Life improves, and - although I am so behind with everything that it's hard to tell - things are clearly much easier than they were six months ago. Husband's leg is very much better. He is walking (albeit still with a limp), and continuing to make gradual progress. The small boy has started at his sisters' school, which has had a very positive effect on all our lives. I have work coming out of my ears (which is a very good thing, and I am not complaining...).
I am heading to Scotland next month for a chunk of respite care in the arms of my beloved mountains - I wasn't planning to take the laptop, but am tempted to try writing something; I have not written a word since January, which saddens me, as my head is bursting with stories of many kinds. I am struggling a bit with my OU course (it always comes bottom of the list), but loving it when I can settle to a few hours of linear recurrence series and the like ;o) On the flip side, the smaller girl has broken her arm (less said about that the better!), and I injured my eye last week - but we are both healing well!
Looking forward to a better year :o)
Showing posts with label Scotland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scotland. Show all posts
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Thursday, September 08, 2011
Where was I?
He phoned just before 4pm.
"I've crashed, " he said.
Being married to a man who loves his sports cars (not to mention the motorbikes) means that I've been expecting this call for nearly seventeen years. When it finally came, I was grateful he'd phoned me himself, having hung up on the emergency services lest they get to me first.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"I'm fine," he replied, "but I think I've hurt my foot."
I had a little panic then: this is a man who could slice off his finger and mention only a small cut.
"What sort of hurt-your-foot," I asked.
"It hurts when I move it, and I'm stuck."
Poor lamb. He was stuck in the wreckage for over an hour while they searched for him (he didn't know exactly where he was, and his satnav had been flung out by the force of the impact). Eventually, he was spotted by a kindly farmer, bumbling along on his tractor, who noticed something unusual sticking out of the hedge...
Altogether, he broke three bones; one of them in four places, and the 'hurt foot' required a major reconstruction of his lower left leg. Three months, and three operations later (so far), it remains encased in a steel frame (with all kinds of exciting bits to twiddle). He doesn't get much pain now, he says, and has stopped swearing at his leg, but I can tell you he swears a lot at his crutches instead.
Now he's past the seriously-injured stage (sleeps well, can stay awake all day, isn't popping pills every hour), he's reached the frustration stage. He thinks he's better (which is laughable), and being a man, he's trying to get on with Normal Life. Only he can't. Not even nearly. Hence the swearing. This is at least as hard to live with as having a fragile, bed-bound, smashed-up invalid in the house.
He's getting better. Not day-to-day, or even week-to-week, but if we look back a month, he's much better than he was. Eighteen months, the consultant said, and we've done two of them already.
--------------------------------------------
These people have made it all possible: the Brighton Orthopaedic Trauma Team, who are talented and lovely with it; Queenie, who thinks she's neglected me, but has just been wonderful; Jane and Angie who have picked up so many pieces I've lost count; my dad, who paid for a cleaning fairy; and my kids, who stepped up to the mark when I needed them to.
"I've crashed, " he said.
Being married to a man who loves his sports cars (not to mention the motorbikes) means that I've been expecting this call for nearly seventeen years. When it finally came, I was grateful he'd phoned me himself, having hung up on the emergency services lest they get to me first.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"I'm fine," he replied, "but I think I've hurt my foot."
I had a little panic then: this is a man who could slice off his finger and mention only a small cut.
"What sort of hurt-your-foot," I asked.
"It hurts when I move it, and I'm stuck."
Poor lamb. He was stuck in the wreckage for over an hour while they searched for him (he didn't know exactly where he was, and his satnav had been flung out by the force of the impact). Eventually, he was spotted by a kindly farmer, bumbling along on his tractor, who noticed something unusual sticking out of the hedge...
Altogether, he broke three bones; one of them in four places, and the 'hurt foot' required a major reconstruction of his lower left leg. Three months, and three operations later (so far), it remains encased in a steel frame (with all kinds of exciting bits to twiddle). He doesn't get much pain now, he says, and has stopped swearing at his leg, but I can tell you he swears a lot at his crutches instead.
Now he's past the seriously-injured stage (sleeps well, can stay awake all day, isn't popping pills every hour), he's reached the frustration stage. He thinks he's better (which is laughable), and being a man, he's trying to get on with Normal Life. Only he can't. Not even nearly. Hence the swearing. This is at least as hard to live with as having a fragile, bed-bound, smashed-up invalid in the house.
He's getting better. Not day-to-day, or even week-to-week, but if we look back a month, he's much better than he was. Eighteen months, the consultant said, and we've done two of them already.
--------------------------------------------
These people have made it all possible: the Brighton Orthopaedic Trauma Team, who are talented and lovely with it; Queenie, who thinks she's neglected me, but has just been wonderful; Jane and Angie who have picked up so many pieces I've lost count; my dad, who paid for a cleaning fairy; and my kids, who stepped up to the mark when I needed them to.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Correction...
Forget gruelling... I had a fantastic weekend!
I left home on Friday evening, and caught the Caledonian sleeper from Euston. After an unusually restless night (despite having a cabin to myself), I arrived in Aviemore early the next morning with only a few hours sleep in the bag. My mate picked me up from the station (and took me for a slap-up breakfast, bless him), and we headed into the hills for a little stroll before the Scottish Bikeathon the next day. The weather was foul (8h spent inside the bloody rain cloud), but the mountains were conquered regardless!
We camped out before getting up at 5.30am to make it back to civilisation in time for the Bikeathon. The ride (26 miles) was loads of fun, and we met up with other friends for lunch half way round. A huge thank you is due to all of you who sponsored me; I raised £600 (at the last count), and the event as a whole raised over £35,000 for Leukaemia & Lymphoma Research.
We needed a beer after the ride, and some food, so we headed for the pub. Sometime later, and because we'd all had a few drinks the reasons are too complicated to explain, we ended up (suitably dressed, if I remember rightly) in the pub's outdoor hot-tub with several other friends. An hour and a half later...
We still needed to find some food, and somewhere to stop for the night, so it seemed like a good idea (at the time) to gate-crash a nearby music fest. There was food [tick], more beer [tick], and camping [tick tick]. We also discovered Charlie Mckerron was playing; this was a particular treat, because not only is he a first-rate fiddle player, he's also rather a dish.
With another early start to catch my train the next morning I was desperately short of sleep, but it was more than worth it! And it was all in a good cause after all.
If you'd still like to contribute to my sponsorship fund, you can do so here: http://www.justgiving.com/leighforbes.
I left home on Friday evening, and caught the Caledonian sleeper from Euston. After an unusually restless night (despite having a cabin to myself), I arrived in Aviemore early the next morning with only a few hours sleep in the bag. My mate picked me up from the station (and took me for a slap-up breakfast, bless him), and we headed into the hills for a little stroll before the Scottish Bikeathon the next day. The weather was foul (8h spent inside the bloody rain cloud), but the mountains were conquered regardless!We camped out before getting up at 5.30am to make it back to civilisation in time for the Bikeathon. The ride (26 miles) was loads of fun, and we met up with other friends for lunch half way round. A huge thank you is due to all of you who sponsored me; I raised £600 (at the last count), and the event as a whole raised over £35,000 for Leukaemia & Lymphoma Research.We needed a beer after the ride, and some food, so we headed for the pub. Sometime later, and because we'd all had a few drinks the reasons are too complicated to explain, we ended up (suitably dressed, if I remember rightly) in the pub's outdoor hot-tub with several other friends. An hour and a half later...
We still needed to find some food, and somewhere to stop for the night, so it seemed like a good idea (at the time) to gate-crash a nearby music fest. There was food [tick], more beer [tick], and camping [tick tick]. We also discovered Charlie Mckerron was playing; this was a particular treat, because not only is he a first-rate fiddle player, he's also rather a dish. With another early start to catch my train the next morning I was desperately short of sleep, but it was more than worth it! And it was all in a good cause after all.
If you'd still like to contribute to my sponsorship fund, you can do so here: http://www.justgiving.com/leighforbes.
Monday, June 06, 2011
Gruelling Weekend
I'm riding in the Scottish Bikeathon, 26 miles through the Highlands in aid of Leukeamia & Lymphoma Research. I'm doing it with the widow of my friend Piet Ketelaar, in his memory.
I've raised £255 in four days. My target is £1,000 by the day of the ride, June 19th.
If any blogmates out there are prepared to sponsor me, I'd be hugely grateful. You can make a payment online at justgiving.com/leighforbes.
It's not part of the event, but I'm also planning to climb Cairn Toul, the UK's 4th highest mountain, the day before the bikeathon... It's going to be a gruelling (but ace) weekend!
I've raised £255 in four days. My target is £1,000 by the day of the ride, June 19th.
If any blogmates out there are prepared to sponsor me, I'd be hugely grateful. You can make a payment online at justgiving.com/leighforbes.
It's not part of the event, but I'm also planning to climb Cairn Toul, the UK's 4th highest mountain, the day before the bikeathon... It's going to be a gruelling (but ace) weekend!
Friday, March 25, 2011
Associations
Ever listen to a particular song on the radio, and find yourself taken back to when you heard it first?
Sometime in January, I was slurping coffee in my study with Jane – no doubt discussing the more unpleasant habits of small children – when the Peatbog Faeries came on the stereo. Now I first heard the Faeries on the juke box in my Scottish local, and in an instant I was there, drinking fine ale and soaking up the craic. I couldn't help it: I started yammering on to Jane about the pub, the beer, my mates...
Jane's eyes began to glaze.
"Why don't you come with me?" I exclaimed. "I'm always thinking, 'Jane'd like this' when I'm there. We could drive up in a day (s'only 600 miles), have a couple of days there, and drive back. Crazy, I know, but hell, life's too short..."
Jane (and others), after much deliberation, declined; but my ace blogmate, Womagwriter, whom I have long bored witless regaled with tales of Scotland, was more than game. Lovely woman. But mad, obv.
So last week we hit the road, drove for ten hours, had two fab days walking (see right), met with friends gu leòr. And drove home again. 1,316 miles.
All because of the Peatbog Faeries.
There's a Will Young song I'll forever associate with a roundabout on the A27. The smell of dry earth has me rolling down an M1 embankment in a red Ford Cortina estate. The taste of mushroom soup always takes me to Knebworth International Guide & Scout camp, 1981. And after last week, I'll never hear another Snow Patrol track without thinking of the M6...
What takes you back, and where does it take you?
Sometime in January, I was slurping coffee in my study with Jane – no doubt discussing the more unpleasant habits of small children – when the Peatbog Faeries came on the stereo. Now I first heard the Faeries on the juke box in my Scottish local, and in an instant I was there, drinking fine ale and soaking up the craic. I couldn't help it: I started yammering on to Jane about the pub, the beer, my mates...
Jane's eyes began to glaze.
"Why don't you come with me?" I exclaimed. "I'm always thinking, 'Jane'd like this' when I'm there. We could drive up in a day (s'only 600 miles), have a couple of days there, and drive back. Crazy, I know, but hell, life's too short..."
Jane (and others), after much deliberation, declined; but my ace blogmate, Womagwriter, whom I have long bored witless regaled with tales of Scotland, was more than game. Lovely woman. But mad, obv.
So last week we hit the road, drove for ten hours, had two fab days walking (see right), met with friends gu leòr. And drove home again. 1,316 miles.All because of the Peatbog Faeries.
There's a Will Young song I'll forever associate with a roundabout on the A27. The smell of dry earth has me rolling down an M1 embankment in a red Ford Cortina estate. The taste of mushroom soup always takes me to Knebworth International Guide & Scout camp, 1981. And after last week, I'll never hear another Snow Patrol track without thinking of the M6...
What takes you back, and where does it take you?
Sunday, October 03, 2010
Uniforms
I went to a Macmillan coffee morning on Friday, which was bizarre enough in itself, but the thing that stood out most, in that country house, with its stone-flagged kitchen floor and fine stairwell, was....er... me.
Having just returned from a week in the mountains, I am still favouring my Aviemore uniform: walking boots, a (bright green) waterproof jacket and a pair of cleanish jeans. Everyone else was wearing designer clothes, perfect hair/nails and names like Felicity. I have a lot in common with these women, but I didn't cut the mustard in my semi mountain garb; they didn't recognise me as a middle class, middle-aged, country-dwelling mother, but rather as some transient who had wondered in off the Downs.
Conversely, if I'd turned up to Corrour Bothy last weekend with anything other than a pair of Zamberlains (or similar), hair awry and broken nails, they'd have thought I'd taken a wrong turning at the carpark (the shopping area is the other way).
I confess to feeling a little at odds with my surroundings while searching for a friend amongst last month's Thunder in the Glen gathering (Harley Davidsons R Us). Despite being a biker myself, and being in a pub I know well and love, I didn't fit; I was wearing the wrong uniform. But I didn't really mind.
I feel all right in my ten-quid jeans and a pair of boots. I've tried and failed to smarten myself up over the years, invariably reverting to my own uniform, that one that says "ME" and the one in which I feel most comfortable.
When it comes to writing, I realise I'm lucky – not just because I'm happy in my clothes, but also because I'm happy in my genre. I often wonder, however, about those whose writing is less mainstream than mine? Do they feel out of place? Are horror writers able to show their work to their mums? What about authors of erotica? Some genres, once considered way out on a limb (e.g. fantasy & paranormal), can now been considered mainstream in their own ways, but I know the stigma remains in some people's minds.
Are you happy in your genre, or do you feel under pressure to write something more... normal?
Having just returned from a week in the mountains, I am still favouring my Aviemore uniform: walking boots, a (bright green) waterproof jacket and a pair of cleanish jeans. Everyone else was wearing designer clothes, perfect hair/nails and names like Felicity. I have a lot in common with these women, but I didn't cut the mustard in my semi mountain garb; they didn't recognise me as a middle class, middle-aged, country-dwelling mother, but rather as some transient who had wondered in off the Downs.
Conversely, if I'd turned up to Corrour Bothy last weekend with anything other than a pair of Zamberlains (or similar), hair awry and broken nails, they'd have thought I'd taken a wrong turning at the carpark (the shopping area is the other way).
I confess to feeling a little at odds with my surroundings while searching for a friend amongst last month's Thunder in the Glen gathering (Harley Davidsons R Us). Despite being a biker myself, and being in a pub I know well and love, I didn't fit; I was wearing the wrong uniform. But I didn't really mind.
I feel all right in my ten-quid jeans and a pair of boots. I've tried and failed to smarten myself up over the years, invariably reverting to my own uniform, that one that says "ME" and the one in which I feel most comfortable.
When it comes to writing, I realise I'm lucky – not just because I'm happy in my clothes, but also because I'm happy in my genre. I often wonder, however, about those whose writing is less mainstream than mine? Do they feel out of place? Are horror writers able to show their work to their mums? What about authors of erotica? Some genres, once considered way out on a limb (e.g. fantasy & paranormal), can now been considered mainstream in their own ways, but I know the stigma remains in some people's minds.
Are you happy in your genre, or do you feel under pressure to write something more... normal?
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Is it Me, or the Rest of the World?
I am less grumpy now, but it's taken a while. I don't believe in writing things down during a serious grump, because then the grump's there forever, and it looks like you're a grumpy person. And I'm not. Much.
I've forgotten the more trivial things now, which is good, but others still stick in my side:
• The teenage staff in the Ptarmigan Restaurant who were rude and surly - when they work in one of the most beautiful places on the planet. I might be getting old, but when I make a justified remark (politely) about the disappearance of the children's play area, I don't expect the staff member to say, "Well it's not my fault." And then turn to his (teenage) colleague, and say, "It's not my fault, is it?" And snigger.
• The woman who told me on the phone, "Oh yes, our climbing tower is suitable for little ones. My 18-month nephew goes on it all the time." So, we went, having spent considerable time and effort locating a climbing venue that would let the Smaller Girl (three and a half) have a go. And when I got there? They said the Smaller Girl was too young, the helmet wouldn't fit (it did), she would be scared (she wasn't), she wouldn't be able to reach (she could). After a fight (I was cross), they let her go, and she waved delightedly to me from ten feet up. She loved it.
• The People's Friend, that last bastion of old-fashioned values, has stopped sending out complimentary copies to authors, citing "rising postal costs and the current difficult economic conditions." Sure, I can see that 81p, is really hard to find when you have a circulation of three hundred thousand. In addition, they didn't tell me my story (published on the 21st August) was out until the 23rd (at which time I was in remotest Scotland, with no newsagents to hand), and by the time I returned to civilisation (on the 25th), the next issue (dated the 28th) had replaced mine.
• Some yobbo threw a rock at my windscreen (mercifully not breaking it), and yet it would have been wrong for me to take a hiking pole and beat him round the head. The police came. Looked bored. Was I wasting their time? Should rock-throwing fuckwits go unreported?
And there is one other thing I'm grumpy about: the fear that I'm getting old and grumpy. I'm not a luddite. I can change. I embrace change; but I'm tired of falling standards, and seeing good services - that cost nothing - replaced with bad services, or none at all. Above all else, I'm tired of lethargy and rudeness, and grumpiness.
I've forgotten the more trivial things now, which is good, but others still stick in my side:
• The teenage staff in the Ptarmigan Restaurant who were rude and surly - when they work in one of the most beautiful places on the planet. I might be getting old, but when I make a justified remark (politely) about the disappearance of the children's play area, I don't expect the staff member to say, "Well it's not my fault." And then turn to his (teenage) colleague, and say, "It's not my fault, is it?" And snigger.
• The woman who told me on the phone, "Oh yes, our climbing tower is suitable for little ones. My 18-month nephew goes on it all the time." So, we went, having spent considerable time and effort locating a climbing venue that would let the Smaller Girl (three and a half) have a go. And when I got there? They said the Smaller Girl was too young, the helmet wouldn't fit (it did), she would be scared (she wasn't), she wouldn't be able to reach (she could). After a fight (I was cross), they let her go, and she waved delightedly to me from ten feet up. She loved it.
• The People's Friend, that last bastion of old-fashioned values, has stopped sending out complimentary copies to authors, citing "rising postal costs and the current difficult economic conditions." Sure, I can see that 81p, is really hard to find when you have a circulation of three hundred thousand. In addition, they didn't tell me my story (published on the 21st August) was out until the 23rd (at which time I was in remotest Scotland, with no newsagents to hand), and by the time I returned to civilisation (on the 25th), the next issue (dated the 28th) had replaced mine.
• Some yobbo threw a rock at my windscreen (mercifully not breaking it), and yet it would have been wrong for me to take a hiking pole and beat him round the head. The police came. Looked bored. Was I wasting their time? Should rock-throwing fuckwits go unreported?
And there is one other thing I'm grumpy about: the fear that I'm getting old and grumpy. I'm not a luddite. I can change. I embrace change; but I'm tired of falling standards, and seeing good services - that cost nothing - replaced with bad services, or none at all. Above all else, I'm tired of lethargy and rudeness, and grumpiness.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Throwing Away the Crutches
You know how you should never google your ailments? A spot of browsing over the weekend warned me that, while I could expect to be walking normally in 4-6 weeks, I might experience problems with my ankle for 12-18 months. 12-18 months?!! I'm a mountain hiker!
Well, I've been here before: I broke this ankle in 1981, and in 1996 I fell over in my bedroom suffered the same ligament injury as now. I had physio for the break, but not for the ligament, which was a big mistake. Thus, on Tuesday I paid my money (three-month wait for the NHS), and went to see my handsome physiotherapy friend, Paul.
I wanted to know how to get better without risking further damage - the kids have been brilliant, but the novelty's worn off - and if there were even a remote chance of getting hiking-fit in time for my (already booked) trip to Scotland in May. "Yes," he said. "Throw away the crutches, and get walking!"
It was music to my ears, Dear Reader. Music. It seems obvious now (especially after all I learned about ankles on Tuesday), but am wondering why the hospital advice was limited to: 'move your foot as often as possible, and stop if it hurts' - fine for the first few days, but useless after that.
Along with ultrasound treatment, an anatomy lesson (strictly limited to lower-limb joints), and some interesting* exercises, Paul gave me his promise that I'm not going to 'do it in' again (unless I commit muppetry again), and this gave me the confidence to walk. I can't tell you how lovely that feels.
*dull as death
On the writing front, work has necessitated spending a useful amount of time on trains recently. Having tired of doing anything constructive, I had taken to staring out of the window, and as a consequence, a new-novel idea popped into my head, somewhere between Redhill and Gatwick. Plot, characters, twist and all. I am very excited (though it is currently no.6 on my list of Books To Be Written), and have already drafted a synopsis! Am a little bit smug about this.
Well, I've been here before: I broke this ankle in 1981, and in 1996 I fell over in my bedroom suffered the same ligament injury as now. I had physio for the break, but not for the ligament, which was a big mistake. Thus, on Tuesday I paid my money (three-month wait for the NHS), and went to see my handsome physiotherapy friend, Paul.
I wanted to know how to get better without risking further damage - the kids have been brilliant, but the novelty's worn off - and if there were even a remote chance of getting hiking-fit in time for my (already booked) trip to Scotland in May. "Yes," he said. "Throw away the crutches, and get walking!"
It was music to my ears, Dear Reader. Music. It seems obvious now (especially after all I learned about ankles on Tuesday), but am wondering why the hospital advice was limited to: 'move your foot as often as possible, and stop if it hurts' - fine for the first few days, but useless after that.
Along with ultrasound treatment, an anatomy lesson (strictly limited to lower-limb joints), and some interesting* exercises, Paul gave me his promise that I'm not going to 'do it in' again (unless I commit muppetry again), and this gave me the confidence to walk. I can't tell you how lovely that feels.
*dull as death
On the writing front, work has necessitated spending a useful amount of time on trains recently. Having tired of doing anything constructive, I had taken to staring out of the window, and as a consequence, a new-novel idea popped into my head, somewhere between Redhill and Gatwick. Plot, characters, twist and all. I am very excited (though it is currently no.6 on my list of Books To Be Written), and have already drafted a synopsis! Am a little bit smug about this.
Monday, March 08, 2010
Reasons to Lounge About on the Sofa, no.32
As I lie here, on my sofa, cup of tea in hand, laptop on lap, sun shining through the window, and the smaller girl playing happily beside me, you'd think life couldn't get much better. Then you might notice the long metal things beside me... So, Leigh, exactly why are you lying around on a Monday morning, when your house craves attention? Eh?
Ahem. Quick change of subject.
Walking in the mountains is potentially dangerous: a slip could mean death - not because of cliff edges, necessarily, or anything dramatic like that - but because a twisted ankle will leave you lying around, cold and probably wet, for a long time waiting to be rescued, or even to summon help. People die of hypothermia in the Scottish mountains in June. Now, I've been mocked for all the kit I carry - enough to survive immobility for 24h in freezing conditions (i.e. all year round in the Cairngorms) - but I carry it nonetheless. Peace of mind, and all that.
So, it's comical (not to mention embarrassing) that it was a two-foot high bank in the garden that proved my downfall. Thirty seconds after warning the smaller girl to take care in the frost I slipped, and one God-almighty crack later, down I went. And not a Kendal Mint Cake in sight.
Nothing broken though, just ligament damage, and I hope to be off the crutches within a couple of weeks.
Have you ever done anything as dumb?
The Gold Star Award goes to the Smaller Girl (who'll be three tomorrow) who fetched: the telephone to summon help; hiking poles to get me into the house; frozen sweetcorn to put on the swelling; iPod for going to hospital; and unlocked the door when help arrived. She stopped several times to have a little wail, and point out interesting aeroplanes, but I'd have been lost without her.
Ahem. Quick change of subject.
Walking in the mountains is potentially dangerous: a slip could mean death - not because of cliff edges, necessarily, or anything dramatic like that - but because a twisted ankle will leave you lying around, cold and probably wet, for a long time waiting to be rescued, or even to summon help. People die of hypothermia in the Scottish mountains in June. Now, I've been mocked for all the kit I carry - enough to survive immobility for 24h in freezing conditions (i.e. all year round in the Cairngorms) - but I carry it nonetheless. Peace of mind, and all that.
So, it's comical (not to mention embarrassing) that it was a two-foot high bank in the garden that proved my downfall. Thirty seconds after warning the smaller girl to take care in the frost I slipped, and one God-almighty crack later, down I went. And not a Kendal Mint Cake in sight.
Nothing broken though, just ligament damage, and I hope to be off the crutches within a couple of weeks.
Have you ever done anything as dumb?
The Gold Star Award goes to the Smaller Girl (who'll be three tomorrow) who fetched: the telephone to summon help; hiking poles to get me into the house; frozen sweetcorn to put on the swelling; iPod for going to hospital; and unlocked the door when help arrived. She stopped several times to have a little wail, and point out interesting aeroplanes, but I'd have been lost without her.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Sirens are Calling, but I Can't Go
I've been a bit quiet, I'm sorry. Mostly this is because I've been overwhelmed with work, and partly because I've been a bit miserable too. You see, just as the mornings are getting lighter, the sun is beginning to generate a few nano-therms, and I'm planning how to spend a delightfully inappropriate amount of money on new walking kit for this year, my doctor says I have to stop climbing mountains. Just a temporary precaution, I'm told, until they work out what's wrong with my heart...Yes, I thought I was better too; but just as I had written the post telling you so, the 'indigestion' I had on the way down Braeriach, turned into palpitations and wayward blood-presssure, and more recently into fainting fits. It's this last symptom that concerns the doctor. He's promised me I'm not about to drop dead, but he doesn't like the thought of me losing consciousness half-way up Coire Raibeirt (see photo).
This hasn't stopped me training; I realised it's no good spending the first three days of a five-day trip getting fit (only to revert to lard within a week of getting home), so, as the doctor hasn't said I can't exercise (and I'm not asking the question), I've been spending thirty minutes a day on Jane's cross-trainer (treadmill-cum-step machine). And I feel fine. (Okay, that's a lie, but I'm bored with feeling ill.)
Am now champing at the NHS waiting list. They've done all the blood tests, and the 24h ECG - next comes the scan and an appointment with the cardiologist (who I just know is going to tell me to "rest"). I suppose I can rest in my local outdoor-equipment shop, can't I? While I try on new rucksacks...
Cross your fingers for me, Dear Readers. I can't live without mountains.
Friday, October 16, 2009
On Fogginess, Precipices & Isolation
The summit of Braeriach, as only the truly bonkers will ever see it:
The drop over the edge is 1,000', or more, depending on whether you bounce left or right as you go!
Having descended out of the cloud, Strath Spey shows in all its majesty. Only four hours to go...
And my favourite photo from August (a patched-together screen-bending panorama). This is Loch Avon:
The drop over the edge is 1,000', or more, depending on whether you bounce left or right as you go!
Having descended out of the cloud, Strath Spey shows in all its majesty. Only four hours to go...
And my favourite photo from August (a patched-together screen-bending panorama). This is Loch Avon:
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
A Big Hill and a Healthy Soul
Have been in Scotland for five days, walking and climbing. Feeling stronger and stronger every day. Well, not today, but that's because I climbed a particularly big hill yesterday. Big enough for me to exclaim on the way up, at least twice, what the hell am I doing here? and whose idea was this again? Er... mine; but a good idea nonetheless.
The big hill was Braeriach, at 4,252' the third highest in Scotland. It is also one of the more isolated peaks in the Cairngorms, requiring a two-hour walk to reach the lower slopes. The photo is not mine - it was foggy and snowy yesterday, so much so that I turned back just 200 yards from the summit. You can see why...
Tomorrow I start for home, 600 miles and another world away. I won't get to come here again until next year, and I am already missing the battering wind, and crunch crunch crunch of my feet on some remote mountain path.
But my body is completely better, and I think my soul is now better too.
What's good for your soul?
The big hill was Braeriach, at 4,252' the third highest in Scotland. It is also one of the more isolated peaks in the Cairngorms, requiring a two-hour walk to reach the lower slopes. The photo is not mine - it was foggy and snowy yesterday, so much so that I turned back just 200 yards from the summit. You can see why...
Tomorrow I start for home, 600 miles and another world away. I won't get to come here again until next year, and I am already missing the battering wind, and crunch crunch crunch of my feet on some remote mountain path.
But my body is completely better, and I think my soul is now better too.
What's good for your soul?
Sunday, October 12, 2008
On Mountains and Muppetry
I climbed a mountain today.I had until the baby woke up from her lunchtime nap to get back to the cottage, and so I had to climb it in record time. That wasn't as hard as it sounds because, although it was a bloody big mountain, I was on my own.
I've climbed that particular mountain: while pregnant with the small boy; while pregnant with the small girl; carrying the small boy on my back; carrying the small girl on my front (see photo); carrying the small girl on my back whilst pushing the small boy in the buggy. Today, I carried nothing more than a bottle of water, and that was much easier. (Easier still was taking the funicular down; baby's nap time and all that.)
When I got back to the carpark, I thought "Oh, look. There's another car exactly like mine." I did think it a bit odd that there should be one exactly like mine parked so very close. But I knew it was somebody else's, because the door was wide open...
Ahem.
Soooo, my advice is, if you're going to leave your car unlocked at a popular tourist spot, make sure you leave the door open too, because no owner would be such a muppet to be any distance away, thus the car thieves will leave it alone...
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Six Glorious Weeks
I am suffering from shock. In the space of two days, I went
Arrived home from Scotland yesterday, after six glorious weeks; but, less than twenty-four hours later, I don't feel as though I've been away at all. Thus, I am in a somewhat downbeat and reflective mood:
Have you been away this summer?
What did you like/dislike about your holiday?
| from this... | to this. |  |  |
Arrived home from Scotland yesterday, after six glorious weeks; but, less than twenty-four hours later, I don't feel as though I've been away at all. Thus, I am in a somewhat downbeat and reflective mood:
Things I missed while I was away My induction hob and thick-bottomed pans Functional broadband My dictionary Virgin Radio Things I loved about where I was Islay beef mince Islay Ales (Angus Og in particular) Everyone waving at everyone Water so soft you could cuddle it Big skies and big landscapes Popping to the shop (every village has one) | Things I didn't miss The sheer weight of traffic Being hassled by other drivers All the mess on my desk at home Tescos The noisy builders working over the road Rude people Dead animals in the road Chlorine in the water Any fine weather (from what I heard) Things I didn't love Having to come home. |
Have you been away this summer?
What did you like/dislike about your holiday?
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Awards & Away No More
JJ, that lovely lady over in Bangkok, has not only sent me some fabby flavoured lip balms (cola cola and lemon soda), she has given me a friendship award too! Thank you JJ! This is just what I need to cheer me up, as we leave for the south this morning. It's bye bye to the mountains, and hello to the M25...oh joy. At least I'll get to say hello to my sister and Helenmh on the way, so it's not all bad.I need to pass on this award, but I am leaving now (this minute), so I'll post again when I get home.
I hope you can stand the suspense.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
The Isle of Colonsay
Today we visited Colonsay (pop. 100). There was so much to do – hills to climb, beaches to play on, beers to sample, mesolithic shell mounds to visit – that we’re just going to have to go back for a longer stay.
Herewith some piccies:
My arch nemesis Alan Jenkins - spotted at in the queue for the Jura ferry this morning.
The approach into Scalasaig, main population centre of Colonsay.
The most expensive fuel in the UK? (and, apparently, sold 'not for profit'...)
The small boy said his favourite part of the day was “going to the beach and getting soaked.”
Not looking forward to the school run next week...
Herewith some piccies:
My arch nemesis Alan Jenkins - spotted at in the queue for the Jura ferry this morning.
The approach into Scalasaig, main population centre of Colonsay.
The most expensive fuel in the UK? (and, apparently, sold 'not for profit'...)
The small boy said his favourite part of the day was “going to the beach and getting soaked.”
Not looking forward to the school run next week...
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Having the Best Time
Apologies for absence. I've been working quite hard, catching up with friends all over Scotland, doing tons of stuff with the kids, and just chilling out (i.e. reading books and watching the Olympics). Just come back from a long weekend on Skye with friends, followed by a drive through Glen Torridon on the way home. I think the photos say it all:
The Cullin, Skye.
The ridge above Staffin, north east Skye.
The hills of Torridon (on the mainland), from Skye.
Loch Torridon.
One of Glen Torridon's peaks, as viewed through the sunroof.
A rather distracting rear-view of Glen Torridon.
Loch Maree (and Kinlochewe) from the east.
It was just fab, and great source of story ideas!
The Cullin, Skye.
The ridge above Staffin, north east Skye.
The hills of Torridon (on the mainland), from Skye.
Loch Torridon.
One of Glen Torridon's peaks, as viewed through the sunroof.
A rather distracting rear-view of Glen Torridon.
Loch Maree (and Kinlochewe) from the east.
It was just fab, and great source of story ideas!
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Big Wide Open Spaces
Well, we survived the journey, despite yet another motorist on the M1 trying to smash his way through to the other carriageway. His accident occurred at almost exactly the same spot as the accident we witnessed in May (also on the way to Scotland), and, it must be said, as the accident in which my mother and I were involved in 1986. I think someone is trying to tell me something (to stick to the M40, perhaps). This time, however, there were no injuries. No hands needed to be held. And we carried on our way in awe of the severely bent, but intact, crash barrier. I really thought he was a gonner.
An hour later, and we were at Helenmh's where we finally got to meet Smudge (renamed 'Spludge' by the small girl). I thought Helen very brave to have us, considering that the small boy arrived with sick bowl in hand. But he was fine, and after a good natter and some great food, we were on our way again. We made an overnight stop at my sister's (more good food, more nattering, and a stupidly late night) before making the final push for the Highlands - only 460 miles to go, on five hours' sleep...
Three cans of Red Bull later and we pulled up outside what is now our home for six weeks. It is a tiny house (the kids are all in together), but it's really comfy, and we're loving it. It's not the inside, you see; it's the outside. There's lots of it. Lots.
An hour later, and we were at Helenmh's where we finally got to meet Smudge (renamed 'Spludge' by the small girl). I thought Helen very brave to have us, considering that the small boy arrived with sick bowl in hand. But he was fine, and after a good natter and some great food, we were on our way again. We made an overnight stop at my sister's (more good food, more nattering, and a stupidly late night) before making the final push for the Highlands - only 460 miles to go, on five hours' sleep...
Three cans of Red Bull later and we pulled up outside what is now our home for six weeks. It is a tiny house (the kids are all in together), but it's really comfy, and we're loving it. It's not the inside, you see; it's the outside. There's lots of it. Lots.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Dettol & Dioralite
You can guess, can't you?
We've all had it, all five of us, in forty-eight hours. Actually, it's longer than that now, because the small boy threw up again today, over thirty-six hours after the last time (parents of other small children will understand why this is so unfair). Only this time he did it at school, at pick-up time, right in front of the assembled parents. He also managed to splat three other small children and a teacher in the process. Oh, God. [hides face in hands] I'm tired.
We leave for Scotland tomorrow. No more school now for small boy and, given that he had to take yesterday off too, we might as well have gone on Saturday... except for all the vomiting on Sunday, of course.
We've all had it, all five of us, in forty-eight hours. Actually, it's longer than that now, because the small boy threw up again today, over thirty-six hours after the last time (parents of other small children will understand why this is so unfair). Only this time he did it at school, at pick-up time, right in front of the assembled parents. He also managed to splat three other small children and a teacher in the process. Oh, God. [hides face in hands] I'm tired.We leave for Scotland tomorrow. No more school now for small boy and, given that he had to take yesterday off too, we might as well have gone on Saturday... except for all the vomiting on Sunday, of course.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Cracking on
Since complaining last night about how little progress I'd made, I've been stonking along. Ten thousand words edited today, and I'm really happy with this novel now.
I've just reached the chapter where one of my characters visits this viewpoint. I love both the view, and the description of it (which is grossly over-indulgent). The trouble is that this photo doesn't do it justice; the strait is straight, if you see what I mean, and, as a 180° panorama, this picture should really be viewed on a curved screen. So, if you wouldn't mind sticking your nose in the middle of it, and bending your screen around your head...there, that's better. That's what it looks like! Dramatic, eh?
I've just reached the chapter where one of my characters visits this viewpoint. I love both the view, and the description of it (which is grossly over-indulgent). The trouble is that this photo doesn't do it justice; the strait is straight, if you see what I mean, and, as a 180° panorama, this picture should really be viewed on a curved screen. So, if you wouldn't mind sticking your nose in the middle of it, and bending your screen around your head...there, that's better. That's what it looks like! Dramatic, eh?
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