Generations of trauma.

 When I was about 9 years old, my family moved out from London to Kent.  I always feel that move added to my insecurities.  I loved London, I loved my friends in London, but my parents divorce had broken me.  To then take me away from everything I knew and transplant me,  felt like another brick in the wall kicked away.  At home I struggled, but I was happy at school.  So when I did the same thing to my son and risked him being exposed to a less tolerant world what was I doing. At the time I did not know and when I hear him speaking about the pain of racism that he suffered as a result.  Well.   

My parents probably moved me for a whole range of reasons, partly my step Dad's job, something to do with the breakdown in the relationship between my mother and her mother,  who I remained close to all her life.  The need in a way for the new family to find new ways forward, plus my mum was pregnant.  They are all good practical reasons for a parent to move, and I made good friends when we moved, it was a nice physical environment, in many ways you could argue I was happy.  My son talks about feeling unsafe in a pod cast he did recently.  I understand that more than he might expect.  Because of course I felt unsafe too.  As a child and as an adult.  My parents, all three of them, went through a war.  But whilst the war was happening, my father's parents divorced,  it was a difficult time for them all.  My father and his mother were incredibly close, but they were also scarred.  My mum's mum was perhaps tougher,  but my mum was separated from her beloved Dad.  Yet as an adult did not seek to see him as much as she could before his relatively young demise.  We are all complex beings and most of use will have some kind of trauma in our lives, so no wonder we pass a lot of that fear on.  As a woman too, the challenges of sexism, lack of opportunities, poor pay, single parenting etc, will add to the challenges and the complexities.  That I have got to 71 and am both still alive and able to provide for myself is a miracle, given the insecurities.  I have definitely not done it alone,  I am lucky I live in a country that has benefits.  I am a complete wimp, without that help I would not have survived.  Once or twice my brain has also helped, in that once or twice I had fairly well paid jobs, but I have also earned £2.50 an hour.  Later in life and totally unexpectedly I have been gifted things I did not expect to receive.  I was lucky I got a Council flat, but my son was born in a flat without a bathroom and one of the reasons I chose to move is because I genuinely thought living somewhere he could have his own room, was not a bad idea. I also thought, because of his asthma, living somewhere the air was better, was good for him.  I knew there was racism, but even in London he had been exposed to racism, probably more than he realises. Even members of my family had rejected me for having him.  The most beautfiul child and being in the world and people I loved rejected him.  I can't and couldn't protect him against racism because it was all around.  Yes, the north London bubble might have seemed a lot safer, but to some extent that is illusion.  The diversity of the area is better though and that helps, but he had racist teachers in London, but worse in Hertfordshire he had so many racist teachers and even worse a racist headmaster and when they let my son down, the Department of Education upheld their appalling activities and I could not protect him. 

He is now very much on his own journey, but my powerlessness against them, the racists, his distancing himself from himself and the family and becoming hard as a result,  his journey back to warmth and love and wholeness is a credit to him. It has taken some interesting twists and turns, some I have despaired at, there is virtually not a day I do not pray he is okay and safe, some make me bubble with joy.   Our kids are mostly very beautiful when they start out in life, they deserve love and happiness.  And if we could all feel safe and loved, what a huge difference that would make to the state of this world.  Too many children are exposed to early trauma, and that impacts everything.  I wish I had been able to help my son feel more secure.  And I think like most parents are haunted that I could not help more.  But also aware that he left home a long time ago and he is the special person he is because of the work he has done to heal himself.  

One of the reasons I know my Dad and his mum were very close, is the letters that he kept and which are part of my legacy from him.   They were written because my Grandma had gone to join the WAAF despite my Dad was still being at school.   My grandma, was a very good singer, I think my niece singer Emily Frances, must have inherited her talent in part from her.  My grandma, so the story goes had been a cleaner in the house of a neighbour and well, my Dad was the result and a shot gun wedding ensued. At the time of the letters though two things somewhat unexpected come through,, 1 her love for her husband 2, that she has left him in some fear and as a result of his behaviour.   I do not think I ever met my Granddad, but apparently my father never learned to drive, because his father had entertained himself by driving towards lampposts with his child in the car!  

So much I should have asked my father about his childhood, but did not!  Luckily he partially wrote his biography and I have these letters. Yesterday I went to the Imperial War Museum and I have mentioned the letters to them, I went with old school friends.  Despite all the intimate chats with them in our teens, I now realise I knew virtually none of the things they were going through emotionally, too wrapped up in my own world.  Many of them had fathers who had fought in the War and had experienced the most horrendous things as a result but it is only now we are sharing their stories with each other.  Their father's must have been older than mine, they both served, but they had also both got into university so whilst they went through military training did not fight.   However, they lived through the trauma and privations of the war.   Anyway I am rambling so time to stop for today.   I include this extract from one of the letters.  More to follow. 

1 Wing A Squadron 2 flights 

No 3 WAAF Depot Enrolment No. .2134414

Morecombe Lancs

My Dear Son

How grand to get your letter enclosed with Auntie Nin's. I had them given me this morning as Cpl was dismissing us until Monday morning 8.20 am. At first I quite thought it was just Aunties, as it was raining when we were dismissed I decided to wait until I reached my billet.  When I had removed most of my uniform my dinner was just before me, but my letters came. Gosh! How my  heart was lifted when I saw two letters and your writing.  Oh! my dear boy you give me so much to live for and get on with my job and what a job, I have never known so many jobs etc.  crowded in such short time.  Lectures, drilling, all the etiquette, and how to distinguish different officers etc. vaccination, inoculation, which by the way made us all very poorly for just over a day, having a feeling as if we had the flu and a very painful arm.  I made my mind up I would not let this worry me.  What still does worry me, very much is the gas test which we have to go through at different times at our station.  There are five groups in all, Fear Nose, Lung, Blister, Toxic, the D.M. sounds very frightening one can get depression, tightening chest, cough, smarting nose, headache, suicidal  tendancies, gums have pins and needles pain.    Now thank goodness I have got over the thought of putting me respirator on.   Now I must face the other and make the best of it like the rest, all I know there are thousands that have to go through it. At the moment we could do with two heads for we are always being told different things.  It wont be so bad when I get to my station.  They ask us where we live so that they can post us near home, so I told them both home, Essex and Sussex in the hope I will be a get a good stable position to see you and your Aunties anyway time will tell. 

Visitor, Imperial War Museum. 

Drained and sustained.

 Sometimes in life, things completely knock us for six, for example when I was defrauded. Some things you think you will never recover from, like the death of my son.  Some things you have to work on to recover from or some of the most important people in our lives will be lost to us.  For example for a couple of years after my father told me about his terrible will, I found it too painful to go to his house and see him there, but of course in the end the love one feels is more important than the hurt.  So I am sure I will recover from the latest distress.  But when one is thrown under the bus by someone very dear and then the blood is wiped down and you are told it does ot even exist, not only is it very painful but the anger has no where to go.  So I am sat in my room, just drained.    I have a migraine.   The injustice of being denied a voice, burns through me, but there is also the puzzle. I know I am only trying to help.  So why is everything I am saying being turned against me.  Yes I was triggered very, but when one is being denied a voice, when one has been lied to, misinformed and by someone in theory very dear to one, what is actually going on in that situation. Do they truly belieave I am the problem and the one to be concerned about, or do they know what they are doing is wrong, or involves misinformation. And like with my Dad, does it mean that this person's behaviour goes against everything they in theory believe in.  Definitely the relationship has been very damaged. My anger will get in the way of my love, their I do not know what, but they already distrust me and now seem to think my behaviour, is cause for more distrust.  I know I am so angry, I want to hurt the person concerned, but know that way would destroy everything.  But also I was trying to do things legally and properly and now I can't.  It probably does not matter in the long run, from the legal point of view, hopefully that is true, but something that started as me fully embracing someone's choices has now been turned against me.  No wonder I feel so ill.  Only time will tell. I suspect the future is more of the past an awkward mix of love and distrust.   I feel I have been gaslit by this person for most of their life, so really I just need to get on with my life and hope one day they may interrogate their conduct and understand things from my side for once.   My instinct is still to try and help but I do need to be more careful, because it is seen as interference and used rather than wanted.    It is sad though, very.  One wants people one loves in one life.  But you cannot force it.    (slight update,  person concerned still confuses me as everything does not quite add up but they have been in touch and tried to reassure me that despite that things are okay between us, which helps.) 

J and H heading to the Cathedral for lunch. 

When I am down I want to scream run away, lie in bed, eat.  But crying doesn't seem to come   In the end, I sooth myself by looking up potential holidays!  And as another friend has asked me to go on holiday that is what I will distract myself with if I can motivate myself, but first an unexpectedlly good holiday, that I enjoyed almost immeidately after Italy.  

Here be dragons

J used to live around the corner from me, but she and her husband moved about 7 years ago, built their own home and love living on the Suffolk/Norfolk borders.  She is as far as I am concerned an intrepid traveller, eg. overland to India in her youth, helping in Romanian orphanages and many trips to Africa. She is usually the driver for UK trips, however now does not feel up to it, so wanted me to help introduce her to trains.  The good news is she has survived that baptism.  I originally had thought we could do several places, but at her suggestion we agreed to stay in Lincoln for three nights. And she was right, there was plenty to do there and the three train and bus route from her house to there gave her the practice she needed.  We set out together, so that meant me going up to hers on the Sunday, and then retracing my steps a little bit to then go north, but it was fine.  With her for  company we landed up chatting to everyone on the train so that was fun and then when we got to Lincoln it turned out our hotel was right at the top of a very very steep hill.  She refused all help and was very relieved when it turned out I had picked a nice place for us to stay.  

Even song. 

Trains were a new experience for her but sharing a mostly new experience for me.  M in America had introduced me and years ago in Russia I had shared and of course with dorms I always share, but the full intense several days with someone I know has been a challenge in the past, mostly for the other person who quickly finds me annoying and with my shyness I was really worried. This time I am glad to say it mostly worked. We both needed an afternoon nap at the same time and were comfortable together much of the time.  And in fact I really enjoyed having company on the trip. J really knows her history and in Lincoln this was a real bonus.  We started the holiday with evensong in the Cathedral, the following day another friend joined us and we pottered down the hill taking in on route part of the journey of Eleanor (of Charing Cross and Waltham Cross fame ), and pottered and nattered our way around.  Then the final full day we embedded ourselves in the Castle where you can do an outdoor tour and an indoor trail and go on the walls.  J struggled with the indoor tour as it is a prison and I with the walls, because of my phobia but including a rest break it took all day.  I especially loved the dragons who growl.  Apart from a hint of rain, it was glourious.  Then as twilight fell, we went on my first ghost walk.    

Banged up.

Each evening we had a lovely meal out and because we were sharing a room, it was so much cheaper than my usual trips.  And an added bonus breakfast came with the room, which I had not realised, and the service was so good everywhere.    We loved it.  The last day we found more shops in the Cornhill area and J decided she was better off returning slightly earlier because of the bus services near her, so she did the whole journey alone, rather than partially with me, the original plan, and I escaped up to the art gallery which I had not been able to persuade to visit previously.  It had some nice original works and a good local photographic exhition.  The perfect end to four great nights away.    She is now in Italy,  I almost headed off again,  but instead I am welcoming time at home to try and sort things out we really need addressing.  

Bari to Brindisi, part two.

 The weather has turned cold and wet in the UK, Italy seems years ago rather than just a month, but talking to my friend in Ireland brought it back to me.   Travel is so often what people like to talk about.  Strange at a time when there is so much fear of the other, that we spend so much time and effort to see where the other lives.  Anyway, I am writing this whilst doing my online singing group, as never seem to have time to catch up with myself, so it may not make much sense.    

Church in Maglie. 

Because of the ME people often say I do not know how you manage.  Well,  I try and build in breaks,  it does not always work but that is what I did in Italy. After the week away in the Puglia countryside, I caught the bus to Monopoli where I had a little apartment to myself for two nights.  On route I dragged my bag around Polignano Sur Mare.   Because I hadn't visited whilst in Bari, I thought I had missed the town, but when I unexpectedly found that I was on a bus two hours early to my destination and that it went via this up and coming sea side town, I jumped off the bus and treated myself to breakfast there.   The town is perched on a cliff and in the old town you get these end of the road cliff drops and views of the revellers enjoying the sea below.  What I had not expected was to find that the wider town also features and ancient bridge and beach in what I now know to be a lama.   A short train ride brought me to Monopoli, another seasdide town, but as I was located in the new town, I had a long walk, cursing my bag.  But my little apartment made up for it.  I realise now that owner is one of the few Italians that I met and the only who wasn't fluent in English.   A kitchen and a bathroom and a washing machine, happiness.   The walk into town was not so great, but I discovered a tiny cove nearby where the locals were bathing the next morning.  It was heaving and clearly where all the local familities got together. Given it was still over 30, the perfect place to cool down, even early in the morning.  

Monopoli's outskirts are not beautfiul, but the old town has a fishing port and charm.  An added bonus was the street art exhibition.  I was also pleased to finally find some supermarkets.  I did try but failed to navigate the buses, but spent time happily sititng in the sun, in various squares, reading before pottering back and trying to find something on the TV that I could understand and cooking for myself     It was a peaceful interlude before moving onto Lecce.  If I could have, I would have stayed longer in Lecce, but the hostel was fully booked for later in the month, so I only had three nights there but it would be a really good base to explore the wider area.  The hostel was excellent,  I had room to myself, a treat, but well worth it.  Sometimes I find having a room to myself cuts me off from the energy in a hostel, and with one exception no one here really engaged with each other, but just again having access to a kitchen, free coffee and lots of books made for a lovely home for a couple of days. 

The view across to Brindisi Castle. 

Lecce is one of the gems of the area, but at first I was not sure about it.  It seemed so big and empty and regal after all the places recently seen.  No restaurants seemed to be open and in the end, the place I stopped at didn't really deliver, but by the end I really liked it.  One of the walkers had raved about Lecce and made the effort to get there on our free day, despite the slightly tricky journey from Alberello. He brought back a useful tip,  get the 11 Euro package that gets you in some of the most important baroque churches in the town.  There are so many of them, many free, but the package just frees one up to wonder in and out to those you have to pay for.  The Churches are evidence of the towns Aragonese past.   The karst limestone, that explains the lamas, also help explain this building boom during the time under the Spaniards of this region.  The stone is easily carved, making for these amazing elaborate churches.  I am not always a church fan, but it is a must in this town and worth it to just get a feel of what it must have been like in the past.  Lecce also has Roman remains for example, a teatre and an amphitheatre and some wonderful modern cafes.  In the little courtyard opposite the theatre found the Senegalese chef and I had a little chat in French, which was nice. Lecce has a sizeable African and Asian population, but apart from one very lost soul, all seemed to blend in together well. Everyone hurtled around on bikes and scooters, or chilled.  Lecce has tourists but they don't dominate the town, which was larger than I had first realised and I was surprised to find that even in the main drag one could get decent food for a reasonable price, so whilst I intended to cook at the hostel, instead I found myself treating myself yet again.  

Catching the ferry across to the hostel. 

I had vaguely thought of going onto either Gallipoli or Otranto, but the forecast predicted heavy storms, which arrived exactly on time Saturday afternoon, and my leg had swollen in a strange way.  So I made the most of the hostel and read keen to finish my book about Baltimore during the American WAr of Independence before moving on again.  By evening time the squal had passed and I was able to pop out to my favourite ice cream parlour at the entrance of the old town.  Only Sunday morning remained in the town and I had saved it for a most interesting museum.  Museo Faggiano. This town house, turned out to have so many layers of history to it, the owners abandoned plans to live there, and turned its  higgledy piggledy warren with wells, secret exits, nuns, Templars, tombs, granary, all in a little compact space into a tourist attraction.  It was the perfect way to say farewell to this Roman/Baroque city. 

A former student had come from Brindisi, which is why I ended my Italian sejourn there. In retrospect perhaps I should have spent less time there and returned over land, but that thought occured to me too late.  My hostel turned out to be a little bit from the centre of town, either a bus or a boat ride away.  But one of the hostel staff kindly drove me in the first full day, which I spent pottering and getting to know the place. Compared to everywhere else, there was not a lot to see, but it is a perfectly pleasant seaside town. There is the port, a castle, which houses the navy, which lent the town a bit of swagger and interesting views of ships, a second castle, at the end of rather wild promotory with fishers and not much else, and perhaps it I had not seen so many churches already, a fare few of them to dip in and out of. And it was fun having to catch the ferry back to my temporary home, a large dorm.    But Brindisi was not as interesting as I had hoped. 

The hostel was interesting as it really served the community. Every morning teenagers would spill into the place, grab a coffee and then long hair and tight jeans would cross the road to school.   In the evening locals would drop in for a beer and chat.  They served excellent snacks but did not have a kitchen.   And the staff were nice and friendly, and the other residents.  I especially connected with a young Austrain traveller, who was struggling with the pain from her hyper flexibility and a Colombian woman on her way home after almost three months travelling in Europe.  It turned out the bus to Maglie, passed by the hostel so the second day I hopped onto that and stopped for breakfast there and a wonder around. More churches of course and a small cinema surprisingly celebrating an English great.  On the way back, the bus stopped in Brindisi rather than at the hostel, but that allowed for more time pottering.  

For my last day though I decided to go out of town a bit.  The descriptions in the guide books of the local beaches were not encouraging but my chats with the one of the staff encouraged me to get on bus 5 and go to the end of the line.  At the height of the season three private beaches operate there, but early September, still lovely and hot if you are a Brit, one was operating, for which I was very grateful but it meant I could get a coffee and lunch, and rather than spend silly amounts of money on a beach lounger, I then wondered and explored the little coves and relaxed, just enjoying the spectre of the sea hurtling in and dashing against the rocks.  The Adriatic, wild and beautiful.      The end of a lovely opportunity to explore this previously unknown part of Italy.   The flight went off without problems and before I knew it those two and a half weeks were over, so it is nice to have this chance to reflex a little on where I have been.  

An ecletic interlude.

 Since getting home it has been an ecletic time.  I have spent much of the time in bed trying to get well enough for the various activities I was supposed to be doing, the rest has been a mix of tennis, music, and passing out or off.  

England V Ecuador Davis Cup. 

Sometimes when just finishing a break, there's a day or two if I am lucky, when I function before collapsing and that was how it worked on my return from Italy.  I rushed up to the allotment, managed to get a lovely evening of music in the local church and then saw England defeat Ecuador in the Davis Cup.  But yoga finished me off very badly.  

Pelleas Ensemble

I was just recovering by Thursday when I had to go down to my nephew's passing off parade, near Woking, except because he too was injured he did not march, he limped and sat with us and explained the scene before us.  Seeing families from around the world celebrate their loved ones getting through basic army training was a joy, from tiny children to oldies like me, we were all immensely proud.  And of course fascinated. Everywhere we looked people were marching, marching down back streets, marching across the footpath, some in uniform, some with camoflage,and some especially for today marching across the parade ground to the army band's Abba renditions,  and then being inspected. The women ullulated with joy, the rest of us almost sang along then remembered where we were.   It was so hot, some people really did pass out.  They wobbled, their colleagues rushed across the patrol ground with a wheelchair and inelegantly flopped them in and rushed them off.  Despite the real worry that these young people, some with families, might be sent off to WW3, it was a happy morning, followed by terrible tedium all afternoon just waiting. I was feeling so rough by this time, I did not even think I could slope off and go and lie down somewhere I just waited with everyone else until all the soldiers were released.   My sister's family had attended the event with me and in theory were going back to our hotel and then travelling up north the following day, but with her son injured and unable to go on to the next bit of training, they were all free to disapear, which they did, whilst I crawled back into the hotel bed, and treated myself to sleep and rubbish TV all night, knowing that it would be much worse if I had travelled home and then crawled into my own bed.   

The rest of the platoon in action 

Woking,  is associated with HG Wells, it is also home to the oldest mosque in the UK.  Determined to have done something in Woking, I dragged myself the 15 minutes up to gaze at it, and it is a lovely building, and then went home and back to bed, so that I could be ready to go to Norfolk and then onto Lincoln.  Which would be nicer than expected, but have some unexpected up hills and down dales.  

HG Wells. 

Built 1889, the country's first purpose built Mosque. 

From Bari to Brindisi (part 1)

 Sat on two bottom bunks, an Austrian traveller and I, shared two painful truths, we are not sure why we travel and that we travel alone partly because of health conditions that we deal with by travelling alone.   Dragging my suitcase through the heat to stations and airports, I regularly wonder why I travel and now feeling seriously ill post travels question more and more how long I can keep doing them, but despite the health conditions it is one of the things I sometimes surprise myself by managing.  

Matera

The narrow gauge railway station, Bari. 

This holiday to Italy came about sort of by accident, approximately this time last year, I set out on what I think is the biggest trip of my later life, to Australia and beyond, it was a test of what I was capable of and as any reader of this blog knows, that trusty handful from Russia, I was seriously ill after that. So that has more or less told me my limitations are as I perceive them to be.  But I wanted to have something set out in front of me as a lesser but still important challenge, to try and do a walking holiday. I selected Cyprus,  with a company I have known of since childhood because it seemed to be their easiest overseas holiday.  But because I was ill, I could not practice for it, so put the trip back to a week in Italy in September.   The walks were even easier than those for Cyprus, in a part of Italy I have long wanted to visit, and I decided to start and end the trip in Bari and Brindisi, with the official week's walking sort of in the middle.  What none of us had expected was that the temperature would be well over 33 most of the time we were away, so the trip presented challenges beyond the original challenge of walking almost every day for a week.   Anyway,  I mostly managed the walks, and in fact loved that week, but the time away has taken it out of me again. 

Alberello

I originally booked just for a day or so in Bari, but Ryanair kindly shifted my flight to a Friday night and we were then delayed, so did not get there till 12pm on the Friday of the bank holiday weekend.  Luckily two kindly Italian women scooped me up and made sure I found my hostel.  It did not seem promising, 8 beds in a very hot tiny room and no lock on the loo, but in the end Bari and the hostel became a happy gentle start to the trip.  I had a nurishing start treating myself to a yoghurt breakfast and chatting to a disgruntled young German traveller and then established where I could catch my bus through to Alberello before wandering into Bari and just getting to know the place.   The highlight was sitting in the square, where the boys were playing footie, the old men were gesticulating, romantic couples were out dog walking and refreshing their water bottles at the fountain and despite the insane heat an old lady was frying delicious polenta chips. 

Old town Bari

Sunday,  I wanted something indoors to keep me out of the heat, so tried to find the art gallery, but failed, however came across the tour of Bari Opera House instead.  We did not see much of the building but the tale of how it took about a hundred years to go from first plans to opening, and the middle class families who backed the development was a good introduction to this part of Italy topped off by the knowledge that it had burned down recently and had to be rebuilt!.  Then in the afternoon along with it seemed every other Barite, I squeezed onto the bread and tomato beach for some sunshine and relaxation by the beach.  All the time I was kept amused reading a Richard Osman book.  

Cave dwelling, and stopping off point on the way to Jerusalem.

By Monday though I was ready for an adventure and was debating between Poglinano or Matera.  Two of the other hostellers, one a young German cycling to China, the other a Polish woman about my age, said the latter was not to be missed, so despite knowing it would be very hot, I set off on the narrow gauge railway to the town with its cave dwellings.  It was too hot to really explore, but I got a flavour of the ups and downs of the town, including seeing the caves in the distance,  and treated myself to the local pasta dish in the lea of the Cathedral. (Orchiette and turnip tops)  I can see the appeal of the place, and was glad to go, but also enjoyed the conversation with three Romanian women on the train, who have now made me think I need to add their country to my list of places to visit.  In the evening I celebrated my outing by wandering around the other half of Bari old town and enjoying a cup of tea and a glass of wine.  Compared with some parts of Croatia, Bari had not seemed all that at the start, but actually by the end I began to realise it had an amazing castle, some culture, a beach and the lovely old town area too. 

Bari, is only just being discovered by travellers, but Alberello is almost nothing other than a tourist town and I seemed to drag my case through every part of it and passed every heaving restaurant sweating along, till at the end of town I found the hotel.  Shortly after I arrived, the coach bringing all the other travellers arrived too.  We cooled down in the pool and then had the first of 7 wonderful four course dinners and agreed the schedule for the week, including, having earlier starts in light of the fact that it was so hot.  Our guides were introduced to use, Merry Sunday and Maja.  They both proved to be excellent, there was aslo a British lead, who supported the process.  

Ancient trees are labelled. 

The first day we were given the chance to buy a sandwich at an agro tourism place, so rather than purloin,anything from the breakfast table trusted that process.  Yet when we arrived at the place, a woman was swishing around with a mop, sent us outside and I feed half my sandwich to the dogs who had come with us from a neighbouring farm.  Luckily our guides and the countryside had provided, not the grapes covered in pesticides of some sort, or the olives, but things like figs and carob and pears, the bounty of nature.  Never before have figs tasted so wonderful.  In theory we were travelling through Noci countryside, walnuts and we did see some trees, but not a great forest which is how I imagined it, but by the time we got to the town of Noci,  I was happy to sit with fellow walker, E, rather than exploring the town and having ice cream and tea.  I think I had ice cream every day for two weeks! 

 E was the only other completely lone female traveller,  all of them more monied and with long professional careers behind them than me, four married couples and three other women who had made friends on a previous trip and two sisters. All around my age, some a few years younger, some quite a bit older but all of us in our latter years, tramping across the country in the heat.  Despite the hearing aids, the replacement hips and knees, we managed most of the week, only dropping off right at the end, much to my disappointment as the last walk would have been through the imagined woods and actually cooler than visiting a town, which is what most people did instead, however, in the interim we had discovered lama (dried river bed lakes) swam in the sea, visited caves where pilgrims had stopped on route to Jerusalem, seen prehistoric remains, learned about Trulli house construction and water preservation,  visited the white town of Ostuni and just enjoyed warmth, companionship and walks. In addition we had time to swim in the pool every evening and potter around Alberello.  E and I also visited Locotorondo another white town near by on the free day.   

Three of us enjoying the wine tasting in Alberello. 

The best meal we had was the second agro tourist place we went to.   A sample menue was suggested to us, so we all sat around this table out in the countryside,  wine arrived and then course after course of just the most wonderful food.  Cheese, ham, and melanzane, focaccia,  and pasta might be expected, but that they were so good, so much better than anything we have in Britain that claims to be Italian, then there were the unexpected things, fava bean nibbles and puree,  with chichory for example, just brilliant. (stupidly I left my camera in the bus, hence no photo of this special place)   And all for just 17 euros.   In some ways because we had so much in the hotel, it was way too much, but it was too delicious to resist and it was just lovely to share with everyone.  Most of the others spent some evenings together after the evening meal, I retired, other than one night in the week and the last night when we all went to a wine tasting together.   I enjoyed the walks, the interesting conversations e.g. about Thailand, kindertransport, footie, and food.  But the best thing was the input from our guides, we learned the long history of the area, and really felt embedded in the countryside as a result. Then suddenly they were all gone and I was back to my lone wanderings.  First to Monopoli, where I had a nice little flat to myself, but was quite a way out of town, and then in Lecce, where I had a private room to myself in the hostel and finally back into dorms in Brindisi.  

Farewell Dolly and back to Lancaster.

 Dolly Parton has died, aged 80.  I feel sad.  As an older person each death reminds one what is coming,  and she had been ill, so perhaps it was to be expected but she is such a big part of my life and will have been a big part in many people's lives. I remember watching 9 - 5 I guess in Leicester Square, one of the few times I got to the cinema with my Dad,  Ghostbusters, I think was another occasion, two very light pieces, but shared with a whole audience really engaged ,laughing uproariously.  And I did actually see her in concert, and almost walked up to a familiar looking gentleman, until I suddenly realised it was not a friend it was Bob Geldorf,  the concert, perhaps in Hammersmith was brilliant.  I know people thought she sparkled at Glastonbury but I was not quite so sure but probably only because I had really seen her sparkle.   

Me in my ensemble costume, I would have liked to have gone the whole hog and painted flowers on my face like I did when I was 15, but apparentlyl that was not required. 

Dolly's tunes are the kind of things I sing to myself.  The songs in Godspell were familiar but not well known to me, but now they are playing over and over through my brain as I have spent the last week with them, back in Lancaster, with Ross playing the smallest part in their production.   And boy have we laughed.  Last year I was too shy to audition, then regretted not having a part, then was relieved not to have a bigger part as I regularly needed to lie down. This year, dance was added to the mix and I have discovered, that sometimes I can only do one of them at a time, but I did audition and I was proud of how much I controlled my nerves and somewhat annoyed not to at least be told I had made a good effort.  Luckily I got to share my small part with friend M,  she did one of the performances with one Jesus, but could not dance as she had injured herself and I did the same part with the other Jesus.  She nailed the tiny bit of dialogue we had on the final show, I never did, which frustrates me, as I think I could and should be better at performing than that, but I am the slowest picking up how to read the music etc.  It was a bit like giving birth, one had forgotten the pain,  I kept having to go and lie down and now my body is really complaining, but I have sung and danced every day, done two 45 minute dress rehearsals and two performances, so I am really proud of myself. I am never going to sparkle like Dolly,  but I have had a lot of fun and really enjoyed being with the team again.  People sometimes are very kind to an old girl, in fact I did not really feel so old last week, but today having an eye test which confirms my sight is going even more I am back to being old for real, but at least I am not dead, yet.  

North and South.

 It is 19 degrees, which does not seem a lot for England in summer, except that it is 11pm at night.  Never before has it been so hot for so long in my life time  The last time it was almost this dramatic, was 50 years ago. A summer I will never forget.  It is 50 years since my mother's death.  

I carried her in my thoughts today as I headed into London for an exhibition at the Tate and to catch up with a couple of friends. .  Her daughters are older than she was when she died, by many years.  We will face old age,  unchartered waters  I seem to grow more fearful of the world and every little niggle but life is also still full of joy too as today showed.  

Hurvin Anderson Tate Britain. 

The blues are brought on by the mostly brutal men making life here for refugees so miserable, but also of course those mostly men from America to Iran who cause the misery that makes people flea.  But of course it is n ot just that, this has been the most terrifying year for summer fires ever.   As my train sped through Enfield the scored burnt earth from a trackside fire was a stark illustration in miniature of scenes all over Spain, France, Greece and so on this summer.  Even whole swathes of England have gone up in flames and many friends have struggled in the heat. 

Up north, dog sitting, the weather was just pleasant  time to catch up with friends, sit in gardens with a cup of tea, and breath.  The flags dying on the lamposts show all is not well there too, but in the village it just felt wonderful to be out.  

Part of the final exhibition at the National Glass Centre

Sunderland's National Glass Centre is dying, but you could not tell on the day I finally got there, after a two hour bus journey, and before a four hour return,  whilst there I also briefly discovered the coast.  Then at Brancepeth, I finally visited the castle, I was staggered by its size and force.  The Rising of the North happened from here all those years ago, and now Andy Burnham is promising finally more power and wealth to the area.  I rode the elderly railway from Weardale to Bishop and dropped in for breakfast of paneer paratha before heading to the Durham fringe festival. Not formally a holiday, as every morning and evening I had to walk the dog and because he was not well, I even had to find a way to get him to take meds (chickhen is the solution) but it felt like a real break, being in the green, when the rest of the country has turned dusty and brown.  

Brancepeth Castle. 

Those were the days, my friend.

 So England is out, again,  they came so close,  but not close enough.  60 years ago, a skinny, tall, girl with red hair, put the finishing touches to her school project, celebrating England's win at the World Cup, I can still feel the rough touch of the green spongey substance covering my project.  The book disappeared when my tenant trashed my flat.    Today's children, won't get to create such a celebration.  But we have done better than we might have done.  

60 years ago I also started my secondary school, and a couple of days ago, experienced the nerves and excitement all over again, standing outside my school buildings. That day a woman asked me directions as she thought I was an established pupil, but of course I had no idea where anything was.  That first day we were seated in alphabetic order,  me the tallest and Christine, the shortest next to each other. 

For much of my time at school I thought I was doing okay and given that I was almost always in the top 5 I was.  I was also happier at school than at home, but the end results were disappointing.  Low grade GCSE's except in History and Geography.  Some topics I think I might have got were excluded because of the timetable, but in key subjects, I really wasn't great, Maths I struggled with and even today my grammar is not strong suit and I dropped out of Science, and I was only offered the chance to do two A levels at 6th form, so moved on to Erith college where I did do muc better comparatively getting three A levels, two at a good level.   I also had some very deep anxieties at school, which hovered through the day, and for the first two years only made friends, not firm friends.  But everyone got on well, we could have been stretched a lot more and I could and should have stretched myself a lot more, but my experiences there were largely positive.   

But going back, wow it churned up both the positives and negatives.  I also had to deal with nerves around meeting fellow pupils, especially as I felt excluded from their reunions.  However, all these years on, what is truly wonderful is the school today.  Now it is a grammar school and the girls exuded talent and confidence. Whilst they have lost a couple of the wonderful tennis courts and the pottery,which I loved, they still have the grounds we played rounders in, and now have much better science facilities, music facilities, and language facilities.  It is twice the size of my old school and unlike me, the girls are allowed to walk around in socks and bare legs and have long hair, and they are really given opportunities we did not have.  Then no one expected much of us girls, career wise, and most of us have done much better than perhaps the school imagined, but these girls, despite the challenges of the times, seem match ready for the future.   Unlike the poor old England team, who have to go back to the start and try, try and try again. 

Helen Jane, In Jane's footsteps.

 I have just had a lovely few days travelling in England.  First a visit to very very  very very distant cousin, the most famous female writer in the UK and her brother's upmarket pad, then I got to call on Gilbert White, before heading to the beaches of Bournemouth and a chance to catch up with a friend and family.  

I probably first visited Chawton as a child, I do not know how old I was, but I do have a memory of it, a very imperfect memory of it so it was good to catch the train to Alton, spend a couple of nights at a hotel that Jane would have been familiar with and walk to her home the following day.  It gave context to that snippet of memory which is probably about at least 55 years ago.   All along the street, I could feel Jane's presence, but that could just be the effect of too many BBC dramas capturing the time.   In her home, it was harder to find her, but then the walk to her brother's cemented how their lives played out and the many scenes of women walking across the landscape before collapsing in the arms of some gallant when the rains come on.  Chawton House, ionly 10 minues walk from Jane's is worth visiting in its own right.  It is a Tudor residence but also houses a collection of work connected to female writers, including Jane.   Chawton village and the countryside there is just charming.  

Gilbert White, I first came across, when living in Selborne Road, so I have known of him for some time, but not much beyond that, so when I realised he too lived near to Alton, it was obvious I had to go there too.  Like Austen he never left England, like Austen he observed life minutely, but he was even more focusded on one patch than her and that was the patch that was his very large garden and all the wildlife in it.  I therefore knew I needed more time to look around that was allowed if I caught the 10.40 bus.  The alternative however, was getting there a couple of hours before the house opened, but then using the time to climb the zigzag path created by the naturalist with his brother.  It is quite a steep hill, enough to get the heart pumping.   Once in the house, I actually disappeared into his lovely garden, a mix of tailored herb and flower garden space, along with a lush meadow and orchard.   

His house was preserved with the help of the Oates family, on the basis that the Selborne residence became a repository for the story and artefacts connected to Oates and his father.  When previously looking at material on the ill fated visit to the artic, I was struck by how inexperienced Scott was when he started and the fear that this contributed somewhat to the problems they had in the later expedition. Learning about the Oates family, there was a pattern of intrepid travel, but also of ill health, and again one wonders whether that impacted on how he coped in the cold.   I am not a traveller like them in any way, but something about those stories did capture me as a child, they threw caution to the wind, and paid the price sometimes, I now find myself at over age 70 becoming more and more cautious about what I can and can't do and find myself dithering over how to manage going forward.  And perhaps that is why England and little trips like this appeal so much.   

Although I know as a child I visited places like Christchurch and Poole partly to see family, I cannot actually remember how much I knew Bournemouth, but I parked myself there, to catch up with someone I meet on the TELC trip and with an honorary cousin.   It has a stunning beach and a lovely art gallery, but staying there also enabled me to catch up with people.   My honorary cousin probably would not want to be considered inspirational but she is, following surgery that went wrong, she is in a wheelchair, and has many things she has to deal with, especially when getting out and about,  her positivity purs me to shame, but reminds me too how lucky I am that even if I cannot walk as far as I could or do as much as I could, I can do a hell of a lot more than many.     At the other end of the scale, T despite being younger than N, has lived and worked in large chunks of Asia, fallen into work in Scotland and taught English in a variety of places. He is only back in the UK because he wants to spend time with family members who have ill health.  He has his life ahead of him, talking to him, I felt very old and uninspiring.   But it was fun to be out on a night when England were World Cup victors and to hear the cheers emanating from the pubs and houses. 

Southampton was my last port of call. Again I have only visited before in passing, but now one of my brother's lives there. It was my first visit to his home.  My niece, who I have not seen for about 5 years, announced, I do not know who you are,  which made me laugh.  I explained that was why I had come to see her,   so she would know who I was, and I also gave her a pencil sketch of her cousins from N onwards.   Jane, also lived in Southampton, so I finished my visit as I started it in some ways, in Jane's footsteps.  Much of Southampton was destroyed and then rebuilt after the war, but pockets exist that show us her life there.  And if that was not enough,  I returned to the Titanic story, in the town's museum.  It is very much worth going there, much cheaper than the Belfast one, but covers similar ground and much quieter.  

The war on Iran goes on, my friend in the Ukraine, says it is getting worse there, and the sun is shinning relentlessly, the effect of climate change. Travelling seems an indulgence in these circumstances, but has been such a big part of my life, I hope even, if only in these small ways, I can continue as long as possible. 

A sunny day in London brought some happy memories.

 How lovely to return to Crouch End, not far from my former London home, to catch up with a friend and to listen to some good music.   I first met Ramon about 12 years ago but he also played music with my friend, the late great Abdou Diop.  So whilst it was lovely to enjoy the music, it was also nice to reminisce. 

Burning Belfast

 Having only just recently been to Belfast and loving it's internationalism, sadly the city is now burning - literally.  Racists are attacking anyone perceived to be an immigrant and locals are getting caught up in the terror.  Cars on fire have set homes on fire.  My friend is on the streets directly affected and these are two of her images.  

Clearly any knife attack is terrifying.  Sometimes being a trauma victim makes migrants and refugees vulnerable, as we all are, to  very serious mental health problems.     This is why supporting and welcoming people is so important,  as the more people feel safe, the less likely are their traumas going to foster violence.     The people of Belfast have also suffered generational trauma because of the troubles.  So is that is what is partly behind, so many of them taking to the streets and terrorising anyone in their way.  I do not know.  But racism and fuelled racism does seem to be one of the causes behind the terrible rioting.  We know that racism is being fuelled both by right wing activists from Musk to Robinson, but it is not helped by the anti immigrant sentiments of many more centre based MPs.  

Climate change is one of the causes of migration, but the terrible wars are really fuelling movement.  Most Sudanese are lovely,  (see Green Kardofan for example ) but that country is also in crisis, and perhaps that has affected what happened in Belfast this week.    Racism damages all of us, as these pictures show. 

 

Burgeoning Belfast.

Last time I visited Belfast, it was lovely to see friends, but the place was interesting rather than captivating.  So I am glad to have come back and got to know and enjoy it more.  Staying in leafy South Belfast helped.  So did the weather, dry and towards the end of the holiday both sunny and warm (England was broiling) and the company was good too.   But what added to all these pleasures was the sheer diversity of the place now.  A friend messaged me to say I would have lots of potatoes in Ireland, but I am not sure she has been there lately as it is very hard to find traditional Irish food, unless you go somewhere as touristy as the Titanic Quarter,  where we had a lovely fish chowder, in the Titanic Hotel.  Other days we had  salads, cheese and biscuits, Italian, Chinese, and with a nod to Irish culture and my friend's comment, bacon and farl for breakfast.  But given there was a food festival on I could have had African, Turkish, French etc.etc.  

Belfast City Hall. 

Vane family portrait at Mount Stewart

I arrived Wednesday,  just a hop and a skip from home, via Stansted, to Belfast where my friend met me, we went home for a catch up, then headed out to the city, where a stop at the Central Hotel to catch the view, resulted in tea and toast in the lounge bar.  Thursday after our Chinese, I headed into town and mooched around.  Friday morning, it was back to the botanic gardens to meet up with my other friend, before heading to St. George's market, and a walk along the Lagan.   Saturday we stepped the pace up a bit with a visit to Mount Stewart,  a famous garden, not far from, Belfast.  I only got half an hour in the interesting house, but was surprised to discover the family who owned it are linked to Raby Castle in near Durham, and the famous Governor of Boston, who was beheaded when he returned to England because of his radical ideas! 

N and A in the Mount Stewart House gardens. 

Talking of radical ideas, apparently my wormery is causing distress. Rather than throwing the old one away I thought I would share it with the community allotment, but one of the women there keeps nagging on at me about being cruel to worms.  Her digging will do more damage, unless I fail to keep my worms happy,  but ....  same old story with the community allotment, bloody out of step with the rest of them, and it is very painful, but hopefully I will only lose my temper over it and not my head. However, I did go up to make sure my worms were happy tonight, and prayed once again to the No Dig God to let my tiny plot flourish to help put my case.  7 years of gardening up there approx and I still have not been able to produce enough to convince, whilst my car parking space is packed with chard!  Hey ho.  

My final day was a visit to the Titanic Museum, which is very expensive, and perhaps surprisingly, rather wordy, so a lot to take in, but there are also fun special effects.  Unfortunately we went on the hottest day of the year, on a Bank Holiday Sunday when two cruise ships were in, so perhaps no wonder that my host began to feel very fragile and ducked out.  However, we were there almost two hours and if you are not claustrophic and ideally have longer than that, it is a story worth revisiting, even if a familiar one.  Years ago, I am sure one of my mother's friends, told me her father had been involved with receiving one of the SOS messages unfortunately there was no mention of him and I have lost touch with the family so cannot verify this, but it seems that the film Titanic was a pretty accurate representation of the ship and its catastrophy.      But as far as I can recall there was no fire on board, whereas there was one in the Titanic Quarter, which prevented us catching the Glider back on schedule, but despite that I was home in England before 10 pm.  How neat is that.  Next time I hope to go the slow route as there is more to explore,  and to understand more about our neighbour, which is both part of the UK and not part of the UK, but part of Europe and with whom we have a long, complex and troubling history as the Vane's exemplify. 

History and buns, creativity and nostalgia.

I have succombed to two sticky buns, a reaction to anti Muslim comments at the pottery group I have just rejoined.  We all tried to navigate the tension to something manageable, and I was able to make a couple of comments that may have impacted from my experiences in Senegal and Kyrgyzstan,  and because even 30 years ago Broxbourne school had Muslim students, but is painful, for all. There they were happy in their ignorance and along comes this newcomer, who challenges them, but then hates, the tension it causes.  Same on the allotment,  challenging them there about digging.   Anyway I have succombed to two buns to cope but am now buried in an exploration of food in Wormley in the 17th Century, to distract myself.    I have it in mind to explore our local food culture from the Abbey to the plethora of excellent Turkish cafes in the area. 

The other day I was in woke heaven.  The new V and A is testament to what blending cultures can do for creativity.  There was a queue to get in it has proved so popular and in the lobby there were young people playing reggae.  30 years ago similar youths would have been on tower blocks in Hackney champtioning pirate radio. Today they are part of the establishment.  Reform would hate it.  

But things both move forward and backwards.    Stratford Royal Theatre, opened in 1884.  The area wasn't rich, but with the support of a coal merchant got a small theatre.  Electricity arrived in 1902.  Nearby Hackney built its theatre around the same time, also with electricity.   Having just been to both of them, they are glorious reminders of the past,  and how theatres can attract diverse audiences.

  

The musical The Harder They Come, based on the Jimmy Cliff film was first devised at the theatre at the beginning of this century,  and we went to the opening night of its 2026 revival.   I loved it.  My brother had been into ska and I heard and enjoyed standard singles from Bob Marley, but I didn't and don't think of it as my kind of genre particularly, but listening to all those tunes again, embedded in the story, brought out the lyrics, making me realise that whilst R, my partner,  as someone of Jamaican heritage, understands those beats, much more than a white kid in Kent, something about them had entered my story, much more than I had realised.  And of course when N was little I introduced him to the story and the music too.   

Black people have lived on these shores since at least Roman times, the first followers of Islam came to live in the UK in the 16th century,  as Elizabeth sought to benefit from trade relations with places like Morocco.  Yet in small town England, people can still say, why should local Muslims have a mosque!  And my waistline, suffers in protest.