Senegal and Surfing

I’m not a surfer.

Would that I was.

When my kids took it up in their early teens I got to kind of enjoy it vicariously through them. Of course they were living one of my fantasies. I was 14 when the Beach Boys formed; I was 15 when I saw Blue Hawaii for the first time, and I’ve envied the lifestyle I perceived ever since.

So I was secretly thrilled when my kids began to surf. By then, we’d transplanted from the hulking, grey, un-surf-able waves of the Irish Sea to the Canary Islands, where surfing perhaps isn’t what it is in California or Hawaii, but, still, it happens. I was transport for a while, until they got their own.

They introduced me to surf videos and the heavy rock music that had taken over from the innocent harmonies of the Beach Boys and Jan & Dean. It was compelling stuff, speaking to the excitement and the thrill of riding with nature, the zen of being at one with the ocean.

The most memorable video of all was  The Endless Summer*, which, even by then in the 1990s, was vintage. This movie is more than just THE classic surf movie, it embodies a lifestyle many of us dream of, the nomadic search for ……..? Well, in the case of Mike and Bob (if I remember the names correctly) it was endless summer. When the waves drop at home in the US, they chase their dream around the world.

As they begin their journey in West Africa, they are seen running out of a hotel to try their luck in this warmer part of the North Atlantic, surf boards tucked under their arms, and dozens of local kids watching as if they are crazy.

That scene has changed surprisingly little since 1966.  Arriving at the beach in NGor, as I do in June, it’s easy to pick out the hotel. It’s the largest structure there. Sadly, it appears that the staff know nothing about the movie. Two of the guys from our surf camp wander in to look around, and speak with them. But, then, why should they? Endless Summer is an iconic movie, but only in certain circles.

You can see the hotel in the top left in this shot taken from my terrace.

But what the heck is a 71-year-old, non-surfer doing at a surf camp you ask?

The answer is twofold. One: one of my sons, Austin, was volunteering at NGor Surf Camp, and, two: Senegal is a country I have long wanted to visit for personal reasons. So this is why I find myself shuffling off my shoes and (compression) socks on a beach, at the end of which I can see THAT hotel, the one Mike and Bob had so eagerly run out of more than fifty years ago. Hotel NGor Diarama, was built in 1953 and looks as if it has been renovated in fairly recent times. It certainly occupies an idyllic position, overlooking the beach and bay of NGor.

For me the flight to Senegal is only half the time of a trip to my homeland, England, and truth is that the Canary Islands, as I realize during my week, has elements of the two, the laid-back yet the pressured, the vibrant colours yet the polluted highways. Had I travelled from, say, London, where I am now, the difference would have been more intense. But back to the beach …..

I wriggle the warm sand through my toes. I hate wearing shoes, and only wear them when it’s really necessary. My son hefts my not inconsiderable bags (because I am taking equipment for him for a lifeguard course he is teaching) into a an elderly boat with an outboard motor, as I roll up my pants and wade into the warm water to be graciously helped into the boat by our driver. This becomes a daily thing, and I do it with what I consider nonchalance until the day that a traditional pirogue arrives in place of the usual boat, and I end up on my back, feet in the air, and laughing too much to be embarrassed. Folk reassuring told me that they had seen much more ungainly boardings, so dignity only slightly dented.

We chug away from the beach and I turn towards Îsle de NGor, my destination. My journey has been a gradual leaving behind of the cacophony of the world, from the buzz of the small but modern airport in the north of Tenerife, to the relative serenity of the brand-new Blaise Diagne International Airport in Dakar; from a smooth taxi ride along immaculate, new roads accessing the airport, then the chaos of Dakar, to the sandy streets by the beach in the suburb, NGor; and then from the lively beach scene, where kids play soccer, vendors hawk T-shirts and pareos, and the boat-taxis wait for customers, to an even more laid-back beach on the island. Life seems to have been winding down palpably over the three hour trip.

Crossing from the mainland to the island

The main island beach where we landed

First things first: Austin dumps my bags just inside a bar/café shack on the edge of the beach, and orders lunch, as he jokes with the owners. He’s been here long enough to know everyone, and everyone makes me welcome because I am his mother, including the delightful lady who joins us for a while to take the weight off her feet, and rest from selling her trinkets. Without asking me to buy anything at all, she slips a pretty bracelet onto my wrist, and tells me it’s a gift, because my son is always nice to her. I mumble my thanks in schoolgirl French. This is to be repeated by different vendors many times over the week I am here, never pressure or pleading, much smiling and laughing, no intrusion and some charming gifts. It’s a way of life.

We eat freshly caught, freshly cooked fish, and drink cold, local beers. Truly, it doesn’t get much better than this, I am already chill. Eventually, still bare-footed, I follow Austin up a narrow, sandy pathway to the surf camp which is to be my home for the week. It’s low season, and the few other guests, surfers, of course, are staying in another building, a minute away. My room is basic, and spotless. Normally it would sleep 3 people. One double bed and one single. Austin explains that the electricity only comes on after 7pm, and the water pressure isn’t what I am used to. Neither of these are a problem. This is a tiny island, and it is Africa.

I open the terrace door of my room, unpack, then tip toe up to the roof terrace, where Austin is leading a yoga class. The Camp is coming to the end of its Surf and Reconnect Month. Body cramped from travel, I sit on a chair, but take part as I can. As we pass some quiet moments in meditation, the evocative call to prayer echoes across from a mosque on the mainland. The beauty and meaning of this moment is not lost on me. It’s a meeting of worlds and beliefs, caught on the breeze.

After, I crawl happily under my mosquito net and nap as the warm breeze wafts in. It was an early start.

Closer view of that vista from my terrace, with the massive and impressive Monument de la Renaissance Africaine dominating the background. The statue was the idea of former president Abdoulaye Wade, and was completed in 2010. It’s still controversial on several counts, but cannot be ignored!

View from my terrace at night. The terrace would normally be shared between two rooms, but I had it all to myself.

That terrace door stays open all week, so safe is this wee island. It’s only 800 metres long, threaded by narrow sandy alleys, lined with colourful gateways, walls draped with bougainvillea, the occasional tree hung with the work of a local artist. Some impressive-looking houses hide behind high walls, because this is also becoming a get-away for Dakar’s upwardly-mobile set. The beaches are small, of vibrant yellow sand, mats laid out under parasols if you have the inclination. The vendors of trinkets and colourful clothing, beads and bracelets, ferries or strong, spicy touba coffee never hassle. There are two, main beaches,  and they are much cleaner than the beach across the bay in NGor, where it cannot be denied, plastic pollution, is a problem. There are a few bars, which serve food. It isn’t cordon bleu, but it is fresh, brought across on the boats from the mainland, and it is all you need. Life here is pared down to essentials, but those essentials are colourful, and closer to the rhythm of life than we have been in the West for a long time.

The island is so small, and so quiet, that there is almost nothing else to say  —  except, of course, that there is surf.

My understanding of surfing is probably more spiritual than practical, but I do understand that this place is iconic, almost sacred, within this world, and I am up early next morning to get some shots of the guys making that early morning swell. The photos in this post aren’t going to do the scene justice, because I am sitting here at the back end of summer in London, and I left my camera and its card in the Canary Islands, so the pics are going to be all from my phone. But I need to write this now, and move on.

NGor Surf Camp was founded nine years ago by Jesper, who came from Denmark, and, romantically, for all practical purposes, never left. He simply fell in love with NGor Island, and lives the surfer’s dream. Would that we could all find our own paradise this way!

When I arrive the camp is almost deserted by high season standards, but the routine is the same. Information about the swells, winds, weather and day’s events is chalked up by the time I get down for breakfast every day. I never hear the bell ring to indicate that there’s a massive swell, but, of course, it’s low season for a reason!

Breakfast is eaten at a long, communal table on the ground floor terrace, overlooking a small and immaculate pool, though when it’s high season, other tables in other areas around the pool area and inside are brought into use. We tear into fresh baguettes, delivered daily from the mainland, an assortment of lush jams (coconut, papaya and mango and more), boiled eggs, and local fruits, so ripe they drip down your chin in sticky pleasure.

Austin after breakfast with Rita, camp mascot and protector

Dinner, sometimes local dishes and sometimes more familiar cuisine, like pasta, is eaten at the same table, when the day’s triumphs, spills and jokes are shared. I can only listen with interest, and imagine what it must be like when the table is full and the waves high. Surfers’ craic.

I learn something about surfers, something I’ve long suspected, many are travellers too. Generally, they travel with purpose, in search of the next wave, of course, but conversation often turns to travels and other related stuff, so I wasn’t always the fly on the wall. No-one else here is near to my age, but surfers are open-minded and non-judgmental. They are all young, tanned, some restless, some contented, but all with that desire to live a life less ordinary, and with that casual self-assurance born of having seen something of the world.

I spend a couple of days taking photos for the lifeguards’ course Austin is presenting on behalf of Proactiva Beach Safety, and I spend another day writing on my terrace. The rest is just chilling. I snorkel one morning from a tiny beach by the other house, but the water is churned up. Waves are rolling in, just not surf-able ones! This is the only day I don’t leave the island, but I would be perfectly happy just to wander the alleyways and sit on the beaches. It is quieter than ever because it is the end of Ramadan, the feast known more commonly as Eid al Fitr, but here in Senegal as Korité. As with Christmas in England, or Thanksgiving in the US, everyone has left to visit family, three days later it is noticeably more lively, and I see faces I haven’t seen in my first days.

I become adept at stepping into the boats (until the day the pirogue turns up, but the less said about that the better!). My long-legged son walks at a phenomenal pace, so I am almost running to keep up, whilst trying to take in everything around me: the beach scene with a few obvious tourists, dozens of kids playing football, the guys waiting for customers to ferry across to the island, or fishing boats coming and going, some athletic, young men running along the shoreline; the dusty road beyond the beach with stalls selling fruit and others selling clothing; the chaos when we emerge onto a busy road lined by shops and cafés; the haggling with taxi drivers; the rubbish piled into a corner of a square (it is collected, but there are no containers meanwhile).

Clearly there is poverty, but there are contrasts too; at the airport a flashy couple who might be mistaken for hip hop performers in the West, on a ferry a young woman with a chihuahua in her handbag, some big cars on the roads, a French-style coffee shop, and of course there is THAT statue and the swanky, new airport.

In addition, in NGor, there is Bayékou a trendy, rooftop bar overlooking the dusty square behind the beach. With its chilled rosé, its western-style food (best fishburger ever and melt-in-the-mouth tapas) and its stylish seating with alcoves along one wall where you can lounge, it would be a class act anywhere in Spain. It’s here that we come to watch a couple of World Cup matches, the most important, of course, being Senegal’s first game. The place fills with an international group of supporters, clad in football shirts or Senegalese colours, and I realize that this place, though not expensive by European standards, is way above the means of the guys down on the street below. I glance down after our team scores its first goal, but the street is almost deserted, presumably everyone is watching at home, or at a friend’s.

Tasting platter for two at Bayékou. As good and as trendy as London

One day we squeeze five of us into a taxi to visit Îsle de Gorée, but this is something which demands its own post. Stay tuned.

Another day, when there is no surf around the island, we go in search of it along the mainland shore. I am surprised to see how well-organized it all is, after all, Senegal is not the first place you think of when you think of surfing ….. though it might well be in the future! We settle on Yoff, a long, white-sand beach, but, with a big plastic-pollution problem. Beach clean ups are beginning to happen here, though, and given that they are only really just taking off in other parts of the world, they are not too far behind.

I get some decent shots, despite the hovering haze, and we lunch on delicious fish and rice. It might be possible to have too much fish and rice, but not if you’re only here for a week!

Freshly grilled fish and shrimp … delicious!

For Austin this is his last surf session here. New opportunities and a different kind of life are waiting for him. I can only guess at how he will miss these acres of golden sand, the simplicity of this lifestyle, and these smiles. The people of Senegal are, as I knew they would be, despite the poverty, the friendliest I have met anywhere.

I know that I will be back. I am more certain of this than about anywhere I have ever been. I know that what I have seen these last, few days has been only a glimpse, only one side of life in here. I didn’t hear any mbalax, Senegal’s musical gift to the world, I didn’t see any of the famous sabar dancing, I didn’t see the forests and wildlife, and I only glimpsed the pandemonium of Dakar which I have heard so much about. I didn’t get to Casamance or St Louis (where there is an annual jazz festival in May)  ….. so I have plenty of reasons to go back ….. but mostly, for the smiles.

Waiting for the boat one last time

Notes;

Re:  NGor Surf Camp I should confirm that there was always enough electricity to charge my phone, and my notebook and my camera – all I needed! Over the week, the Wifi was intermittent but I’d picked up a local SIM card at the airport with data, and it was more than I needed for a one week stay. You will find a link to their website in the text, but do check out their Instagram account too! I was in no way whatsoever asked to write about it nor will I be recompensed for writing about them. I don’t think that Jesper even knew I had a blog …. well, let’s face it, it’s not been much of one of late anyway! 

I flew Binter, the Canary Islands’ small, independent airline, and my totally unsolicited opinion is that it’s the best airline I’ve flown with in a long time. It’s a short flight, only a little over two hours from the island of Tenerife, so the food provided was good for what it was, and the staff were, simply, the best. I have nothing but praise. Austin, having done the trip several times over 8 or 9 months, is a big fan. I appreciate that the longer the flight the more difficult the logistics, but Binter could give bigger airlines a few pointers.

*Endless Summer used to be available on YouTube, but it seems to have been taken down quite recently, so I can’t give you a reliable link, sorry.

Exploring the Surprising History of Santa Cruz de Tenerife

“Rule, Britannia,

Britannia rule the waves.

Britons never, never, never

Shall be slaves!”

The stirring words echo tunelessly around the walls of Tenerife’s Military Museum, and I glance around in embarrassment. I can’t help but wonder if someone is going to come thundering out of an office to whisk me away as an enemy collaborator or some such. (The chorus is pretty tame … check out the full lyrics for the arrogance of the time!)

The captured British flag from the Battle of Santa Cruz in 1797

Our group has had a brief tour of the museum as a final stop in the inaugural Living Tenerife Tours excursion around island capital, Santa Cruz, and I have been cajoled into my rendering by our host Jorge Ballesteros, creator of this excellent outing.

Jorge is a fascinating and gracious guide. Insights into those points where Tenerife’s history intersects with that of Great Britain flow like Canarian wine. These links have long-fascinated him, and now, retired from full-time work, he is realizing his dream of creating this excursion, aimed directly at this common history.

But I am already “ahead of myself.” Let’s begin at the beginning. We met with Jorge in the city’s remodelled Plaza de España. Early morning here is my favorite time of day. If I were you, I would arrive early, grab a coffee, watch city life begin to unfold, as the waters of the pool reflect the skyline. If you arrive by car there is ample parking in the car park under the plaza.

When our transport arrived, it was a good indication of how the day was to go. A sleek, Mercedes mini bus drew up, and we clambered happily into the air conditioned comfort, as the day began to warm up. I am a great fan of city walking tours, but to combine the best of both worlds, some walking with retreats into this kind of luxury, complete with a fridge and coffee, was perfect.

The car purred through busy city streets to our first destination. Recent visits to Santa Cruz have revived my curiosity about the period of history this tour covers, so I had been delighted to accept this invitation from Living Tenerife Tours. The city boasts some beautiful, colonial-era architecture, and I’ve been wondering about the people who built and lived in these grand houses, and the gap between what was clearly enormous wealth and the agricultural life, whose history is more familiar to me. I was about to learn the history of one such house, built by an “expat,” one Henry Wolfson.

Wolfson arrived in Tenerife in 1886 on a stopover on his way to South Africa, where, at the age of 29, he was intending to make his fortune. The stopover proved to be his destiny. He stayed, and he made an enormous fortune, investing in the cultivation of tomatoes and potatoes, purchasing land in the south of Tenerife, and establishing The Tenerife Gas & Coke Company. He was a shining example of the type of entrepreneur today associated with tech, and he built a magnificent house on a hillside overlooking the city capital. The impressive building, now almost hidden, unless you are quite close, resembles a castle, with turrets, and an ornate façade. Over time, the house became a hotel, and popular stopover spot for world travellers and visiting merchants. Now it is a private school, and as such we were able to visit the exterior, where Jorge, an old-boy, pointed out features, including the expansive view over the modern city, and regaled us with other interesting facts about the original owner.

Jorge kept up the flow of information and pointed out other points of interest as our car glided to our next stop, the pretty Church of St George in the “Plaza de los Patos.” Originally built in the late 19th century as an Anglican church, it was sold to the Catholic Church a little less than 100 years later, as numbers of Anglican faithful declined. Jorge’s description of its history and that of its surroundings was comprehensive, but I am not going to tell you more ….. you will need to take the tour to discover all of that.

After a brief stop at Calatrava’s magnificent Auditorium on the seafront, we arrived at the Military Museum and my pitiful rendition of Rule Britannia …. bleeding-heart liberal that I am, yet those words still send a little shiver down my spine. They take me back to a childhood steeped in the sort of chauvinistic version of history that the British education system taught in the 1950s. Horatio Nelson has been a hero of mine from that time, so some years back when I learned that there was an important connection between the Admiral and my chosen home, the island of Tenerife, there was that little thrill again. Sadly for my English teachers the Battle of Santa Cruz was the only defeat in his glorious career. The museum has an extensive exhibit about the battle, including captured, British flags and a model with audio describing how the battle unfolded. We concentrated on this aspect of the museum’s collection, because this was the theme of our jaunt, but I noted that there are plenty of other interesting exhibits. This was the only museum on the island I hadn’t visited before, and I will be returning to explore it fully.

And so we returned to the Plaza de España where Jorge fed us more fascinating, historical tidbits, and we posed for the now-obligatory photo op next to the newest piece of street art next to the pool. Here I have to confess that a sloppy wave of huge affection for my adopted island almost overcame me, but in true stiff upper-lip fashion I took a deep breath and posed for the photo.

Thanks to Canary PR for allowing me to use their photo, because, of course, I am not in the ones I took!

I loved this tour. History has always been a passion for me, and moving to the Canary Islands, and discovering the things which unite us, rather than things which divide us, has been a delight over the years. Living Tenerife Tours taught me new things, and confirmed my passion ….. and it was about to cater to another – the island’s food and wine.

Santa Cruz skyline and harbor

Jorge steered us in the direction of the prestigious Real Casino de Tenerife, which occupies an appropriate position overlooking the Plaza de España on one side, and the Plaza de Candelaria on another. Built in the early 19th century, it isn’t actually a casino, but the type of gentlemen’s club where you might expect to find the likes of James Bond, except that it is very much now for both men and women. Entering, you are immediately struck by two imposing murals by Canarian artists Néstor Martin Fernández and José Aguiar, and I gather that other gems of local art are housed here. We were able to have a brief look around, including a spectacular view over the Plaza de España, where Jorge revealed a little-known fact about the pool below us (No, not going to tell you …. you need to take the tour!).

Plaza de España

Detail from one of the beautiful murals at the entrance to the Real Casino de Tenerife

Afterwards we were ushered to the library where Jorge outlined his plans and hopes for his new venture, before having lunch in the exclusive restaurant.

Jorge fills us in on all the details of his plans for this new venture

This was a great privilege, being open only to members and their guests, and it showcased the very best of modern and traditional Canarian cuisine, presented in beautiful style. We feasted on award-winning goat cheese from neighboring Fuerteventura, gofio mixed with honey and almonds, the famous black potatoes with a texture like satin, a fusion dish combining local tuna with seaweed in Japanese style, and, a special treat, cochinillo negro, a breed of pig which dates back to pre-Hispanic times on the islands, but which was in danger of dying out until a big effort was made to revive it in recent years. Other delights were too many to name, and all washed down with perfect Canarian wines. My love for Canarian wines is, I believe, well documented on my social media, so I will just say that I sampled both white and red and both lived up to my high expectations!

First course – delicious tasters of Canarian Cuisine

Another thanks to Canary PR for the photo … I was much too busy enjoying the food and wine to take as many photos as I should have!

So – now for the full disclosure. As you will have gathered already, I was invited on this excellent excursion by Living Tenerife Tours but I promise you, hand on heart, that I was asked only to write my personal impressions – which you have here. I’ve always loved history, and since immigrating these links which bind UK and Tenerife have fascinated me. It’s partly the history of trade, and how it binds us …. hmmm, topical.

The tour I did was designed for six of us, although the bus would have seated more quite comfortably. Jorge’s idea is to tailor-make tours to fit clients, so a party of two, for instance, would have a smaller vehicle. Clients with specific dietary needs will be catered for. That will also be a part of the booking process. There are also tours to La Laguna, Puerto de la Cruz and Orotava planned, all with the same attention to details and respect for personal tastes. Take a look at the Website or Facebook Page for full details, or follow them on Instagram. I am very grateful to both Living Tenerife Tours and Canary PR for inviting me on this trip, which revealed much I didn’t already know about Anglo-Tinerfenian history, and which I will long remember.

On Being Honest and Transparent

Well, you’re definitely by now sick to death of all the emails and messages you’ve been getting about the new EU rules which came into effect today. As someone said, “It’s been a good opportunity to clean out our inboxes.” I was joking about this with a pal, when I realized that I don’t have a clue as to whether ever so humble blogs like this are supposed to stand up and be counted too, so I guess that I should say something … just in case!

I have absolutely no idea whether any of you receive my posts by email. This blog is certainly not big enough now to run its own mailing list. Perhaps WordPress sends them out. I have no idea. I type out random thoughts and stick in some photos, and press go. I probably need to learn more about cyber-stuff. What I can promise you is that, if in future I do begin a mailing list (and everyone tells me I should), any info I have as a result will be only for the purpose of sending you information about the blog, and no way would it ever be shared with anyone else. I hate that when it happens to me, so why would I do it to anyone else?

To date, this blog has been a labor of love. It’s served as a business card, but it hasn’t made me a cent directly. That might change, who knows, but I will never promote any product which I don’t believe in. I’ve written gratis about products I’ve enjoyed and used, and I will continue to do that too.

Dolphins Should Be Free

Much as I love the mountains, I choose to live by the ocean. I was born close to the coast of North West of England, and wherever I have lived in the Canary Islands, I’ve never been more than ten minutes away from the sea, much of the time I’ve been able to watch it from my window. So, I suppose you can say that I am drawn to it. At one time, I had a twenty minute walk to work right along a coastal pathway, where I often saw dolphins passing, framed against the light of the rising sun, as they rose and dove with the waves. It was a bleak-ish period of my life, and that sight would put everything bad about my day into perspective. Perhaps that’s one reason I feel so passionately about them. One thing you take away from sighting dolphins in the wild is the sense of freedom. They can travel up to 100 miles in a day. There is, quite simply, NO WAY that they belong in concrete tanks, being treated like slaves or toy poodles for human amusement.

I am incredibly lucky to have landed up close to a part of the ocean with an amazing biodiversity. I’ve also been incredibly lucky to have spent many hours on this strip of the Atlantic, on whale watching trips, on yachts and private boats, even watching as dolphins played in the wake of the ferries on my trip around the islands four years back. For a period, I went out most weekends, almost always seeing dolphins.

Lying on my stomach on the prow of the boat, feeling as if I was swimming with them as they played alongside is as near to zen as I have ever been.

Why Tenerife?

In a country renown for its crazy festivals, on an island known for its love of fiestas, Las Tablas de San Andres is surely one of the wackiest. Don’t let the name fool you – it might take place on St Andrew’s Day, but it’s not at all religious, unlike many of Tenerife’s celebrations, which are based loosely on Catholic philosophy………

That was how I began this post,  back in December. The trouble with being “away” for so long is that you forget “how to do it,” write that is. Oh, not the tapping of keys or the putting together of words, but the train of thought, the remembrance of things said before, even the enthusiasm for a place or an event. I wrote a couple of paragraphs back in December, and then it occurred to me to check what I had written the last time, because I knew I’d written about this festival a few years back, and I didn’t want to repeat myself. When I looked, I realized that I had nothing new to say. I knew that I could say it better now (note to self: tidy up that post!), but the information, my feelings, my reactions were pretty much the same.

The beginning of my blogging hiatus perhaps began with this one in 2015. I was already out of love with the perennial round of fiestas which punctuates island life. My relationship with Tenerife, like a stale marriage, lacked sparkle and curiosity, and even love. Predictably, festivals come around, and I enjoy them, but they have all fudged together in my mind. They follow the traditional paths they have taken for decades, and  I needed variety. I was finding it difficult to raise enough enthusiasm to go, let alone write about them, which is not to say that you shouldn’t go to them, especially if you are here on vacation. The island does fiestas superbly, they are colourful, friendly, fun and a tribute to island heritage.

Days on Tenerife don’t always end up the way you expect

In Defense of Hating to Shiver

My friend, Mike Sowden, wrote this marvellous piece in his blog, Fevered Mutterings, last week. A few years back I might have agreed, but, sitting here, blanket wrapped around my shoulders, sneakers and thick socks on my feet, reading it, I can’t help but take issue with him!

Dear Mike,

I’m sorry. I love your writing. I don’t think I have ever disagreed with anything you’ve written before. But … you see, I hate to shiver.

In 40 years of North-of-England weather, and 30 years of sub-tropical living, I have never felt as teeth-chatteringly chilly as I have over the last five weeks or so.

Island Autumn

I probably wouldn’t be living where I am right now if I was as hooked on Autumn as I think I am. I could choose to live up in the mountains, where chestnuts grow, mists swirl, and the season looks more …… familiar. But I don’t. I live on the coast, not the warmest part, but warm enough to remind me each day that these islands are nicknamed “The Islands of Eternal Spring.”

Even sand dunes are parched in October, as early-morning swimmers paddle into the ocean.

Autumn here is often marked by a return to greenery, rather than the loss of it in a fiery display of gold and orange. Some time in Autumn the rains come, and days afterwards, as the sun warms the earth again, even the most barren-looking tracts of land turn grassy. Within days, tiny, green shoots flourish like triffids, and the landscape is much  ……..kinder than before.

A Philosophical Journey and a Mission Statement

When I was very young, we lived with my grandparents, in an old farmhouse. Time and neglect had criss-crossed my bedroom ceiling with chips and cracks, and lumps where repairs had been attempted. Lying in bed, I pretended these imperfections were rivers, roads and mountains. My wanderlust was born tracing those imaginary highways.

Life’s a journey, and by the time, like me, you reach 70, its map probably resembles that bedroom ceiling. It’s a mess of meanderings, dead ends, summits achieved and strategic retreats. My 10-year-old self never imagined, nor wanted, a perfectly boring, straight road; but in my head my future was a highway with crossroads, which took me in a new direction from time to time. Nevertheless, I always moved forward, and seldom was lost. I also never arrived at my final destination.

On Third Age Attitudes

A while back, I changed the subtitle of this blog from “Life on a Small Island & Beyond” to “Exploring the Stories of the Islands and the Freedoms of Third Age.” Third Age is the phrase used in Spain to describe those of us who have left the rat race because of age. (I thought very careful about how to phrase that.) It sounds a whole lot better than “seniors/senior citizens,” “retirees/pensioners,” and especially better than saying “folk of an advanced age,” or even “elderly,” doesn’t it? The Oxford Dictionary describes it thus: “The period in life of ACTIVE retirement, following middle age.” The emphasis is mine.

See, I have met far too many people for whom retirement has meant giving up on real life, and becoming an observer, and, especially, a critic, of what is going on in the world, without any longer participating. It might be enjoyable, but, honestly, all of these folk were …. boring. They had no first-hand tales to tell, their stories were of queues at the bank, gossip about neighbors, or that ever-popular topic, the weather. Some of these folk still inhabited the world of their past glories, stuck in a time warp of big hair, prawn cocktails, and Tom Collinses.

Many of my friends are of this age demographic, but they spend their time in finding new challenges and adventures. They write books, travel the world (and I don’t mean from the comfort of a cruise ship); they paint and draw, run successful blogs (as opposed to this one which is not), do volunteer work. They walk, climb, dance, cycle, study, windsurf, take yoga and Pilates and tai chi classes, and learn new skills. Some continue their work, because they are passionate about what they do. Most of us weren’t that lucky, or were too foolish to have found passion in our work, of course. Some of them make decent money from their Third Age ventures, others find the rare satisfaction of accomplishing something they have dreamed of for decades.

What my friends have in common is that they have never lost their curiosity. They ask themselves, “How will that next wave feel?” or “I wonder what’s over the next hill?” “How can I share this wonderful experience I just had?” or “How do people from this or that country view the world?” They want to know how to make their own bread, hats, furniture or pottery. They grow their own food or flowers, or simply ask themselves “What if…” Many folk find joy in helping raise their grandchildren, having the time for them they never had for their own children, when putting bread on the table was the main goal in life. It’s a different journey for each of us. What they do not do is park themselves up in the sidings, waiting for the train that carries the Grim Reaper to hurtle into theirs.

All of which is a long way round of saying that I am going to be focusing more on that aspect in this blog in future. It doesn’t come all at once, this discovery of Third Age freedom, like most things worth doing, it’s a learning curve, and bound by the same peaks and troughs as earlier stages of life. The trouble may be that it’s easier to give up, to sink back into the relative certainty of the lifestyle a pension affords most of us. It also takes more effort. It’s so much easier to snooze the alarm rather than get out for an early walk; down one more beer, intending to eat healthy from tomorrow on; or give up on that book and flick on the TV instead. I know because this is what I sometimes do. Not always, often these days I rise to the challenge, sometimes I don’t, but one thing is becoming increasingly clear to me …… there is less and less time to do the stuff I want to do!

Of course, Western society and attitudes encourage us to vegetate as the clock ticks. We may be exhausted from a lifetime of making ends meet, cowed by new technology, or coaxed into spending our pensions on new anti-wrinkles creams, exercise machines which don’t require us to move from our chairs (and that is no reflection on those who really cannot move from their chairs), or a new car, which remains, a status symbol, rarely used, sitting in our driveway.

Then, of course, there is the attitude of others, family, friends, the press, who subscribe to the conventional view of age. Family worry for us. Friends are afraid of being jealous if we do something which breaks the mold. I am indebted to a former friend, who, when I idly expressed a desire to get a tattoo when I was in my late 50s, said, “OMG but what will people think?” You miss the point, m’dear! Attaining age is attaining the freedom to “Not give a damn.”

The press view of anyone over 60 is that they are about to die. Even now, when the phrase Baby Boomer appears in the media daily, manufacturers and advertisers haven’t woken up to the fact that this segment of the population has spending power beyond false teeth adhesive and joint pain pacifiers, not that either of those things are unnecessary.

I am beyond lucky in the support I get from my sons, who encourage me to hike, write, travel, and keep fit in mind and body. I owe them a huge debt. I’m not there yet, but I am definitely on my way! You see ….. you never should stop travelling!

One of my heroes is Katherine Switzer, who broke the gender bias of the Boston Marathon back in 1967, when women were forbidden to participate. Just last week, at 70, she ran and finished the New York Marathon, now she’s breaking the taboos of age as well as gender! The oldest woman to place, by-the-way, was 84 years old, and the oldest man, 80. Switzer placed third in her age group. Although she won the New York Marathon in 1974, she doesn’t always win, but what she has done, since 1967 is inspire women, and now Third Agers. It ain’t, of course, the winning, but the taking part, and most of us are too afraid of failure, of being laughed at, or just too lazy to even try, or perhaps simply lack the confidence.  Check this if you think that finishing last is for fools.

I use marathon running as a metaphor, achieving something amazing can be anything you want to do, because you think you’re too old…..ask my friends how they felt when they saw their book cover, stood on the Great Wall of China, sold a painting or a photograph, got positive feedback  on their blog, or rode a wave.

On Being Fit for the Challenge

Part of facing up to a challenge is being fit enough to do it, even if the fancy that haunts you isn’t a physical one, you do need to be fit to keep your grey matter healthy too; not to mention that life is simply easier if you keep those aches and pains at bay, and exercise and diet help that.

I had thought of starting a brand new blog on this subject, but since I am, and always will be, a student of this stuff and not a master, then it would be wrong to preach or try to teach about it. That said, over my last, two, non-blogging years I’ve learned and read much more about nutrition and keeping fit than at any time in my life. Honestly? I’ve always been kind of “fit enough.” I always had just enough willpower to reign in my eating when I began to bulge, and to exercise when I really needed to. Actually, I always enjoyed exercise, but what I didn’t do was to prioritize it enough. Now, as I said before, there is a gnawing awareness of time running out.

I definitely do not subscribe to the theory that one should eat the cake and drink the wine ad infinitum, because tomorrow we die. Sure I will eat cake and definitely will drink wine, and I will enjoy every crumb and sip, but not so much that it means that I will die tomorrow, as the day after tomorrow, or the day after that, because, heck, who knows what delights tomorrow holds? Seeing the aurora borealis or Victoria Falls, being out on the ocean at night where there is no light pollution to see the millions of stars and planets, are worth far more than that extra slice of pie, or the third bottle of beer.

So I might just be rambling on about food and drink, and exercise now, because I am sooooo fed up of people saying “can’t” or “shouldn’t” or even “why.” In that period I covered in recent blog posts, I twice stuck to a pretty rigid diet, and faithfully followed an exercise regime, because it was obvious that if I wanted to enjoy life, I needed to do so. And, yes, twice I have gradually given up on both. (Neither of those a first over a lifetime btw) Both times I have retained some of the information, gone overboard on Instagram with “healthy food” photos, or probably been so overenthusiastic that it couldn’t last. Rallying cry of we, Third Agers, might be “It’s never too late!”

The challenges we face are really no different than those we have always faced, it just seems, from my personal observation, that the older people get, the more inclined they are to not take on the challenge, because in their arsenal of excuses they now have “I’m too old for this.” The impetus we have, which we lacked when young, is that  …. to be brutally frank ….. we may not be able to start tomorrow. We have to start today. Right here, and right now!

 

 

 

 

Brexit, My Blog and Me: A New Journey Awaits

Me: The Sad Stuff

Almost a year after my father’s death,  I stand on a grassy knoll, to witness his ashes slide slowly into the ground, into the same spot where my mom’s remains were placed over 40 years ago. A fine mist of ash rises, and gently blends into the hazy daylight. The sod is returned. I lay a small posy of freesia on the spot, my mother’s favorite flower, the same flowers I’d left there a year ago.

In all these years I’d been unaware that there was a special place which marked where my mom’s final resting place. It was only my dad’s death which had brought it to light. At last, they are together again – not that I doubted that they had not been for the last year; not that I doubted that my mother had really ever left us, come to that.

A few months back, I’d had a clear picture in my head: the two of them standing somewhere in a garden or a wood, Trixy was bounding up to them. My dad is saying to my mom:

“And this is Trixy. I told you so much about her,” as Trix jumps up to greet him.

Trixy enjoying the sun at the last stop of our round-the-islands journey in La Palma. People ask me if I will finish off the trip, but I doubt it, without Trix it just wouldn’t be the same.

I’d lost her in May, oddly, on the anniversary of my mom’s death. It completed a trilogy I’d knew had begun when my aunt died. Dot, my dad, Trixy, at the ages they were, their deaths were inevitably going to come close together. That Fate threw in the knee problem, Trixy’s tumors, the septicemia, the cancer, a month of radiotherapy, and a frustrating battle with the inefficiency of hospital administration was, well, one of those things …… I don’t know about you, but it’s not the first time in my life I’ve wondered if the  Universe was testing me, seeing just how much I could take. Trixy’s death opened the flood gates, and allowed me to mourn it all. I felt as if the tears might never stop.

I wasn’t emotionally recovered by June 23rd.

Brexit

I’ve wondered over these last months what my dad would have made of Brexit, As a WW2 RAF officer he had worked and fought alongside people from all parts of the then Commonwealth, and he abhorred racism. He went out of his way to buy a copy of “The Big Issue” from a lady of Indian heritage, because he felt that others ignored her because of her appearance. His generation, more than any, had a right to talk about “the good old days,” not because of the war, but because integrity, tolerance and honesty were prized. I am gobsmacked that my own generation seems to have rejected all of that.

Brexit for me was the latest in a list of painful events. I took it personally, still do. It threw my world into further chaos. Uncertainty I do fine, so long as I have options. I haven’t known what my options are for over a year now, and I am very angry, still, at the ignorance and racism which brought this about. I am as European as I am English, and I am angry that I don’t have the control I had, or should have, and that’s just my selfish perspective. I think it is a huge tragedy for the UK.

Me: The Happy Stuff

Before Brexit, before Trixy died, things had been on the up. There is an end to a period like this, no matter how long it seems to drag on, but perhaps there is no clear moment when Fate swings in the other direction. I’ve long known that acceptance is key to surviving. Angsting and wailing are no use for anything. You need to go with the flow until it slows down a bit.

And so, in the weeks between the bad stuff, there had been gloriously happy times too. In Spring Guy and Rachael had become engaged, their happiness was infectious, and the negative energy began, perceptively, to shift.

Shortly after we returned from Florida the previous year, Rachael had lost her dad, another sadness on what had seemed like the downward spiral in which we were trapped. The upswing was intentional. It was Guy and Rachael telling Fate to “bring it on, we won’t give in to negativity.” The wedding, intended for this year, was brought forward by 12 months. It left me with very little time to concentrate on anything else, because they decided to celebrate their wedding in Tenerife.

My life became a round of florists and hairdressers, cake tasting and balloons, hurricane lamps and ribbons, and, of course, possible venues.

It all culminated on a perfectly balmy evening overlooking one of the prettiest beaches on the island, and one of the happiest, most emotional days of my life. I am acutely aware not only of Guy’s good fortune in meeting Rachael, but of my own. I have a dream of a daughter-in-law. My happiness level was at maximum.

Just a few months before, as I drove, mechanically, to the hospital each day, I’d concentrated on the positive. In December I was due to turn 70, and it was looking very much as if 2017 was going to be “my” year. As it turned out, everything turned up roses in 2016.

During the months Austin had spent with me when the cancer was diagnosed, he’d promised me a very special 70th birthday present – a trekking holiday to Nepal in 2017. So you can guess how much I was looking forward to the new year!

As it turned out, that was also brought forward … to November of 2016 ……. so even before the wedding, I began another “get fit” plan. Once the wedding party left, it was time to get serious. I returned to the same regime I’d followed when I had septicemia, plus, I walked until I dropped at every single opportunity, whether it was along the coast, or up in the mountains. The latter was favorite to accustomise to the altitude.

Hiking releases endorphins for me like nothing else. I’d never hiked alone before, but now hadn’t much choice if I wanted to do as much as I should, and I found out that I relish it. Of course, I enjoy the company of friends, and sometimes organized walking, but there is something about being alone in the mountains which strikes a very fundamental chord, a closeness with Nature that’s rare when you’re with others. That said, I was lucky in my friendship with Pilar who did her very best to encourage and motivate me too!

Still on a high from the wedding, I was happily munching my salads, when the universe lobbed another obstacle at me. With around six weeks to go before leaving for Nepal I woke one morning to see that the itching which had irritated me all night was due to a nasty rash forming around my waist. I knew what it was, and my doctor confirmed it – shingles. From friends who had suffered, I had gathered that the itching was unbearable. What I hadn’t realized was the sciatica which it provoked too. There was nothing more I could do, except take the antibiotics and continue the healthy eating. I certainly wasn’t up for walking much! In retrospect, I must have boosted my immune system pretty well, because I am told that my recovery was a quick one.

But that too passed. I upped the walking again as soon as I could, and stayed positive. I’m lucky that I was born this way. When something bad or dramatic is happening something inside my head kicks in and keeps me calm and positive, even when I’ve missed a lot of sleep.

And so my trip takes me first to Lancaster, and this grassy knoll. We’d hoped, the three of us, to be here together, but for many reasons that wasn’t going to happen soon, and I need some closure.

I turn to walk away, and head for London and then to Nepal.

My Blog

These last, few posts have been difficult to write. I am a fairly private person. But there has been a mental block which needed to be cleared, and perhaps this is the only way I could do that. As you can imagine, there were a lot more tears, gnashing of teeth, and cursing than I’ve admitted to here. This particular part of “my story” has already been weeks waiting for me to click “publish,” because once I’ve cleared that blockage I am committed to writing regularly again.

I stopped blogging, with a few impulsive exceptions, because I wanted to concentrate on family, getting well, and getting the most out of those good times. I’m ready to hit the keys again, but it will be slightly different, and I will update my “About” page to explain that.

I am pretty much saying “To heck” with social media. Of course, the world is in a sorrier state than it was when I was last blogging frequently, and it impacts all of us in some way or other. Social media can now be a pretty depressing place. I used to be able to ignore the racism and the hate, but now it seems to invade all our lives. We can ignore it, but it seems disloyal to those who can’t, especially those who can’t speak for themselves. Today I saw a post about the refugee crisis in the Mediterranean on Instagram. My son, Austin, has been volunteering with them over the summer, so I perhaps know a little more about the heartbreak behind those photos than most people. I found myself finding the next post in my feed, from a blogger whom I like, to be trite in comparison, but it wasn’t. This is all a part of the world we inhabit, we should try to help those who cannot help themselves, who are victims of war, or racism, or sexism, or whatever else shallow people use to try to boost their own feeble egos. But we need to allow ourselves to enjoy and appreciate the overwhelming beauty of this planet and its people too.

That said, there is a lot of the trite and a lot of vanity on social media. I’m checking on my personal guidelines for both what I post and what I follow. I know that I am neither Paul Theroux or Steve McCurry, but I can strive to follow their example of excellence in writing and in photography. I can attempt to avoid the corny and the self promotion. That last is not easy, because we write and we take photographs for them to be seen. Balance in this, as in life in general, is a hard road to tread, but I can try.

To be the best we can be has always been a noble goal, but it’s more important now than ever in this age of stupidity and mediocrity. I know I’m leaving myself wide open in saying that. Hopefully, I can laugh at myself too. In my new-found enthusiasm for all things healthy I know that I’ve fallen well short of those standards on Instagram in recent weeks! I shudder when I think back to old posts on this blog, too. I have considered beginning anew, yet, aren’t we all the sum parts of what has brought us to this point in our journey? Maybe some of those posts are what I was, but am not any longer. In any event, expect more about food and health on here. Did I ever mention either in respect of my own life before, actually?

In the midst of the hiatus, I turned 70, but at times over the last couple of years I have felt healthier than I ever did. Sure I am not as agile or quick as I once was, but I see no reason to become a couch potato, sipping my gin ‘n’ tonic every night as I watch the sun go down on a world in which I am simply now an observer.

Storms Within and Without: Stage 4 of My Personal Journey

Apt that in the English Lake District, home of the Romantic Poets, the skies are heavy,  Kendal’s  streets are grey, and our sombre mood, when we turn the key in my dad’s small bungalow a couple of hours later.

There is much to do, and I don’t know how much time I have before the hospital in Tenerife rings to say the tests are back, and they will begin radiotherapy.

There are people to ring, contracts to cancel, authorities to inform, lawyers to pay, newspapers to stop, banks to deal with, mail to redirect, and all the dozens of small, heartbreaking tasks a family death entails.

In the bottom of his wardrobe my father kept one of those steel home filing systems which were popular before computers. He frequently reminded me that when he went I would find all the documents I needed there. There aren’t that many. My father was a man of simplicity, and over recent years becoming even more so, giving a lot of his possessions to the charity shops which line Kendal’s main street. His intention was to lighten the load we now face.

On the top is a letter he had written in 2009. By then he was 86. I don’t think he thought that he would live as long as he did. The letter lists just about everything we need to deal with, including telephone numbers, right down to cancelling the service contract for his vacuum  cleaner.

In the next days I ring some of those numbers, only to find that the person has died in the meantime.

It’s his instructions for his funeral which puzzle me. No church, no priests. The emphasis is his. I fall asleep wondering how that is to be done.

The next day at the hospital we collect the death certificate. The cause of death is identified as cancer of the esophagus, undetected and not diagnosed until it took his life.

At the undertakers I convey his instructions; cremation, and what will happen with his ashes. We come to his instructions about his funeral, which will be in the small chapel at the crematorium, a place familiar to me. I explain his wishes, there are seconds of dead air, and then I hear myself saying that I will conduct the service myself.

If daddy had died before Dot I would not have heard that voice,  it wouldn’t have occurred to me that I could do something like that. Dot’s parting gift. It’s a year and a half since I gave the eulogy and at her funeral. I know I can do this, and something inside of me knows this is how he would want it. My father’s imprint on this earth, so far as I know, was very light. There are still mysteries about his life. He was the most private person I have ever known, and this simple ceremony is what he wanted. The date is set for a week ahead.

We muddle through that week. It’s busy. At times it’s fraught or tense, or simply depressing. I am fortunate that I have something my sons cannot have, the strong sense of my mother’s presence. It’s almost forty years since she died, and three days before my father died would have been their 70th wedding anniversary. My sons never knew their grandmother, and in his own way, daddy tried to do double duty to make up for that.

So many things in this bungalow are memories of my mother that I feel as if I am losing her all over again.

The day comes. It is appropriately stormy and gloomy. It’s a small family gathering, very intimate. I am grateful for the support, for people travelling a long way in horrible weather to pay their last respects.

It’s done. I found a flight, although there is still no word from the hospital, so I cannot follow my father’s wishes about his ashes until a later date. I have chosen May 20th, the anniversary of my mother’s death to do it.

All that remains is for the furniture to be collected. After it’s gone, Austin and I clean up as best we can, and go to spend our last night in a local hotel. The rain has been unceasing and a bitter wind howls along the river outside. I wake up in the morning to find the waters worryingly close to my window, and the staff talk about evacuating. We load up Austin’s car with the mementos of their granddad which Austin and Guy wanted to keep, and he sets off for London. I call a cab and head to the station.

Even by Lake District standards, the short trip to Oxenholme Station is scary. We were, literally, soaked to the skin whilst loading the car, and the taxi driver, a regular, who I know to be very experienced, has doubts that we will make it. Roads are flooding everywhere.

Eventually, I catch a train, not the one booked, which is delayed by the weather. Austin is stopped by police on a flooded road, pleads to be allowed through, and makes it.

Storm Desmond has arrived, and I feel like a rat leaving a sinking ship. It all seems apt.

Storm Desmond battered the British Isles (mainly Ireland, northern England and Scotland from 3rd to 8th December 2015, causing devastating flooding in Cumbria. I glimpsed just a little of the beginning of it from the train window that day.