YES OR NO?
I was feeling a bit pressured. As a Pisces I find decisions difficult except on the rare occasions that I’m swept along by a tide of conviction. The last year had dented my self confidence and I was no longer sure I wanted to do further training – assuming I got my RSCN. I had been honest with William and told him I could never love anyone as I loved Jamie and he accepted that.
Of one thing I was certain – I wanted children of my own and instinct told me that William would be a great father. I would probably never meet anyone like him again. He was kind, he had the common touch; equally at home talking to the lord of the manor or a dustman and people took to him. He had a first class brain, was honest, trustworthy and honourable. He appeared to be deeply in love and I knew he would take care of me – like that lovely song ‘Someone to watch over me.’ Would it be enough for both of us? Could I trust his judgement? After all I first met Jamie aged fifteen but was nineteen before I realised I loved him. The same thing could happen with William.
On the other hand he had very strong convictions and didn’t hesitate to air them, regardless of other people, which sometimes caused upset. I suspected he was stubborn. In the first flush of love I could usually sweet-talk him round but what about after we were married? I wished Maddie were around. In the past I had resented her interference but now I needed her ‘take’ on the situation.
Then there was his stammer. I was proud that he hardly stammered at all with me. With someone so full of ideas and with his mind racing ahead- I found it very moving when he struggled to get the words out. But I didn’t want to marry him out of compassion. I prayed for guidance and the next time we met I took one look at his face and said ‘Yes.’ And was swept along by his joy and enthusiasm.
William said we should phone his mother and he wanted me to speak to her. I think she was very surprised. She had had William late in life and in those days a late child was often looked on as companion for old age. William had been educated at home until he was eleven and his mother adored him. ‘I hope you know what you are taking on.’ she said but I took this to be her sense of humour. Conversation was difficult as she was very deaf and usually kept her hearing aid switched off.
Sadly William’s father who had been an officer in WW1 was now virtually bed-ridden with heart problems so would be unable to attend the wedding. We planned to have it in late July – it was now January.
We arranged to go home on my next day off so that he could formally ask for my hand. One night William came to meet me on his motor bike and he was wearing an old rubber mackintosh. He had lost the belt and tied some old rope around the waist. No way was he going to show up at home looking like that so we had some serious talk about his sartorial appearance. I determined to take as much trouble with his appearance on the big day as with my own.
On my day off we met in Manchester and instead of going to the bus station went to a stop on the edge of town. It was not a very salubrious part of Manchester and my heart sank when the bus came and the conductor said it was full.
‘Oh please let us on. I’m a nurse – it’s my day off and I’m going home.’ His face softened and he extended his arm to help me up.
‘And I hope your rabbits die!’ came William’s voice from behind.
‘Right! Off!’ The conductor’s face hardened and he almost shoved me off the platform.
I turned to look at William – totally unaware of what he had done.
‘OH WILLIAM!’
Friday, September 29, 2006
Thursday, September 28, 2006
STEPHEN FRY
I watched Stephen Fry's second programme on Manic Depression but this tinme didn't take copious notes. I understood the two prorammes were a quest to discover the right treatment for him - after years of no treatment whatsoever. Although he explored the merits of drug therapy, ECT and cognitive therapy with fellow sufferers he didn't appear to come to any conclusion and one was left hanging.
Or did I miss something?
I watched Stephen Fry's second programme on Manic Depression but this tinme didn't take copious notes. I understood the two prorammes were a quest to discover the right treatment for him - after years of no treatment whatsoever. Although he explored the merits of drug therapy, ECT and cognitive therapy with fellow sufferers he didn't appear to come to any conclusion and one was left hanging.
Or did I miss something?
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
JUST WILLIAM
JUST WILLIAM
By the end of the evening we both knew quite a bit more about each other. William was twenty five – my senior by five years. As Mum said when she first met him,
‘He’s a man Pat, isn’t he?’
He had been in the navy as a rating and was indignant at the amount of space allotted to a rating compared with that of an officer. His brother was a serving officer in the Royal Navy – and was married with two children. William had just left Leeds University (first class Hons) and started an apprenticeship with Metro Vickers.
I found him perfectly natural and easy to talk to and it didn’t occur to either of us to leave each other after that first dance. We arranged to meet in ten days time. William said he had to go back to Leeds to pick up a bookcase and clear things up and I got the impression that he was ending something.
When we met again I was surprised how easily we slipped into a natural relationship with none of the awkwardness one sometimes experienced with a new acquaintance. This felt more like a comfortable old glove. William said there was something he must tell me. He said he had a stammer. Considering we had been talking pretty non-stop since we met, this came as a surprise. His beautiful speaking voice had been the first thing that attracted me to him. However, when he bought some chocolates for the cinema, I saw how bad it could be.
It seemed to vary according to whom he was speaking. It never embarrassed him or stopped him speaking whenever he felt like it. One of his friends told me William had been a member of the Debating Society and when his allotted speaking time was up he said he should have longer because of his stammer. This friend also said he had never seen such a change come over someone, since we had met. His parents – both teachers who had met whilst teaching at a school named Sexeys – had sent him to be treated by Lionel Logue – the man who treated King George V1. However William decided that no ‘trick cyclist’ was going to tell him how to speak so it was a waste of money.
By the end of the evening, on our first date, ten days after we met, William had asked me to marry him which rather took my breath away. I told him about Jamie and said I didn’t think I could ever love anyone else. This didn’t seem to daunt him. He said I probably needed time and he could wait so we decided to wait six months when I would be twenty one in March. Meanwhile we would continue getting to know each other.
Vanessa had started going out with Abe who was at Manchester University and at Christmas the four of us were going to a Fancy Dress Ball. The men had made the minimum of effort – Abe in a Noel Coward dressing gown with a long cigarette holder and William, for no particular reason, in dungarees. Fancy Dress was right up Vanessa’s street and she took charge. I was to be Nell Gwynn complete with oranges, and a purple dress trimmed with white muslin. Vanessa thought it was too prudish and attacked it with a pair of scissors round the neck-line, which left little to the imagination and forced me to stay upright all evening.
Vanessa was magnificent as Cleopatra – draped in a white sheet on which she had painted hieroglyphics with gold paint. Her sandals got the gold paint treatment along with a rubber catheter round her brow which looked exactly like a golden asp.
We had a great time and I felt – amongst all those rowdy students - completely safe with William. At one stage William had gone to get us all a drink and a student grabbed me, lifted me high into the air, spinning me round whilst I desperately tried to keep in my dress. William appeared, gave an almighty roar and the student dropped me and fled.
We were very late back at the hospital and for the first time took advantage of our fire-escape. Abe and William came up too and we gave them a snifter of peach brandy we had bought for a Christmas treat. As we said a lingering good night William shocked me by saying I should make up my mind. If I hadn’t by now that was an answer in itself. In spite of the night cap I didn’t sleep much that night.
By the end of the evening we both knew quite a bit more about each other. William was twenty five – my senior by five years. As Mum said when she first met him,
‘He’s a man Pat, isn’t he?’
He had been in the navy as a rating and was indignant at the amount of space allotted to a rating compared with that of an officer. His brother was a serving officer in the Royal Navy – and was married with two children. William had just left Leeds University (first class Hons) and started an apprenticeship with Metro Vickers.
I found him perfectly natural and easy to talk to and it didn’t occur to either of us to leave each other after that first dance. We arranged to meet in ten days time. William said he had to go back to Leeds to pick up a bookcase and clear things up and I got the impression that he was ending something.
When we met again I was surprised how easily we slipped into a natural relationship with none of the awkwardness one sometimes experienced with a new acquaintance. This felt more like a comfortable old glove. William said there was something he must tell me. He said he had a stammer. Considering we had been talking pretty non-stop since we met, this came as a surprise. His beautiful speaking voice had been the first thing that attracted me to him. However, when he bought some chocolates for the cinema, I saw how bad it could be.
It seemed to vary according to whom he was speaking. It never embarrassed him or stopped him speaking whenever he felt like it. One of his friends told me William had been a member of the Debating Society and when his allotted speaking time was up he said he should have longer because of his stammer. This friend also said he had never seen such a change come over someone, since we had met. His parents – both teachers who had met whilst teaching at a school named Sexeys – had sent him to be treated by Lionel Logue – the man who treated King George V1. However William decided that no ‘trick cyclist’ was going to tell him how to speak so it was a waste of money.
By the end of the evening, on our first date, ten days after we met, William had asked me to marry him which rather took my breath away. I told him about Jamie and said I didn’t think I could ever love anyone else. This didn’t seem to daunt him. He said I probably needed time and he could wait so we decided to wait six months when I would be twenty one in March. Meanwhile we would continue getting to know each other.
Vanessa had started going out with Abe who was at Manchester University and at Christmas the four of us were going to a Fancy Dress Ball. The men had made the minimum of effort – Abe in a Noel Coward dressing gown with a long cigarette holder and William, for no particular reason, in dungarees. Fancy Dress was right up Vanessa’s street and she took charge. I was to be Nell Gwynn complete with oranges, and a purple dress trimmed with white muslin. Vanessa thought it was too prudish and attacked it with a pair of scissors round the neck-line, which left little to the imagination and forced me to stay upright all evening.
Vanessa was magnificent as Cleopatra – draped in a white sheet on which she had painted hieroglyphics with gold paint. Her sandals got the gold paint treatment along with a rubber catheter round her brow which looked exactly like a golden asp.
We had a great time and I felt – amongst all those rowdy students - completely safe with William. At one stage William had gone to get us all a drink and a student grabbed me, lifted me high into the air, spinning me round whilst I desperately tried to keep in my dress. William appeared, gave an almighty roar and the student dropped me and fled.
We were very late back at the hospital and for the first time took advantage of our fire-escape. Abe and William came up too and we gave them a snifter of peach brandy we had bought for a Christmas treat. As we said a lingering good night William shocked me by saying I should make up my mind. If I hadn’t by now that was an answer in itself. In spite of the night cap I didn’t sleep much that night.
JUST WILLIAM
By the end of the evening we both knew quite a bit more about each other. William was twenty five – my senior by five years. As Mum said when she first met him,
‘He’s a man Pat, isn’t he?’
He had been in the navy as a rating and was indignant at the amount of space allotted to a rating compared with that of an officer. His brother was a serving officer in the Royal Navy – and was married with two children. William had just left Leeds University (first class Hons) and started an apprenticeship with Metro Vickers.
I found him perfectly natural and easy to talk to and it didn’t occur to either of us to leave each other after that first dance. We arranged to meet in ten days time. William said he had to go back to Leeds to pick up a bookcase and clear things up and I got the impression that he was ending something.
When we met again I was surprised how easily we slipped into a natural relationship with none of the awkwardness one sometimes experienced with a new acquaintance. This felt more like a comfortable old glove. William said there was something he must tell me. He said he had a stammer. Considering we had been talking pretty non-stop since we met, this came as a surprise. His beautiful speaking voice had been the first thing that attracted me to him. However, when he bought some chocolates for the cinema, I saw how bad it could be.
It seemed to vary according to whom he was speaking. It never embarrassed him or stopped him speaking whenever he felt like it. One of his friends told me William had been a member of the Debating Society and when his allotted speaking time was up he said he should have longer because of his stammer. This friend also said he had never seen such a change come over someone, since we had met. His parents – both teachers who had met whilst teaching at a school named Sexeys – had sent him to be treated by Lionel Logue – the man who treated King George VI. However William decided that no ‘trick cyclist’ was going to tell him how to speak so it was a waste of money.
By the end of the evening, on our first date, ten days after we met, William had asked me to marry him which rather took my breath away. I told him about Jamie and said I didn’t think I could ever love anyone else. This didn’t seem to daunt him. He said I probably needed time and he could wait so we decided to wait six months when I would be twenty one in March. Meanwhile we would continue getting to know each other.
Vanessa had started going out with Abe who was at Manchester University and at Christmas the four of us were going to a Fancy Dress Ball. The men had made the minimum of effort – Abe in a Noel Coward dressing gown with a long cigarette holder and William, for no particular reason, in dungarees. Fancy Dress was right up Vanessa’s street and she took charge. I was to be Nell Gwynn complete with oranges, and a purple dress trimmed with white muslin. Vanessa thought it was too prudish and attacked it with a pair of scissors round the neck-line, which left little to the imagination and forced me to stay upright all evening.
Vanessa was magnificent as Cleopatra – draped in a white sheet on which she had painted hieroglyphics with gold paint. Her sandals got the gold paint treatment along with a rubber catheter round her brow which looked exactly like a golden asp.
We had a great time and I felt – amongst all those rowdy students - completely safe with William. At one stage William had gone to get us all a drink and a student grabbed me, lifted me high into the air, spinning me round whilst I desperately tried to keep in my dress. William appeared, gave an almighty roar and the student dropped me and fled.
We were very late back at the hospital and for the first time took advantage of our fire-escape. Abe and William came up too and we gave them a snifter of peach brandy we had bought for a Christmas treat. As we said a lingering good night William shocked me by saying I should make up my mind. If I hadn’t by now that was an answer in itself. In spite of the night cap I didn’t sleep much that night.
By the end of the evening we both knew quite a bit more about each other. William was twenty five – my senior by five years. As Mum said when she first met him,
‘He’s a man Pat, isn’t he?’
He had been in the navy as a rating and was indignant at the amount of space allotted to a rating compared with that of an officer. His brother was a serving officer in the Royal Navy – and was married with two children. William had just left Leeds University (first class Hons) and started an apprenticeship with Metro Vickers.
I found him perfectly natural and easy to talk to and it didn’t occur to either of us to leave each other after that first dance. We arranged to meet in ten days time. William said he had to go back to Leeds to pick up a bookcase and clear things up and I got the impression that he was ending something.
When we met again I was surprised how easily we slipped into a natural relationship with none of the awkwardness one sometimes experienced with a new acquaintance. This felt more like a comfortable old glove. William said there was something he must tell me. He said he had a stammer. Considering we had been talking pretty non-stop since we met, this came as a surprise. His beautiful speaking voice had been the first thing that attracted me to him. However, when he bought some chocolates for the cinema, I saw how bad it could be.
It seemed to vary according to whom he was speaking. It never embarrassed him or stopped him speaking whenever he felt like it. One of his friends told me William had been a member of the Debating Society and when his allotted speaking time was up he said he should have longer because of his stammer. This friend also said he had never seen such a change come over someone, since we had met. His parents – both teachers who had met whilst teaching at a school named Sexeys – had sent him to be treated by Lionel Logue – the man who treated King George VI. However William decided that no ‘trick cyclist’ was going to tell him how to speak so it was a waste of money.
By the end of the evening, on our first date, ten days after we met, William had asked me to marry him which rather took my breath away. I told him about Jamie and said I didn’t think I could ever love anyone else. This didn’t seem to daunt him. He said I probably needed time and he could wait so we decided to wait six months when I would be twenty one in March. Meanwhile we would continue getting to know each other.
Vanessa had started going out with Abe who was at Manchester University and at Christmas the four of us were going to a Fancy Dress Ball. The men had made the minimum of effort – Abe in a Noel Coward dressing gown with a long cigarette holder and William, for no particular reason, in dungarees. Fancy Dress was right up Vanessa’s street and she took charge. I was to be Nell Gwynn complete with oranges, and a purple dress trimmed with white muslin. Vanessa thought it was too prudish and attacked it with a pair of scissors round the neck-line, which left little to the imagination and forced me to stay upright all evening.
Vanessa was magnificent as Cleopatra – draped in a white sheet on which she had painted hieroglyphics with gold paint. Her sandals got the gold paint treatment along with a rubber catheter round her brow which looked exactly like a golden asp.
We had a great time and I felt – amongst all those rowdy students - completely safe with William. At one stage William had gone to get us all a drink and a student grabbed me, lifted me high into the air, spinning me round whilst I desperately tried to keep in my dress. William appeared, gave an almighty roar and the student dropped me and fled.
We were very late back at the hospital and for the first time took advantage of our fire-escape. Abe and William came up too and we gave them a snifter of peach brandy we had bought for a Christmas treat. As we said a lingering good night William shocked me by saying I should make up my mind. If I hadn’t by now that was an answer in itself. In spite of the night cap I didn’t sleep much that night.
Monday, September 25, 2006
VANESSAAND WILLAM
VANESSA…AND WILLAM
Just as I thought I was going to be friendless along came Vanessa. She had joined the hospital as a second year nurse, having done her general nursing and so was already State Registered. I first noticed her standing languidly by the tea urn in the dining room. She was tall and willowy with blonde hair and only needed a couple of borzoi to be a dead ringer for Diana the Huntress.
I didn’t get to know her until our final year when Home Sister said as we were both senior nurses we would have the privilege of sharing the bedroom in the Admin Block. This room was special; up in the eaves of the main hospital, above sick bay and above the doctor’s quarters – so remote it wasn’t regularly inspected. And it had a fire-escape and a fireplace.
It was a cold October and Vanessa thought it would be fun to have a fire so we would have the luxury of dressing and undressing in the warm. But how on earth would we get the coal up two floors I wondered. Next thing I knew I was following Vanessa down the main corridor, blessing the fact that she was so tall and had been given the longest cloak in the hospital. It reached the floor and completely hid the two buckets of coal she was carrying.
We kept that fire going for three days until Home Sister happened to notice smoke coming from a normally dormant chimney. She was a great sport and after playing hell with us made us promise we would never do it again. Thankfully, she didn’t tell Matron. ( Thanks Sister W). Not all the sisters were so kind and understanding. Vanessa – who the medical staff nick-named Snake- hips was made very unhappy by two bitchy Sisters whose ward she was on and I had a problem with one of the Night Sisters.
Being so isolated we didn’t get the usual wake up call from the maids and had to rely on an ancient alarm clock. It was very large and had two brass bells attached. One morning it didn’t go off and I was late for breakfast. This particular Sister got hold of the alarm clock, managed to get it ringing and to prove her point came striding down the main corridor swinging the pealing clock triumphantly. Once on night duty, she was so unreasonable and unfair that I determined to go to Matron and hand my notice in. Fortunately by the time I came off duty I had calmed down and decided it would be silly to throw all the training away because I had a problem with one Sister. Common sense prevailed.
Compared to the normal Spartan single bedrooms ours had a bohemian feel to it; posters of Margot Fonteyn decorated the walls, there were dried flowers in the fireplace and there was a delicious aroma – a mixture of pot- pourri, fresh fruit and Vanessa’s scent.
In October I decided to go to the hospital dance. I had heard that Andrew had left the area so I wouldn’t bump into him. After a few dances I noticed there was a bunch of chaps who apparently were engineers from Metro –Vickers. One in particular seemed rather ebullient and even went up to Matron to have a chat – a rare occurrence with invited guests. He seemed to stare at me a lot and finally came up and asked for a dance. He told me later he had said no way was he going to ask that conceited looking girl to dance. I had never met anyone quite like him and haven’t to this day. He said his name was William.
Just as I thought I was going to be friendless along came Vanessa. She had joined the hospital as a second year nurse, having done her general nursing and so was already State Registered. I first noticed her standing languidly by the tea urn in the dining room. She was tall and willowy with blonde hair and only needed a couple of borzoi to be a dead ringer for Diana the Huntress.
I didn’t get to know her until our final year when Home Sister said as we were both senior nurses we would have the privilege of sharing the bedroom in the Admin Block. This room was special; up in the eaves of the main hospital, above sick bay and above the doctor’s quarters – so remote it wasn’t regularly inspected. And it had a fire-escape and a fireplace.
It was a cold October and Vanessa thought it would be fun to have a fire so we would have the luxury of dressing and undressing in the warm. But how on earth would we get the coal up two floors I wondered. Next thing I knew I was following Vanessa down the main corridor, blessing the fact that she was so tall and had been given the longest cloak in the hospital. It reached the floor and completely hid the two buckets of coal she was carrying.
We kept that fire going for three days until Home Sister happened to notice smoke coming from a normally dormant chimney. She was a great sport and after playing hell with us made us promise we would never do it again. Thankfully, she didn’t tell Matron. ( Thanks Sister W). Not all the sisters were so kind and understanding. Vanessa – who the medical staff nick-named Snake- hips was made very unhappy by two bitchy Sisters whose ward she was on and I had a problem with one of the Night Sisters.
Being so isolated we didn’t get the usual wake up call from the maids and had to rely on an ancient alarm clock. It was very large and had two brass bells attached. One morning it didn’t go off and I was late for breakfast. This particular Sister got hold of the alarm clock, managed to get it ringing and to prove her point came striding down the main corridor swinging the pealing clock triumphantly. Once on night duty, she was so unreasonable and unfair that I determined to go to Matron and hand my notice in. Fortunately by the time I came off duty I had calmed down and decided it would be silly to throw all the training away because I had a problem with one Sister. Common sense prevailed.
Compared to the normal Spartan single bedrooms ours had a bohemian feel to it; posters of Margot Fonteyn decorated the walls, there were dried flowers in the fireplace and there was a delicious aroma – a mixture of pot- pourri, fresh fruit and Vanessa’s scent.
In October I decided to go to the hospital dance. I had heard that Andrew had left the area so I wouldn’t bump into him. After a few dances I noticed there was a bunch of chaps who apparently were engineers from Metro –Vickers. One in particular seemed rather ebullient and even went up to Matron to have a chat – a rare occurrence with invited guests. He seemed to stare at me a lot and finally came up and asked for a dance. He told me later he had said no way was he going to ask that conceited looking girl to dance. I had never met anyone quite like him and haven’t to this day. He said his name was William.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
A Random Thought
I was reading an article about 'the house guest from hell' by Duncan Wu (do you know him Banana?). It is a crit of the book 'The Friendship: Wordsworth and Coleridge' Wu said 'Read it, not just because it is a colourful tale, but because of what it reveals about the neuroses underpinning the creative impulse.'
I saw my husband was watching Sherlock Holmes played by the late, gifted actor Jeremy Brett. He was bi-polar. Then there was Daniel Day-Lewis who, when playing Hamlet believed the ghost was his dead father and had to leave the production.
It all just seemed very relevant to last weeks post on Stephen Fry.
I was reading an article about 'the house guest from hell' by Duncan Wu (do you know him Banana?). It is a crit of the book 'The Friendship: Wordsworth and Coleridge' Wu said 'Read it, not just because it is a colourful tale, but because of what it reveals about the neuroses underpinning the creative impulse.'
I saw my husband was watching Sherlock Holmes played by the late, gifted actor Jeremy Brett. He was bi-polar. Then there was Daniel Day-Lewis who, when playing Hamlet believed the ghost was his dead father and had to leave the production.
It all just seemed very relevant to last weeks post on Stephen Fry.
Friday, September 22, 2006
NEW FRIENDS
NEW FRIENDS
When I got back from Plas it was my birthday – twenty and still unmarried – unlike Mum and Maddie. I still went out with boys but imagined I would have platonic relationships for the rest of my life. I wasn’t going to mope – just be realistic.
Maddie told me that Liam- Jamie’s elder brother had met a girl at Yale and they were to be married. She and her family had escaped from Austria before the war. So much for his father’s dream of his sons marrying nice Scottish girls. Maddie dropped the bombshell that Paul had got a job in Africa and the three of them were going out there to live. We were all going to miss them – especially Mum and Dad and the Aunts.
Evan had got a serious girl friend and Gran was in the States again so Mum and Dad were having the time of their lives with just themselves to think about. I knew I would never live at home again but felt a bit rudderless. Still I had another year before I had to decide what to do next. I saw much less of Ginny as she was fully occupied with her fiancée. Kate and I were very thankful when August came along and we set off for Plas once more.
Plas was very different in the summer – beautiful gardens, crystal clear views and a great buzz of excitement as people settled in and started getting to know one another. There was a lovely feeling of fellowship and we were excited to hear there was a German Party. I spotted them in the garden bunched together and looking a bit glowery. I cursed the fact that I didn’t know any German except ‘Ich liebe dich’ – the song ‘I love you.’ I went up to a young man with a thunder cloud on his brow and said ‘Ich’ pointing at myself, ‘Pat.’ Then I pointed at him questioningly and said ‘Dich?’- meaning I’m Pat who are you. He beamed from ear to ear and told me, in excellent English that he was Gerhard and – still with a happy smile introduced me to the rest of the party. I’m not sure what he said to them but from then on there was no stand - offishnesss and Germans and British alike spent the next week walking, eating, laughing and praying together. They had all been children during the war – like us, and we were able to rid ourselves of the belief that all Germans were wicked.
We giggled when the boys stood outside serenading us and sang ‘Merrily we Yoll along.’ Instead of’ Roll along.’ There was a lot of joshing and teasing.
One of the Brits was Johnnie – a wag – and the last night he sang a song about all the characters which ended up with a chorus of ‘Pat and Gerhard’ to every body’s amusement and Gerhard demanded a copy. It was the sort of holiday where one felt one loved everybody but it was all light- hearted- nothing serious.
Back in hospital the rest of my set were madly swotting for the Finals in October and I was thankful that I had another six months breathing space. October marked the three years I had been in training and was also the month I was going to meet the whirlwind that was William.
When I got back from Plas it was my birthday – twenty and still unmarried – unlike Mum and Maddie. I still went out with boys but imagined I would have platonic relationships for the rest of my life. I wasn’t going to mope – just be realistic.
Maddie told me that Liam- Jamie’s elder brother had met a girl at Yale and they were to be married. She and her family had escaped from Austria before the war. So much for his father’s dream of his sons marrying nice Scottish girls. Maddie dropped the bombshell that Paul had got a job in Africa and the three of them were going out there to live. We were all going to miss them – especially Mum and Dad and the Aunts.
Evan had got a serious girl friend and Gran was in the States again so Mum and Dad were having the time of their lives with just themselves to think about. I knew I would never live at home again but felt a bit rudderless. Still I had another year before I had to decide what to do next. I saw much less of Ginny as she was fully occupied with her fiancée. Kate and I were very thankful when August came along and we set off for Plas once more.
Plas was very different in the summer – beautiful gardens, crystal clear views and a great buzz of excitement as people settled in and started getting to know one another. There was a lovely feeling of fellowship and we were excited to hear there was a German Party. I spotted them in the garden bunched together and looking a bit glowery. I cursed the fact that I didn’t know any German except ‘Ich liebe dich’ – the song ‘I love you.’ I went up to a young man with a thunder cloud on his brow and said ‘Ich’ pointing at myself, ‘Pat.’ Then I pointed at him questioningly and said ‘Dich?’- meaning I’m Pat who are you. He beamed from ear to ear and told me, in excellent English that he was Gerhard and – still with a happy smile introduced me to the rest of the party. I’m not sure what he said to them but from then on there was no stand - offishnesss and Germans and British alike spent the next week walking, eating, laughing and praying together. They had all been children during the war – like us, and we were able to rid ourselves of the belief that all Germans were wicked.
We giggled when the boys stood outside serenading us and sang ‘Merrily we Yoll along.’ Instead of’ Roll along.’ There was a lot of joshing and teasing.
One of the Brits was Johnnie – a wag – and the last night he sang a song about all the characters which ended up with a chorus of ‘Pat and Gerhard’ to every body’s amusement and Gerhard demanded a copy. It was the sort of holiday where one felt one loved everybody but it was all light- hearted- nothing serious.
Back in hospital the rest of my set were madly swotting for the Finals in October and I was thankful that I had another six months breathing space. October marked the three years I had been in training and was also the month I was going to meet the whirlwind that was William.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Cracking up or Breaking down?
Whilst writing about Jeanette Winterson's break down in my recent post What doesn't kill you I remembered a post I did six years ago after watching Stephen Fry talk about his own problems with manic depression or bipolar disease, as it is now known. It seems just as relevant today so I'm posting it again.
Stephen opened his programme ‘The Secret Life of the Manic Depresssive’by telling us that after three performances of Simon Gray’s ‘Cell Mates’ he had left the West End Theatre and walked out of the play. I knew about this but what I didn’t know was that he took a duvet from his flat to seal the door of his garage and sat in his car for two hours staring at the ignition key. It wasn’t a cry for help, he said; he wanted to kill himself.
He fled to Europe and after a week returned to hospital where – aged thirty seven he was diagnosed as being bipolar. He went for a long break to America asking was he mad and how did he get the disease. He said there are four million people in the UK who suffer from this and many of them may commit suicide. He wanted to know what triggered it, was he getting better or worse and was it the correct diagnosis. He decided to talk to others. He was told in L.A. ‘You don’t need to be gay or Jewish to get on here- just bipolar.’
For years he has kept quiet about his illness but now wants to speak out. He met his friend Robbie Williams in L.A. Robbie had been told he was not manic depressive – just ‘dead upset.’ He said his drug of choice was fantasy to escape depression and boost his self esteem. He lost ‘the cog’ to socialise but could perform brilliantly before thousands of people. He used the classic method of alcohol and drugs. Then he was prescribed anti-depressants and they worked. Stephen said that he was manic in real life.
Stephen next visited Carrie Fisher who, he said lived on the edge of sanity – not mad enough to be hospitalised but not sane enough to live a normal life. She described her ‘highs’ where she is manically enthusiastic about everything and everybody and spins out of control imagining she is getting messages from deep space. She was asked ‘Does your doctor know you behave like this?’ And then she would cry for four hours at a time. She was diagnosed and is on medication but half the sufferers are not diagnosed.
It is not easy to diagnose and Stephen found that a brain scan doesn’t show any difference to a normal brain. He went to Cardiff University where they are trying to find a bipolar gene and had his DNA taken. There isn’t a single bipolar gene and there is no clear cut test. The psychiatrist asked Stephen many questions and built a medical history.
Stephen was nearly expelled from prep school and was from Uppingham. He used to cut games and wander over the rooves of the school. He said he was a ‘show off’ a ‘loud mouth’ and ‘impossible.’ He met his old house master who remembered giving him permission to go to London and he didn’t return. He had been to see ‘Clockwork Orange’ The Metropolitan Police were called and a psychiatrist said he had a mild depressive illness with ‘some brain damage’
He stole although he didn’t need to. The school laid a trap in Matron’s room and everybody was very shocked to discover the thief was Stephen. Stephen said the stealing was ‘nerve wracking but a real buzz.’ It was just called ‘bad behaviour’ He stole credit cards and then had a manic episode aged seventeen where he bought ridiculous suits and drank cocktails at the Savoy. He was arrested and sent to Pucklechurch Prison.
When his mother visited him in prison bringing him crosswords, he was very upset.
He found prison very like boarding school. He reckoned that every five years a ‘huge storm ‘would come. First there would be depression and then 6/12 later a manic phase;’a Tourette's view of yourself – a complete arsehole.’ He attempted suicide.
He travelled again to the USA and found they diagnose children much earlier and thus are treated earlier. In the UK they don’t label sufferers until aged nineteen. He met a family where the two young sons were both bipolar. Some are diagnosed as young as three years.
Stephen thinks that great stress can push you into Manic depression. He suffers great stress before his many public appearances but thinks the illness has probably helped his brilliant career.
He met Rod in Cornwall who had been an officer on the Royal Yacht for four years. He had a break down and went to France where he hallucinated and saw sea gulls as soldiers who had been killed and he thought he was Jesus. He was hospitalised and decided to escape. He walked onto a motorway and stepped in front of a lorry. He showed his mangled legs – a legacy of that incident. That was ten years ago and now he is stabilised. He wouldn’t change his illness because he has ‘walked with angels.’
Stephen interviewed the chef Rick Stein whose father was manic depressive and hurled himself from the cliffs in Cornwall where Rick lives. His concern is if he or his sons would develop the illness. He also spoke to Tony Slatterley who had suddenly plunged into manic depression ‘out of the blue – for no reason.’ He rented a warehouse and stayed alone for months. He called it his dark hour but – like most of the others – if given the choice to get rid of the illness would not.
A young mother knew that pregnancy was very dangerous for her condition and reluctantly decided not to have any more children. It was said that somewhere in the sufferers history there would be another family member who had been bipolar – not necessarily diagnosed.
Another woman in her forties was the one person who bitterly regretted having Manic Depression. ‘I don’t see the future’ she said. She had attempted suicide a number of times – once by using an electric drill in her head.
Stephen reckoned that he was lucky to be at the mild end of Manic Depression but the psychiatrist thought differently and by the end of the programme Stephen said he must consider treatment and that his life needs to change dramatically.
It is not a very cheerful subject but I think Stephen Fry is doing a great service by bringing this out into the open. When families are struck by this illness they shouldn’t have the added burden of having to hide it. I did this post specifically for an overseas friend and apologise for any mistakes but shorthand is all Greek to me.
More information can be got from bbc.co.uk/health.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
STOP PRESS
Just had a letter from Kate further to our chat on Sunday:-
“Sorry about this but have only got your 4 digit telephone number and can’t get through on the phone. Anyway here goes:-
Moel Hebog is the mountain near Beddgelert which you and I went up on our own- coming down into another valley and getting a lift in a P.O. van into a town where we then got to Caernarvon and back to Betws Garmon – having phoned Plas to say we would be late for dinner! Good luck with all your memoirs – what a job
Much love and best wishes.”
So there we are. How could I have forgotten? Anyway I’m sure there was a fog. Strange how history repeats itself – being late or missing dinner and coming down the wrong side of the mountain which I did again years later with Maddie in another part of Wales.
Thanks Kate!
Just had a letter from Kate further to our chat on Sunday:-
“Sorry about this but have only got your 4 digit telephone number and can’t get through on the phone. Anyway here goes:-
Moel Hebog is the mountain near Beddgelert which you and I went up on our own- coming down into another valley and getting a lift in a P.O. van into a town where we then got to Caernarvon and back to Betws Garmon – having phoned Plas to say we would be late for dinner! Good luck with all your memoirs – what a job
Much love and best wishes.”
So there we are. How could I have forgotten? Anyway I’m sure there was a fog. Strange how history repeats itself – being late or missing dinner and coming down the wrong side of the mountain which I did again years later with Maddie in another part of Wales.
Thanks Kate!
Sunday, September 17, 2006
PLAS Y NANT
PLAS Y NANT
6/7/49
“This is just to say that I am not spending all my holiday in a coach. Yesterday I climbed 3576 ‘ to the summit of Snowden where I bought this card. I am coming back tomorrow and will phone about 9pm in the evening (Thursday).
All my love Andrew.”
Looking out photos of Wales I saw one of the mountain Snowden stuck in an old album. After I unglued it I found it was a post-card from Andrew with the above message. I must have received it just before leaving for the fatal holiday with Jamie. It was quite a shock to see his hand-writing – so very different to Jamie’s.
When Kate first showed me a snap of Plas y Nant I knew it was going to be a special place. Betws Garmon is five miles SE of Carnarvan – an area of mountains, llyns, (lakes) waterfalls and glens. Plas itself was a rambling old building in grounds that begged to be explored and with a fantastic view of the Elephant and Llyn Quellyn. In February the Elephant – you can guess its shape - was diamond encrusted as a result of all the minute slivers of ice scattered over it.
Because of the time of year Kate and I were the only guests, with an influx of walkers at the week-end. This didn’t trouble us as we both needed respite and Lena, the manager made sure we got it. It was a Christian Fellowship Home and Kate was a bit worried about my finger nails. Off duty I wore Peggy Sage nail varnish and Kate thought Lena might be shocked. However since my break up with Jamie a bit of steel had entered my soul and I no longer felt obliged to try desperately to please everybody.
Lena was a gentle looking lady –slight, with fuzzy hair and large owlish glasses. She had complete control over all guests at all times, even the rowdy ones in the larger parties. We were privileged to have her undivided attention and I certainly found peace and tranquillity. One of the charming customs of the house – when it was occupied by men and women - was the evening ritual when the men would gather outside the conservatory and serenade the women with ‘Good Night Ladies.’ I can’t remember what we sang to them and neither can Kate.
Our memories are slightly conflicting because I believed we had wandered over the Pyg track – just the two of us – in fog, but Kate said we climbed Snowden in a party. Maybe it was Crib Goch I remember. We certainly climbed at least two mountains, read poetry and enjoyed Knickerbocker Glories in Carnarvan. Lena said we ought to return in the summer when there would be team leaders and graded walks and climbs. This was our final year of training, with more responsibility and lots of studying so we decided to repeat the experiment in the summer and booked then and there.
There were to be a lot of changes in the next few months – some I was aware of and some came as a surprise. One thing was certain, the remaining members of our set would take their finals in October and then leave. I would have to stick it out for another six months when I would be old enough to take State Finals. And then what…?
6/7/49
“This is just to say that I am not spending all my holiday in a coach. Yesterday I climbed 3576 ‘ to the summit of Snowden where I bought this card. I am coming back tomorrow and will phone about 9pm in the evening (Thursday).
All my love Andrew.”
Looking out photos of Wales I saw one of the mountain Snowden stuck in an old album. After I unglued it I found it was a post-card from Andrew with the above message. I must have received it just before leaving for the fatal holiday with Jamie. It was quite a shock to see his hand-writing – so very different to Jamie’s.
When Kate first showed me a snap of Plas y Nant I knew it was going to be a special place. Betws Garmon is five miles SE of Carnarvan – an area of mountains, llyns, (lakes) waterfalls and glens. Plas itself was a rambling old building in grounds that begged to be explored and with a fantastic view of the Elephant and Llyn Quellyn. In February the Elephant – you can guess its shape - was diamond encrusted as a result of all the minute slivers of ice scattered over it.
Because of the time of year Kate and I were the only guests, with an influx of walkers at the week-end. This didn’t trouble us as we both needed respite and Lena, the manager made sure we got it. It was a Christian Fellowship Home and Kate was a bit worried about my finger nails. Off duty I wore Peggy Sage nail varnish and Kate thought Lena might be shocked. However since my break up with Jamie a bit of steel had entered my soul and I no longer felt obliged to try desperately to please everybody.
Lena was a gentle looking lady –slight, with fuzzy hair and large owlish glasses. She had complete control over all guests at all times, even the rowdy ones in the larger parties. We were privileged to have her undivided attention and I certainly found peace and tranquillity. One of the charming customs of the house – when it was occupied by men and women - was the evening ritual when the men would gather outside the conservatory and serenade the women with ‘Good Night Ladies.’ I can’t remember what we sang to them and neither can Kate.
Our memories are slightly conflicting because I believed we had wandered over the Pyg track – just the two of us – in fog, but Kate said we climbed Snowden in a party. Maybe it was Crib Goch I remember. We certainly climbed at least two mountains, read poetry and enjoyed Knickerbocker Glories in Carnarvan. Lena said we ought to return in the summer when there would be team leaders and graded walks and climbs. This was our final year of training, with more responsibility and lots of studying so we decided to repeat the experiment in the summer and booked then and there.
There were to be a lot of changes in the next few months – some I was aware of and some came as a surprise. One thing was certain, the remaining members of our set would take their finals in October and then leave. I would have to stick it out for another six months when I would be old enough to take State Finals. And then what…?
SUNDAY
SUNDAY
Must be sure to watch BBC2 9pm on Tuesday 19th. The documentary of the week is: Stephen Fry: the Secret Life of the Manic Depressive.
Banana thought I was heartless when I said it was unprofessional of Fry to walk out of a new play thereby causing job losses etc etc. I come from the school that the show must go on no matter what and have enormous sympathy with a writer whose play is sabotaged. Also the author – who I haven’t seen since he was eighteen, was a distant family member and I was very fond of his late mother.
I have seen this awful illness at close quarters and anyone who suffers from it has my total sympathy.
Must be sure to watch BBC2 9pm on Tuesday 19th. The documentary of the week is: Stephen Fry: the Secret Life of the Manic Depressive.
Banana thought I was heartless when I said it was unprofessional of Fry to walk out of a new play thereby causing job losses etc etc. I come from the school that the show must go on no matter what and have enormous sympathy with a writer whose play is sabotaged. Also the author – who I haven’t seen since he was eighteen, was a distant family member and I was very fond of his late mother.
I have seen this awful illness at close quarters and anyone who suffers from it has my total sympathy.
Friday, September 15, 2006
FRIDAY
FRIDAY
Today is another girl’s day out as a result of two birthdays in the same month. However the driver has fallen and wrenched her ankle, whilst gardening in the dusk (wet steps) so I shall be driving and must remember not to have any wine at lunch time. It would make more sense to postpone - thrice I have tried walking on crutches - but then older ladies are not always as sensible as one would hope.
On Monday the prevaricating will end and (DV) I shall continue with the story. Have a good week-end and don’t be late.
Today is another girl’s day out as a result of two birthdays in the same month. However the driver has fallen and wrenched her ankle, whilst gardening in the dusk (wet steps) so I shall be driving and must remember not to have any wine at lunch time. It would make more sense to postpone - thrice I have tried walking on crutches - but then older ladies are not always as sensible as one would hope.
On Monday the prevaricating will end and (DV) I shall continue with the story. Have a good week-end and don’t be late.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
TRAGIC LOVE
TRAGIC LOVE
“Then, must you speak
Of one that lov’d not wisely but too well.”
‘Othello’
by William Shakespeare
Possibly the most famous fictional example of tragic love was that of the star-crossed teenagers from feuding families in Verona. Each died by their own hand after a fatal misunderstanding: Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.
Many years ago I wandered round the coast of Brittany looking for relics of Peter Abelard. The true story of Peter Abelard and Eloise happened in medieval times. Eloise was eighteen and Abelard, who was fifty-one, was employed as her tutor. He was a philosopher and a priest but they embarked on an illicit love affair, were secretly married and Eloise became pregnant. Her uncle found out and had Abelard castrated and Eloise dispatched to a nunnery. For the rest of their lives the only contact was by letters. In 1817 Abelard’s body was transferred to Pere la Chaise where the lovers lie together at last.
Two later examples of tragic love that have always intrigued me were that of the Fitzgerald’s and the Hughes – possibly because they were all writers. The Fitzgerald’s: Scott and Zelda were a fabulous couple in the twenties. They were the epitome of ‘the beautiful people’ and were feted in New York and Europe. Picasso, Hemingway and Isadora Duncan were intimates and they were adopted by a wealthy couple – the Murphy’s so that life was one long party. However the marriage was flawed by jealousy on both sides, Scott’s escalating alcoholism and Zelda’s bipolar tendencies which developed into schizophrenia. Scott’s novels ‘The Beautiful and the Damned’ and ‘Tender is the Night’ earned him fame with Zelda always desperately trying to emulate him with her ‘Save the Last Waltz for Me.’
Scott was cruelly dismissive of her talent and she ended her life in a sanatorium which tragically caught fire. Scott went to Hollywood as a screen writer and slowly drank himself to death. Many years later I was thrilled to meet the brother of a friend of my sister in New York who had been at Princeton with Scott. He wasn’t very talkative but did say that Scott – even then - burnt the candle at both ends and was ‘overly sentimental’.
The true story of Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath has always fascinated me. It was bound to be an exciting liaison with his fierce talent and hawkish good looks and her tortured genius and fragile beauty. The first time they met at a party she bit his neck till it bled.
Ted Hughes – a Yorkshire man - was born in the bleak landscape of the Calder Valley. Four months after he met Sylvia they were married and had a creative partnership. They had two children but there was a lot of emotional pressure and Ted started an affair with a family friend Assia. Sylvia found out and was destroyed. Six years after they were married she gassed herself aged thirty.
I made a pilgrimage to her grave in Heptonstall (and round about the same time visited Abelard’s grave in France) and after attending a lecture on Plath given by a feminist I felt very anti- Hughes but over the years became more understanding. However just recently I have been reading ‘A Lover of Unreason: the Life and Tragic Death of Assia Wevill’, by Yehuda Koren and Eilat Negev.
As the writers say ‘we reveal how the couple’s tempestuous relationship and his serial infidelity led her to kill herself-and their little daughter.’
After reading this I am vacillating once more. I cannot subscribe to the maxim that genius entitles you to behave like a monster. One paragraph had particular resonance for me:-
‘On Saturday morning, March 22, she and Ted bid each other goodbye at Manchester station. Assia boarded the train to London, and he travelled to Devon. She seemed to him to be in good spirits. However, her au pair, Else, had a different impression.’
The next evening Assia took her sleeping daughter into the kitchen, switched on the cooker and lay down to die.
Which is what started me on this ramble of ‘Tragic Love’. I promise I’ll write something more cheerful next time.
“Then, must you speak
Of one that lov’d not wisely but too well.”
‘Othello’
by William Shakespeare
Possibly the most famous fictional example of tragic love was that of the star-crossed teenagers from feuding families in Verona. Each died by their own hand after a fatal misunderstanding: Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.
Many years ago I wandered round the coast of Brittany looking for relics of Peter Abelard. The true story of Peter Abelard and Eloise happened in medieval times. Eloise was eighteen and Abelard, who was fifty-one, was employed as her tutor. He was a philosopher and a priest but they embarked on an illicit love affair, were secretly married and Eloise became pregnant. Her uncle found out and had Abelard castrated and Eloise dispatched to a nunnery. For the rest of their lives the only contact was by letters. In 1817 Abelard’s body was transferred to Pere la Chaise where the lovers lie together at last.
Two later examples of tragic love that have always intrigued me were that of the Fitzgerald’s and the Hughes – possibly because they were all writers. The Fitzgerald’s: Scott and Zelda were a fabulous couple in the twenties. They were the epitome of ‘the beautiful people’ and were feted in New York and Europe. Picasso, Hemingway and Isadora Duncan were intimates and they were adopted by a wealthy couple – the Murphy’s so that life was one long party. However the marriage was flawed by jealousy on both sides, Scott’s escalating alcoholism and Zelda’s bipolar tendencies which developed into schizophrenia. Scott’s novels ‘The Beautiful and the Damned’ and ‘Tender is the Night’ earned him fame with Zelda always desperately trying to emulate him with her ‘Save the Last Waltz for Me.’
Scott was cruelly dismissive of her talent and she ended her life in a sanatorium which tragically caught fire. Scott went to Hollywood as a screen writer and slowly drank himself to death. Many years later I was thrilled to meet the brother of a friend of my sister in New York who had been at Princeton with Scott. He wasn’t very talkative but did say that Scott – even then - burnt the candle at both ends and was ‘overly sentimental’.
The true story of Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath has always fascinated me. It was bound to be an exciting liaison with his fierce talent and hawkish good looks and her tortured genius and fragile beauty. The first time they met at a party she bit his neck till it bled.
Ted Hughes – a Yorkshire man - was born in the bleak landscape of the Calder Valley. Four months after he met Sylvia they were married and had a creative partnership. They had two children but there was a lot of emotional pressure and Ted started an affair with a family friend Assia. Sylvia found out and was destroyed. Six years after they were married she gassed herself aged thirty.
I made a pilgrimage to her grave in Heptonstall (and round about the same time visited Abelard’s grave in France) and after attending a lecture on Plath given by a feminist I felt very anti- Hughes but over the years became more understanding. However just recently I have been reading ‘A Lover of Unreason: the Life and Tragic Death of Assia Wevill’, by Yehuda Koren and Eilat Negev.
As the writers say ‘we reveal how the couple’s tempestuous relationship and his serial infidelity led her to kill herself-and their little daughter.’
After reading this I am vacillating once more. I cannot subscribe to the maxim that genius entitles you to behave like a monster. One paragraph had particular resonance for me:-
‘On Saturday morning, March 22, she and Ted bid each other goodbye at Manchester station. Assia boarded the train to London, and he travelled to Devon. She seemed to him to be in good spirits. However, her au pair, Else, had a different impression.’
The next evening Assia took her sleeping daughter into the kitchen, switched on the cooker and lay down to die.
Which is what started me on this ramble of ‘Tragic Love’. I promise I’ll write something more cheerful next time.
Monday, September 11, 2006
DARTMOOR
DARTMOOR
“The last great wilderness in Southern England.”
For the last week, home has been Garden Cottage – a thatched, granite, Devon longhouse which has been dated by archaeologists as 13C. A longhouse is a single storey building consisting of three rooms and a cross passage (although it seemed quite amiable to us. Sorry!) Our living room would have been the ‘hall room’ the kitchen and bathroom the ‘inner room’ and the two bedrooms were the ‘shippon’ which housed the cattle. The cattle would be tethered from the wall with an open drainage channel down the centre. Lying in the four-poster in the dark one imagined one could feel the friendly spirits of the animals.
The owners John and Maureen had made the cottage charming – beautifully presented – a great pile of logs, umbrellas in the hall and hotties in the wardrobe. (OK Hoss that is a hot-water bottle.) Little touches like a plug, a mirror and a stool the right height so one could blow- dry one’s hair in comfort – dryer provided- was a rare touch of genius. The cottage had a small garden but John and Maureen allowed us to use theirs which had a petanque court and an arbour which was the perfect spot for meditation, overlooking a pool. Their dog Poppy and five cats were friendly but were not allowed to invade the cottage.
We were just a 100 yards from the open moor and wandering one evening I realised the dangers of wandering in a mist as a grassy meadow suddenly gave way to a steep escarpment. Thankfully it was quite clear at the time. The mood of the moor can change in an instant and the rule is – never wander without a compass, map and mobile phone and let someone know where you are going.
The village of Belstone had a church, a pub, village green and a post office. In the church MTL and I each had a fright as something brushed against my leg as I was deep in reverie ( I thought I’d had a Divine Visitation) and MTL had it jump on his knee – the Belstone cat that is. The pub – the Three Tors is like a Tardis – looks quite small but goes back forever and serves good food including ‘Tomato and Basil’ sandwiches, which reminded me of Aunty Marianne. By the way it was great to hear Zoë and the Twat on Radio 4. They both sounded jolly and nice.
Okehampton is within easy reach and they are rightly proud of their Waitrose Store. Food was not a problem except that we ate too much so I tried to get some walking in often leaving MTL as anchor man. This would have worked better if I had remembered to take a phone. I had to get a photo of one of the Tors which meant getting up close and personal on the Moor. On a glorious day I reached one where I could see Plymouth Sound and the rivers Tamar and Tavy. This was a blessing because when I reach a goal I get excited and scamper round – lose my bearings and take the wrong path.
We saw the Two Bridges Hotel where Vivien Leigh was said to have ‘naughty week-ends’ and lunched at the Dartmoor Inn which is close to Merivale Rows or the Plague Market. This is where farmers left their produce to be collected by the people from ‘plague ridden Tavistock’ in 1625. I love the way the moor looms up on the horizon – sometimes menacing and ominous and sometimes inviting you to explore the most glorious playground. I love Exmoor but Dartmoor has that ‘mean, moody and magnificent’ demeanour.
“The last great wilderness in Southern England.”
For the last week, home has been Garden Cottage – a thatched, granite, Devon longhouse which has been dated by archaeologists as 13C. A longhouse is a single storey building consisting of three rooms and a cross passage (although it seemed quite amiable to us. Sorry!) Our living room would have been the ‘hall room’ the kitchen and bathroom the ‘inner room’ and the two bedrooms were the ‘shippon’ which housed the cattle. The cattle would be tethered from the wall with an open drainage channel down the centre. Lying in the four-poster in the dark one imagined one could feel the friendly spirits of the animals.
The owners John and Maureen had made the cottage charming – beautifully presented – a great pile of logs, umbrellas in the hall and hotties in the wardrobe. (OK Hoss that is a hot-water bottle.) Little touches like a plug, a mirror and a stool the right height so one could blow- dry one’s hair in comfort – dryer provided- was a rare touch of genius. The cottage had a small garden but John and Maureen allowed us to use theirs which had a petanque court and an arbour which was the perfect spot for meditation, overlooking a pool. Their dog Poppy and five cats were friendly but were not allowed to invade the cottage.
We were just a 100 yards from the open moor and wandering one evening I realised the dangers of wandering in a mist as a grassy meadow suddenly gave way to a steep escarpment. Thankfully it was quite clear at the time. The mood of the moor can change in an instant and the rule is – never wander without a compass, map and mobile phone and let someone know where you are going.
The village of Belstone had a church, a pub, village green and a post office. In the church MTL and I each had a fright as something brushed against my leg as I was deep in reverie ( I thought I’d had a Divine Visitation) and MTL had it jump on his knee – the Belstone cat that is. The pub – the Three Tors is like a Tardis – looks quite small but goes back forever and serves good food including ‘Tomato and Basil’ sandwiches, which reminded me of Aunty Marianne. By the way it was great to hear Zoë and the Twat on Radio 4. They both sounded jolly and nice.
Okehampton is within easy reach and they are rightly proud of their Waitrose Store. Food was not a problem except that we ate too much so I tried to get some walking in often leaving MTL as anchor man. This would have worked better if I had remembered to take a phone. I had to get a photo of one of the Tors which meant getting up close and personal on the Moor. On a glorious day I reached one where I could see Plymouth Sound and the rivers Tamar and Tavy. This was a blessing because when I reach a goal I get excited and scamper round – lose my bearings and take the wrong path.
We saw the Two Bridges Hotel where Vivien Leigh was said to have ‘naughty week-ends’ and lunched at the Dartmoor Inn which is close to Merivale Rows or the Plague Market. This is where farmers left their produce to be collected by the people from ‘plague ridden Tavistock’ in 1625. I love the way the moor looms up on the horizon – sometimes menacing and ominous and sometimes inviting you to explore the most glorious playground. I love Exmoor but Dartmoor has that ‘mean, moody and magnificent’ demeanour.
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