Racing Chihuahua

A tiring weekend. A physical and emotional battering. A hard Monday ahead. Feet hit the carpet exactly half an hour before the lift was due. Our little corner of the south east get seated together in Church and there was comfort in that. In the face of a friend and neighbour under 40 lying in a box, with three kids under ten minus their Dad comfort was sorely needed. So there we were in a Catholic Church filled to the rafters. Unsure of all the ritual, helping each other out, trying to hold it together and most of us weren’t succeeding. His widow and 9 year old daughter were however. Astonishingly, beautifully and bravely which made us weep all the more. Tissues were passed, hands held, hugs shared.

Home, drained. Force myself out for a dunk ‘n sizzle to soothe the soul and repair some of the damage from the weekend. Home again, unsoothed. Foetal position, lights off, night drenching the sky obliterating the light , darkness pouring in through the window, the radio murmuring softly but unheard. Sad, lonely, missing the friends that moved, wondering if ‘S’ i’s still up, looking at the clock thinking ‘too late to knock on doors belonging to people with three year olds’. Time passes in sad thoughts and regrets.

And there’s a tap on the door and there ‘S’ in her pj’s sad too, proffering wine and company. We put the world back to together with sticking plaster and have a quiet ‘wake’ in honour of our departed friend. I’m fed bits and bobs cut into tiny portions (S is hard-wired for feeding little people). More hugs and we both get *effectively* drunk. I’m lucky, I have a community. I guess I’d not realised but this place has ceased to be the prison of illness and misery that was firmly entrenched in my head. It’s not perfect. It doesn’t have the big skies and open spaces I crave, nor a sea to breathe by but it truly is the place I call home.

From the Times Online:

”At the end of a garden path, in a home-made observatory overlooking Wee Glenamour Loch, there is an air of expectancy among a gaggle of astronomers.  Not because it’s a good night for stargazing. It’s not: the skies are leaden and the rain is falling in stair-rods. But here, on the edge of the Galloway Forest Park, locals are preparing to celebrate its recognition as a Dark-Sky Park, an award unique in Europe, that will rank this lonely corner of southwest Scotland alongside only two other areas in the world.

Next month, the International Dark-Sky Association — based in Tucson, Arizona — will convene to ratify the report of its inspectors in Britain. Final tests, which begin tonight in the shrouded hills of Glen Trool, are almost certain to confirm a first batch of readings that registered parts of the vast and lonely forest at Bortle 2 on the international darkness scale.

Bortle 2 is as dark as it gets on dry land; only in the middle of the ocean, where light pollution is entirely absent, could you experience the profound blackness of Bortle 1. There will be a little bit of pride. I will be able to say ‘I live in the dark-sky park’ and I’ll push it for all its worth,” says Robin Bellerby, 69, a former headmaster and chairman of the Wigtownshire Astronomical Society…

Barring perhaps Cape Wrath, the most remote point of mainland Britain, nothing compares with Galloway for astronomers. Far from large towns and cities — Glasgow and Edinburgh are over the hills and more than two hours to the north — and with the atmosphere cleansed by frequent rain, the quality of darkness is exceptional.”

How utterly ace.

The radio’s still faintly playing the slow, lazy, heat-haze pick n’ mix of songs. Summer slumbers, still making blue skies and sunshine in her sleep. But there’s no mistaking Autumn. She’s already been in and put the first cup gently down, tip-toed out dropping drifts of leaves from orange skirts, exhaling damp earth, drawing cool mornings with long pale fingers.

So make the most of it whilst Summer still sleeps, breath deep the slight scent of lingering sunshine, scatter your tyres with dust whilst you can because Autum’s in the wings, ready with that second cup. And then Summer will peer blearily at the season’s clock, stretch out nut brown arms to gather in her skirts, and with them the sunshine and the flowers. The warmth will seep away, the heavy indigo will fade making way for brittle blue. She’ll leave softly making way for Autum to soothe the trees to sleep, rustling quietly past, cold breath hanging heavy in the air. She’ll have her moment and she has pleasures of her own: the cold start snapping you from your sleep and the pleasure of the still just warm afternoon.

Then in the blink of an eye Winter will be hammering on the door, dragging mud across the carpets, rain running off his great-coat, depositing cases full of doom and gloom. He’ll stomp on the trails in hob-nailed boots, freeze your toes, scratch frost across your window panes and drag the skies with grey. Just once in a while a smile will crack his craggy features and the skies will spread with blue, the sun will sink low and spread the land with ice cold honey from bees with frost coated wings.

Italy 1992, 2:00 am

Living hell boarded the train somewhere between Aora and Bologna. Where there was tranquility, darkness and the ignorant bliss of sleep came light, chaos and undignified waking. The noise and attitude of seven, very black, very female with a capital ‘F’, foghorns raised in tribal chaos burst into our compartment and proceeded to make themselves comfortable whilst making us very uncomfortable. Carol rapidly retreated into her sleeping bag and I conducted a non-verbal battle of wills over the window, light and silence. All of which I eventually got but not quickly enough…..

Later that day:

We learnt the hard way if some one offers you accommodation at a reasonable price, close to the centre of town just take it. By the time we’d walked half-way across Rome in the searing heat and queued for a room we weren’t allowed to take (it was a YHA and we weren’t) then found another, after a hair-raising whistle stop tour of the city in a taxi (traffic lights have no practical use in Italy aside perhaps for ornamentation) there was little time or energy left for exploring. So we set off in search of a swimming pool with the hostel ’staff’ (ie a stalled traveller) Simon the ‘water-diviner’. His divination was 100% accurate, but unfortunately it didn’t extend to opening times. As you’d obviously *expect* on a national holiday, in mid summer in the capital of Italy, all of the pools, including Mussolini’s grand masterpiece, were well shut, very shut.

There’s a blue fug coming out of the study. Deep breath, tentatively proffer help. My Dad appears to have broken the Ryanair site.

Give up on IE, download Firefox (if in doubt try another page) and we’re away. His gnat like attention span rapidly wanes and he hasn’t got his glasses so can’t read the numbers off his credit card. Ask his disappearing pride what his mobile number is for the contacts. He doesn’t know. No surprise there then, but I’m bemused by the instruction to look at the back of the phone.  Huh?

Deep joy……  both parents have labels stuck to the back of their phones with their ‘address book’ (including their own numbers) written in tiny wee writing….

Contemplate the fact they’ve mastered the light switches in er a new light. Muse further on the fact that my Dad’s allowed to operate complicated medical machinery and doesn’t appear to have killed anyone yet.

Finally understand where my deeply ingrained Ludditism (sp) stems from… as much chance a a cat versus a pitbull.

Oh lordy, the bar’s been set high. I can’t possibly reach. Stress-bunny hoppity- hop and worry through the week. Braved ‘hell in four walls’ for the shopping. Promptly obliged to spend several ‘packing’ hours de-stressing, with a tube of Autosol and a tub of Turtle Wax. All dressed up and finally ready to rock.

Makin calls not convinced, my reputation for concertina-time keeping preceding me. ” No really, on the road an hour, but I’m in the ‘minor. ” “Oh well we’ll see you tomorrow ” he says. “Sod” I said, but the sod was right. Performance anxiety out the window in the face of simply trying to turn up.

Bad time to do ‘girl’. Stranded on the hard-shoulder in a skirt and inappropriate shoes. The local ‘garage’ not the AA arrive. They’re not fooling anyone, I’ve got a bigger tool box. Flat-bed to Reading to meet Keith. He did his best. After every patient fettle I putter round the lorry park trying to get Euston to cruising speed, dodging HGV’s and their bemused occupants. No dice. We were supposed to get back on the motorway heading for home. In the mess of the moment I didn’t notice we’d neither gone over or under it.. Keith took it well and we had another fettle in Newbury before trying to head back in the right / wrong direction. Eventually we do, attached to the back of the van. Keith got a hug. It was that or tears.

Five hours after leaving and back to the beginning. Frantically disengage the Moggy, unload and load up the Subie. Inevitably we’re running on empty, double back for petrol. Midnightish and finally on the road (again). Total disbelief , we have full beams or side-lights, what else can possibly go… Ramp them down. To no avail, for 200 miles I’m upsetting everything with functional lights. “I know! If could explain you’d understand, but I can’t and I’m sorry but there’s nothing, absolutely nothing I can do”. Fog rolls in nose glued to the windscreen hearing chords on well thumbed CD’s I’ve not heard before. Given that I’m stone cold sober and the only thing I’m high on is coffee this is not good.

It’s 50mph for what feels like most of Wales, hunched over the wheel a ball of stress. Finally, gratefully turn off the M4. My insides lurch remembering what my mind thought it had forgotten. Head up the valley, unsettled. There’s a low shadowy shape in the road. Thud. I should go back, but I can’t face it. Pray it wasn’t someone’s dog, try not to sob. Lost halfway up a forest road my mobile runs out of credit (well it would wouldn’t it).

The cavalry arrive in a spray of headlights, noise and gravel. Tim’s a ray of sunshine and a hug. Despite the fact that his car is wearing a landrover shaped dent he’s happy, as is everyone else. Phew. It’s 2am, two-hundred miles have taken nine hours. Raoul produces food, wine’s poured. Then it’s seriously silly o’clock , we’re down to three. Makin pulls the ‘lets wait for the sun to get up’ card. Brain shot through with lack of sleep, travelling and gin. And it’s wonderful in it’s insanity and it’s beauty.

Some snatched sleep and eventually we head out. The fast boys long gone. And oh to be back – the trails had matured and laid themselves back into the landscape. A gawky teenager all grown up. The cafe full of people and bikes. Re-united with old friends, not quite forgotten but lost along the way. Folk are met, people randomly arrive, skin gets lost, ribs get broken. A long way from perfect but still oh so lovely. Monday clinging on by my fingernails and a long, lazy, gentle chat in the blistering sunshine (is this really Wales..). I’m not ready to go and somehow I’m in a cemetery overlooking the steelworks, hugging a stranger both of us welling up. Bitter-sweet, salt and honey.

As someone said “hugs hunny, it’s been emotional”.

Woke up to find Mr Shattered was still in town and the come down from the weekend was still whirling through my mind, alongside the usual rubbish. Too much dust crowded in too small a sliver. Fretted and fought through the day.

Told to deploy bike. Feigned exhaustion, the usual excuses but nipping out on the grounds that it was quicker than walking made it a done deal. Home to grab the necessary and as per instructions , pedaled slowly through the heat to loosen up the legs and slowly unfetter the mind*

Sub-marine  green woods. Blue skies. Heavy, comfortable blanket of heat. Bonus: baby black bunny and a pair Red Kites soaring over a just nude field. Sun sitting in the river. Grass grown long enough to hold hands between hedgerows. Dragonflies. Long-horned cattle cooling their feet for Constable. Balm.

If in doubt, any doubt, simply apply bike.

*There’s a streak of poetry in that Scottish soul and just occasionally a smattering of sense

(gentle smiley deployed)

Funny old day Sunday. I woke up to blue skies and sunshine but with only one thought in my mind and the utter conviction that it was the right time but I procrastinated and dithered. I’d missed the moment and I knew it.

So I fussed and flapped and got myself in a right old two and eight. Then it came to me that although I was tired, dog tired with quietly throbbing legs that I needed to ride and that I’d somehow salvage something from the day. So I grabbed the courier bag and crosser and set off to do some errands. And I was right. It was hot, the skies and sunlight were postively Mediterranean. Everywhere looked and felt ‘unfamiliar’. Slow and sophorific like the world and it’s contents were saturated, slowed and heavy from the sun. And it wasn’t just the rose tinted glow from wearing shades. The usual trails felt different, looked different, the folk I met were different. I felt like a tourist in my local town which was quiet, slow and strangely lovely even in it’s ugliness.

Was it special or was in just in my head? Who knows, but I’m glad I made the effort just to get out there and wander, explore it a little. Moments like that are to be savoured. Supped slowly to let the flavours resonate. I have the luxury of time, time to take that moment, cup it in my hands and wonder at it. For that I’m grateful (and quite possibly barking).