. Ripe with insight, with purpose. I'm getting the gist of this middle aged lark. Now is the time of harvest, when originality might finally find place, and shine. I am both neurotic and at peace with myself. And this makes me smile...


This is the second day of the seasonal linky One Week. From Monday till Wednesday, I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of summer '13. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full three days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter, and comment on each others posts...

Badge Code ...

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#One Week - Summer '13 - The Zen of Washing

...And so I stared at the naked notepad in front of me, then to the calendar, then back to the white pages. How was I going to fill the six weeks ahead of me? A list. I had to make a list. An itinerary of entertainment. Visits to farms. Visits to parks. Play dates...

We had busy days and slow days, and not-putting-on-clothes-till-gone-lunch time days.

And what was the common thread that wove together the full and the empty?

Why the washing line of course.  

I finally have a washing line. Not even since the days of my mother's whirligig. It stretches from a grey pole at the front of the garden to the fence at the back. This line has become a ritual steeped in yoga. Everything slows down pegging up the knickers and socks. There are wooden pegs and pink pegs and blue pegs. I use two pegs for shirts, three for bed sheets, one for bras. There's something undeniably satisfying when the washing dries in the blink of an eye. Then, the smell of air dried, sun-kissed clothes. Perfect.

No, I am not a fifties housewife; but I have discovered a middle way, a slice of zen, in watching Younger Dads boxer's waft in the breeze, or the way the arms of his upturned checked shirts swing like those of lazy monkeys.

My washing line. A not so subtle social commentary. Here's what it says about us. Father. Mother. Child. That I wear too much blue. That Little A has the best socks. The garden across hangs uniform rows of dark socks or plain white shirts. To my mind, that says corporate worker bee. Clock in. Clock out. What my line doesn't reveal is lover of cheesecake, and writer, and listener, and friend.

My washing line. A transparent narrative in the art of obsession. When I dress the line, I am clothing a body from top to bottom. First Younger Dad's shirts, the hanging monkeys, followed by t-shirts and trousers, underwear and socks; all dangling over the wooden play house. Little A passes the pegs. We make our way up the lawn item by item, the odd drunken butterfly, tissue winged and white,  looping towards the buddleia nearby. I don't like to muddle the order of clothes. Visually, it would look plain wrong. A row of broken teeth. Jagged and disjointed. I prefer a smooth graduation, from long trouser legs to size-eight-little-person socks. A flow respecting an order in height.

The bedclothes are an entirely different story, one told every Thursday morning. The duvet covers and bed sheets divide the garden in two, hiding the borders and the gravel pathway. When they're dismantled, I'm a magician reuniting a pair of legs and a lonely torso. A garden conjured, complete again.

I love nothing more than unpegging the line at day's end, a calming marker, in company of mellow wood pigeons, shy rustling of silver birch, and the screaming children two doors down. I take pleasure in folding the clothes, watching the pile grow; a multi-layered cake. I roll Younger Dad's boxers into giant cigars, shove Little A's knickers down available spaces. And when it's completely full, the line bounces up with joy, a return to freedom; relieved from the weight of our family of three.


This is the first day of the seasonal linky One Week. Over the next three days (Monday till Wednesday) I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of summer '13. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full three days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter, and comment on each others posts...

Badge Code ...

<a href="http://older-mum.blogspot.co.uk/p/one-week.html" title="One Week"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8436/7807711152_5f912c7903_m.jpg" width="225" height="169" alt="one week" /></a>

Also joining in with....

Out to Lunch

Have you ever sat in a jar of marmalade? I have. These last few weeks. Sticky. My skin ripening, a pale orange tone. I have a sallow complexion, I like to think almost olive, although I suspect many Southern Europeans would laugh at that assertion.

The heat. I love the heat, the giddy temperatures, the smell of sun cream, lolly pops, chilled beer. And after such a shoddy spring, I can't bring myself to complain about the dial soaring past thirty-one degrees. I hope it continues long into September, when golden leaves shine like the sun, and I'm a shrivelled satsuma.

With all this ghastly summer stuff going on, I've barely been near this blog. Writing is very much an indoor pursuit. And the words ain't flowing with the sunshine.... it's like scratching sentences with a fork.

Today, Little A and I stood on a cliff, below the waves and a little boat made for two, across on the horizon, the very faint view of another coast line. A signpost lent next to our spot. It pointed in the direction of the far away land. It said 'Autumn Term'. So Little A and I must navigate ourselves through the summer sea - there will be calm, there will be storms, but we must work as a *captain-second mate team (*I am the captain) if we are to reach the other shore in one piece. There will be play dates and parks and butterflies and fairies and tea and cake and lazing and staring at the skies....

And with so much to enjoy and do, I am taking a much deserved break from Blogland over August. I simply want to sit back and relish the time with my family. The garden awaits. As does wonderful mummy-daughter time. There are my summer reads, brand new, stacked on the book shelf. And there is my novel..... the only written words these next six weeks.

I will return - if I can stay away that long - on 9th September with One Week which will only run for three days from 9-11 September as I am going to a Writing Festival, and actually, if I'm honest, I'm worried I've run out of ideas to extend it to the usual five days.....

So until we meet again, when the nights are drawing in, adieu and farewell.

XXX

Ps. I am also cutting back on my blog reading, so please don't be offended if I don't comment as often over the next month or so. I will be back!  

On Hold

The garden. It has pulled me from fug and haze. Saved me from tears and tantrums.

But therein lies a problem.

Beer. Sunshine. Alfresco dining. Strawberries and ice cream. Potting. Planting, Growing. Admiring.

There's been very little writing the past fourteen days.  

Every time I've stepped on the gravel, viewed the surrounding beauty, a tempting voice in my head coaxes my wallet, 'just one more pot - a small one along side those larger two would look perfect,' 'one more hardy shrub,' 'another flowering sage,' 'more lavender.' And then to the garden centre, my new, bestest hangout. Younger Dad has told me STOP. But I can't help myself. I have a store card. 10% off all plants. A free cup of tea. What's a girl supposed to do eh?

And it's not just flora. I've purchased garden stakes, a Buddha head, a fat stone hippo, a wooden wind chime. The latest buy, a garden table and chairs. Heaven help me....

Do you think I am indoors writing this? Mais non. 

I'm sat under the parasol, breathing in the air, blue sky, the hollowed harmonics of the wind chime, pinks, creams, mauve, electric blues. White lavender. Purple lavender. The feathery green acer, the russet red.

The spindly flowers of the tomato plant. The bright orange trumpets of the courgette - the way they suddenly open, then curl in, fingers entwined. The ripening strawberries. The fattening lettuce leaves.

I am so looking forward to a long lazy summer.

Social media is on hold. 

Good Times

It's a chilly Thursday morning, made worse by not quite dried hair. Even though it's tied in a loose knot, it still manages to send rippling waves of cold through my scalp, butterflying down my spine. So, I'm wearing a blue cardigan overlaid by a sleeveless jacket to offset the shivers. Our boiler, over aged, very tired, is on the blink. As too is my very ineffective hairdryer that's intent on blowing tepid air through my long, damp strands.

As I contemplate the sudden drop in temperature, inside and outside, and I wonder what Autumn has up her blustery sleeve, I realise I haven't told you about our recent Summer escape to the beautiful Lizard Peninsula, in South West Cornwall. I've hinted at it. But up until now, I haven't forged a blow by blow account. Don't worry, I shan't bore you with the tiniest grains of detail, just the highlights accentuated with a few pictures!

St Ives Harbour

Every year, thankfully, we manage to grab a week's break away from the walls of our two bed roomed flat. And every year, regretfully, we kick ourselves (that's Younger Dad and I) for not having taken two weeks instead - this year, probably more than any other. Have you ever been to Cornwall? Have you ever seen the abiding charm of the Lizard Peninsula? For me, other than the Lake District, it isn't like any other place in this country. Quiet, secluded, untouched. Beautiful, dramatic, undulating. The craggy coastline is dressed with golden sands, sculptured by hidden coves, decorated with tiny fishing villages, and sugar coated cottages. The landscape is unspoiled by tarmac and industry. Only fields and farmyards reign.

And as a child, The Lizard was the Summer destination, year, after year, with my parents and younger brothers. So it was a joy to return after nearly three decades. My memory, after all this time, still intact, held a vivid bygone portrait that accurately mirrored the present day. Nothing much had changed, apart from a better selection of ice lollies, and the lack of dubious role models - Punch and Judy anyone? ...

We feasted daily on Cornish ice cream (Little A introduced to the flavoured delights of chocolate, strawberry and hokey pokey honeycomb). We luncheoned on freshly baked pasties, Cornish Yarg, and plump apples. We Sunday roasted in a cliff top dining room overlooking the misty swell of the most southerly point of England. We ate locally caught fish and chips out of vinegary, salty, paper. And we scoffed three too many clotted cream teas; one afternoon, we found ourselves gorging on scones, piled chin high with jam and cream, in the front garden of a very hospitable farmer (she just happened to be selling homemade teas). The down side was that it attracted the unwanted company of determined, yet dozy, bees, and the unfortunate nostril pinching fragrance of manure, pigs, and chickens.

Little A thrived. She stroked miniature ponies. She watched cows being milked. She ran gleefully around and around the garden belonging to our holiday cottage, prodding snail shells, zig zagging after royal admirals. Sheltered under the leafy canopy of a giant rhubarb, she imagined the residents of a pair of antiquated gypsy caravans we'd discovered in the neighbouring meadow of a dairy farm. "Does the Gruffalo live in one of those tiny houses?" "Is this where Abney and Teal go on holiday?" She trekked up St Micheal's Mount, in a back pack, with Younger Dad. She built sandcastles, collected empty crab shells, hopped over baby waves. And she slept like a dream ...

Minack Theatre, Porthcurno

We revisited the hotel I stayed at when I was a child.  To my dismay, it was boarded up, paint peeling from the balcony windows, moss growing on the tennis court, the garden, wild and over grown. My mind threw flashes, recollective missiles, of times gone by. Aged nine, a tennis rookie, learning the ropes with Dad. Aged eleven, eating sweet cream cakes on the manicured lawn with mum. Aged thirteen, styled in a Frankie Says Relax t-shirt, pining after a boy ...

It was wonderful, liberating, not to feel the chains of my laptop for a week. I thought about my writing a little, the direction of my blog, the plot for a novel I have in mind (whether I am brave enough to pen my story is another matter). It was lovely to be away from the call of my inbox. I spent the days doing nothing much other than sightseeing, eating, and just spending quality time with my family; we played raucous games of 'moo, baa, meow,' as Younger Dad navigated the car cautiously down tractor wide lanes to our next port of call. On the beaches, I studied sand smoothed pebbles, and let myself melt, disappear, into the light buffeting of the on shore breeze and the reserved sound of waves gently breaking at low tide. I inhaled the present, and exhaled my worries, and for those five days I forgot about my higgeldy piggeldy life outside of Cornwall.

Good times ...

Mousehole Harbour

Such a wonderful holiday was had, albeit a fortnight ago, that I'm linking this post up with Reasons To Be Cheerful.