Years ago

My husband and I started dating in 1991. We’ve recently celebrated our Silver Wedding Anniversary – that’s a long time together and a long time married. Like any married couple, we’ve had our ups and downs. It takes work to have a successful relationship, and some days it’s hard to put the effort in, but we’re doing all right. We both agree that we’re happy. Here’s a poem I wrote a while back about long-term partnerships.

 

Years ago, you knocked on my door.

I put the chain across,

opened it a slit and

looked you over.

Then I

let you in.

For a drink, a chat.

 

But you

hung up your coat,

took off your shoes,

put your

feet under the table.

 

Sometimes we danced in the living room

giggling until we

fell in dizzy heaps.

Sometimes we sat reading

separate novels,

lost in

distant worlds.

Other times we fought,

brutal bloody battles,

no one could win.

 

Sometimes we shared a meal

together, diced sliced,

laughed over a glass of wine,

candles twinkling.

Sometimes we were tired, got take away,

couldn’t be

bothered with the effort.

Other times we ate apart,

solitary below the

cold kitchen light.

 

Sometimes we snuggled

beneath the duvet,

late lazy lay-ins,

close, so we were

touching.

Sometimes we gave a

peck on the cheek, rolled over,

started snoring.

Other times we slept alone,

chilly with a blanket, on the

hard floor of the

spare room.

 

But you

made yourself at home.

And I

never moved out.

We’re still here.

 

 

On Bergen

Bergen is a beautiful city. It sits nestled between mountains, fjords and islands. Known as ‘the city between the seven mountains’, it is actually surrounded by nine in total. The name Bergen means ‘the meadow among the mountains’. The mountains protect the city, keeping its climate relatively warm considering its northern aspect. The water is clear and blue. The many lakes and fjords are like glassy mirrors reflecting pure images of the forested surroundings. Up in the mountains, if you are lucky, you can see goats living wild. (OK, so this one isn’t really wild – but they are there!)

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Bergen is an old city. It was founded about 1070. In the harbour, you will find the ancient district of Bryggen. These beautiful wooden buildings now house shops, museums and eateries. Listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1979, they are crowded and popular with tourists. Bergen’s narrow cobbled streets are lined with picturesque, clapperboard houses.

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Bergen is a city of fires. Its history contains a trail of destruction. Many of its buildings are wooden and in danger from the flames. In 1248, eleven churches were burnt down. In 1702, ninety percent of the city was reduced to ashes. Bryggen has burnt on more than one occasion, including in 1476 in a fire started by a drunk and in 1955 when many of its buildings were destroyed.

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Bergen is a clean city. It is a city you can breathe in. The mountain air is sweet and fresh. Bergen has an excellent public transport system, including trains, trams and buses. Much of it is electric. This transport system keeps cars out of the city centre. The few cars you do see are mostly electric. The Norwegian government subsidises the purchase of electric cars, so Norwegians drive more electric cars per capita than anywhere else in the world. It is a green and environmentally friendly place.

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Bergen is a wild city. Bergen residents like to party on a Saturday night and this includes indulging in some heavy drinking! Luckily, alcohol is very expensive, so drunkenness seems to be limited to once a week. People in Bergen love to enjoy the outdoors – swimming in the fjords, walking the trails, sailing around the islands.  There are trekking trails everywhere. It is easy to get up into the mountains and explore, especially the two most popular ones. Floyen has a funicular railway and Ulriken has a cable car. There are cabins hidden in the mountains and forests where you can stay after a long day trekking. There are places to set up camp and get your fire going all over the mountainsides.

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Bergen is a beautiful, old, clean, wild city. I recommend you go and visit.

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Time for change

Here are two recent entries in my notebook. Funny how quickly our lives can turn around.

Saturday 23rd November

I’m appalled at how little writing I’ve done this year. This notebook is less than half full, my novel untouched for months (and months), my thoughts embroiled with work. And now this promotion to a management role. Have I made the right decision taking on more work? I know there will be lots to do and big changes to be made. My mind will be preoccupied and distracted. What will this mean for my writing? Will I ever find time to put pen to paper, to think it matters enough? My writing plays second, third, fourth fiddle to everything else in my life – family, job, household chores. Why can’t I prioritise it and find the space for it? How do others manage it? One friend says I’m not selfish enough. Is that what it takes – selfishness? Perhaps on some level it does require a certain selfish attitude. It requires me to think that my writing is more important than anything else at that moment. And that is an exceptionally hard thing to do.

 

Tuesday 10th December

Ha! I wrote that piece just a couple of weeks ago and the change in my situation has been dramatic. Sitting in this empty café, overlooking a dreary, blustery grey sea, the voice of a young Michael Jackson chirping in my ear about Santa coming to town, I’m wondering what on earth happened. I’m shell-shocked, a turmoil of thoughts and emotions in my heart and head. An occasional anxious panic grips my chest and sets my pulse aflutter. Within two weeks of promotion, I am jobless again. Me being me, I’m questioning whether I made a mistake in resigning. If I hurtled headlong into something, whether I considered it for long enough. But deep in the pit of my roiling stomach, I know. This is for the best. This is the right decision. I know that I could not have continued working for an organisation whose professional values did not really match my own, despite what outward appearances suggested. But, what now? I have no real idea. Some time for relaxation and reflection. Everything happens for a reason; I truly believe that. I rushed into a job when my home education days ended. The void was huge and I was afraid. I panicked. I have always found it easier to think about and help other people rather than face myself, so perhaps the job was a way of running away – from the idea of writing, of being creative, of doing something for me. I don’t know. One thing I’m certain of, I’m going to enjoy Christmas.

Just about had enough of you

Singing is my sanity. It relieves stresses and worries. It fills my heart with joy. Recently, plans to finish my book have taken a back seat as I adjust to a new life of working and studying, after years as a home educating Mum. One thing that remains constant is singing – in my choir, in my job, at home and everywhere possible. I have even written a couple of songs, though I’m not a musician and it’s all done by ear. Here are the lyrics to one of them. If I feel brave, I may record and share it (if I can work out how!)

 

Just about had enough of you

 

Refrain:

I’ve just about had enough of you to last me a very long time

I’ve just about had enough of you to last me the rest of my life.

 

When I saw you that first night, my heart filled with joy

I thought I had found a love true

We shared much in common, you seemed to be kind

But you soon ended up being cruel

 

Refrain

 

We married on a Tuesday; the rain pattered down

My mother was weeping for me

I ignored the warnings, the worries, the frowns

Your love notes were all I could see

 

Refrain

 

I sat on a hospital bed in the dawn

A patchwork of bruises and cuts

The doctor asked questions, the nurses looked sad

But I shrugged off their cautions and tuts

 

Refrain

 

I cradled our baby and rocked her to sleep

Counting the hours that passed

Another night alone, while you messed around

I prayed that this one was your last

 

Refrain

 

We huddled in a corner, the children and me

I covered their ears with my hands

Your hatred and cursing swept over our heads

Like waves crashing over the sands

 

Refrain

 

I stared in the mirror at my ugly fat lip

The blood trickled down from my nose

The children were sobbing and clinging to me

I sighed at the life that I chose

 

Refrain

 

Early one Sunday while you lay in bed

In a black out from drinking all night

I left with the children and a small hold all bag

Disappeared in the grey morning light

 

Refrain

 

Flying

I am off to Norway next week to visit my daughter who is studying at Bergen University this semester. I can’t wait to see her but I’m feeling guilty. Guilty because I will be flying. Flying is a serious contributor to climate change. We really shouldn’t be flying anywhere at all anymore. With the XR protests taking place in London at the moment, my guilt is exacerbated. I should be there; fighting for climate justice, fighting for the future of our society, fighting for the future of my children. But I’m not in London. I’m at home; planning for my trip and getting excited about it.

In my entire lifetime, this will be my eighth trip away on a plane. Sixteen journeys in total, so I can hardly be called a big flyer. I’m aware there are celebrities, businessmen and politicians who hop on and off aeroplanes like they are buses. I am basically vegan; one of the best changes you can make to help prevent climate change is to eat less, or in my case no, meat and dairy. (I do eat my rescued battery hens’ eggs.) I have planted over sixty new trees around my smallholding; trees soak up carbon dioxide and are a natural solution to mitigate climate change. I’m trying in my small way to make changes. However, with the climate crisis in full swing, this doesn’t make me feel any easier about the situation. I’m still going to fly so I can visit my daughter.

Recently, I went on the Global Climate Strike to support the school children and students campaigning for change in our society’s systems. It was an inspiring day; full of warmth, positivity and love. Marching along in Aberystwyth, I found it hard to believe there could be any climate deniers left. The science is clear. As Greta Thunberg states, we can’t ignore it. I felt proud to stand with those young people and their hopefulness. I was brought to tears by their bravery. Just as I am brought to tears when I see the videos of the people in XR; lying in the streets, gluing themselves to buildings, risking arrest.

There aren’t really any realistic options for me to get to Bergen without flying, not with the timescale and budget that I have. Maybe one day, there will be. When the government has listened. When the necessary funding has been put into alternative, renewable technologies. When the greedy, gas guzzling corporations have had their day. In the meantime, I say a big thank you to those school children, students and people of XR. They are our representatives; my love and support goes out to every single one of them.

Joker

Image: Bristol Street Art from BBC

 

A couple of years ago, someone laughed at me for saying I was worried about Boris Johnson. He’s finished, they said, just a big joke. I thought they were being naive. There is nothing funny about Boris Johnson. He is deadly serious – a scheming individual with no moral compass or integrity. He has long hankered for the top spot and plotted his way there with cunning.

Boris Johnson has no ideas, or beliefs, or plans for the future, or for the benefit of the UK. He will say or do whatever he thinks is necessary to gain power. Obvious comparisons have been drawn with President Trump – the wild, straw-like mop of hair, the offensive language used in the name of ‘speaking one’s mind’, the populist rhetoric. The similarity is a big concern – both men are divisive politicians. I have long felt sympathy for my friends in the US, suffering from the embarrassment and hatred caused by their leader.

Unfortunately, it looks more and more certain Boris Johnson will achieve his ambition and become our Prime Minister. And that is not amusing at all.

Song

To bring a tear to someone’s eye, with your voice.

To touch a person, make them cry, with a song.

That must matter, I can’t deny,  it’s power.

Growing

There is something special about growing your own food. Gently planting a seed in rich, damp compost, waiting patiently for signs of green shoots pushing up through dark earth, planting out seedlings in neat rows of raked soil, watching the plants grow tall and vigorous, picking fresh vegetables for the evening meal, from garden to pot in minutes, is a kind of magic.

Sometimes, there are frustrations. Seeds rot in the ground, slugs feast on tender blooms, caterpillars attack glossy leaves, backs twinge, muscles ache, nails break and hands become dirt-ingrained, but it is satisfying work, good for body and mind. The clean air breathed in under wide skies, the smell of warm earth, the feel of fingers dug deep in crumbly dirt, the calming buzz of insects and soulful song of birds, the sense of well-being and pride growing brings. It is a connection with the land, a sustaining of life, something fundamental, something ancient.

Many of us have lost that connection, the opportunity to support ourselves, even in a small way, with home-grown food. If there were more gardens and growing spaces in our cities, towns and communities, we would be healthier and happier. Our diets are better, our appreciation of food far greater, when we grow it ourselves. Growing vegetables means being outside, exercising our bodies and working with purpose. The effort is rewarded with vegetables that taste wonderful, like nothing we can buy in supermarkets. Serving up Sunday lunch with three types of vegetables from your own garden is a feeling that is hard to beat.

Son

There he goes, my beautiful son.

Bone china skin, hair afire.

Fragility worn in cool style.

Brief nod at my frantic goodbye.

A pang of love explodes my chest.