Let us go singing as far as we go: the road will be less tedious

The day last week’s blog came out, I was trundling along on my bike in the usual way when I noticed a friend in the distance. It’s hard to wave enthusiastically while staying upright, but somehow, I managed it. It was Andy, husband of Clare, father of Lana. 

(Check out last week’s blog if you’ve forgotten who they are. https://bigwordsandmadeupstories.blogspot.com/2020/04/i-want-to-ride-my-bicycle-i-want-to.html). We had a jolly good chat about cooking and what inspires us which is what next week’s blog is going to be about.

Just outside the Greyhound, I ran into Jim and his impossibly bronzed set of limbs (how does he do it?) and Lynette, both of them taking advantage of the pub’s Finish at Home selection. Further down the road, there were the lovely Jenny and Alan. I promised to include them all in this week’s blog. And so I have.[1]

It’s a funny old business, being a writer. It’s solitary, for a start. You sit gazing at a blank screen, an idea pops into your head and suddenly you’ve written 600 words. I used to be terrified of hitting “publish” but not any more. I wasn’t sure how my account of my bike ride through the Suffolk lanes would go down – was it too self-indulgent? – but it’s been one of the most commented upon and shared. I’ve learned that writing from the heart and sharing encouraging things seems to strike a chord.

This week is no exception. I went to a concert last Friday. Gosh it was good! My seat was very comfortable, I was able to quaff a glass of wine, no-one coughed or annoyed me by rustling sweet wrappers and it didn’t matter that I was wearing my slippers. Pourquoi? It was the inaugural performance by Classical Suffolk, a brilliant wheeze put together by two utterly delightful people, Christina Johnston, the internationally renowned opera and crossover star, and Richard Garrett, Ipswich-based sound engineer to the stars. They’d met at a concert I’d been involved in to support the Beehive Nakuru and really hit it off. With Christina’s beautiful voice and Richard’s technical skills, they performed a few free concerts for elderly people in nursing homes before social distancing guidelines became stricter. Nothing daunted, they’ve set up Classical Suffolk (https://www.facebook.com/classicalsuffolk/) which broadcasts a weekly concert every Friday at 7 pm.

I’ve been to a number of Christina’s concerts in the past. Classical Suffolk’s lack of an actual live audience must be difficult for a performer, but with her husband Slava and the incorrigible Richard providing encouragement and technical support, she’s able to interact with her online audience.

Watching Christina singing on-screen, I forgot that she was standing in her music studio in Felixstowe with a black backdrop and that I was lying on my bed. Her beautiful voice lifted my spirits and between songs, she read out comments from fans on social media. It was such a huge success that she and Richard have decided to put on a weekly lock down concert.

Both Christina and Richard are self-employed and have seen the businesses they’ve worked so hard for come to a standstill, for now. One of the many reasons I think so much of both of them is that they have dusted themselves down, picked themselves up and decided to use their considerable talents to entertain others. They are both full of compassion, kindness, generosity and humanity, qualities I value very highly.

Christina has sung to heads of states, to packed houses all over the world and is a proper famous person. Richard has worked with some of the biggest and starriest names in music. And yet both of them have taken that meeting at Framlingham College a few months ago and worked it up into a wonderful thing that can make us all forget, at least for a little while, that our world is not as we would like it to be.

All you have to do is click here: https://www.facebook.com/classicalsuffolk/. You can even request a favourite song (up to four days before the concert.) I’ll be in the front row tomorrow.

And finally, what do you think of my title? I wanted something inspiring and came across these words spoken by a man born in 70 BC, the Roman poet Virgil. They worked for me – how about you?

See you at the concert.

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[1] Social distancing was maintained with all these encounters. At least 4 metres apart, shouty voices.

I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike, I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like – oh hang on….

For no particular reason, the moment I first rode on my bike without falling off came into my mind the other day. It was a hot summer in Theydon Bois, and I was probably around 9. My sister and I were round at the Watkins girls’ in Barn Mead. Their garden featured an excellent sturdy seesaw with not one but two seats on each end, and a paved path that went all the way round the house. I’d been very close to success for several days, and I can still feel the joy as I wobbled off on yet another circuit only to realise that Mr Watkins had let go of my bike. From then on, I rode it everywhere.

I got a new bike for my birthday last summer but was too busy to use it. A couple of weeks ago, my daughter suggested that we all ride over to my elderly parents rather than driving, so now we regularly make the three-mile circuit down to theirs and back again, sometimes taking a longer detour to increase the amount of exercise. They rely on us for the shopping and to feed the tortoise, which the children love doing.

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve always struggled with living in the moment. Due to self-isolation and lock down, I’ve suddenly got a lot better at it. Yesterday afternoon, cycling down the lane past the bluebell wood, I came over all lyrical as the beauties of nature smacked me right between the eyes.

 Perched majestically on my gel saddle (middle age has its perks), I’ve got time to notice the sights, sounds and smells in a way you don’t in the car. Our bluebell wood is famous for miles around, carpeting the ground with a heady cloak of deep violet blooms. Golden dandelions are embroidering the grass verges along with celandines and oxlips. Birdsong is louder than the gentle hum of the A12 running along in a cutting adjacent to the bluebell wood. Whereas usually you’d have to stop for cars every few minutes, now the only people we see are other cyclists (“Afternoon! Lovely day”), walkers and runners.

Whizzing down the lane, we get to the sharp bend to the left past the nursery on the left and the Rosery on the right. The landscape opens out so that we can see the spire of All Saints soaring into the cloudless blue sky. There’s a dead blackbird lying sadly on the verge as we freewheel down The Street, Pettistree proper. Past the kennels, I notice they are completely silent. Not a yap, a bark or a woof to be heard.

Round a sharp bend to the left and we’re sailing past Dick and Rita’s Victorian barn, Jim mowing his front lawn and not practising the bagpipes and the Greyhound, our lovely local pub. Turning right down Walnuts Lane, Dave and Cath’s wisteria is coming into bloom. On either side of the lane, rich Suffolk soil stretches out, full of promise. The intoxicating scent of rapeseed drifts across the fields and in the distance, there are the scattered dwellings of Thong Hall Road.

The backs of the houses in The Crescent are getting closer. Zooming past them and shouting a greeting to two passing walkers, we reach the front of the primary school, which at this time of day should be alive with children and parents walking and driving home. It’s silent, but the beautiful tree by the Nursery entrance is frothing with white blossom like a spring bride. Right turn into Orchard Place where the verges are studded with daisies (so called because they were known as “days-eyes” in medieval times, opening as day dawned and closing again as the sun went down).

A year ago, we moved Mum and Dad from their home 85 miles away to their bungalow just a mile from ours. Thank God we did. Orchard Place is a true community, in the real sense of the word. When Dad had a fall last year, I rushed over to find Rex, one of the neighbours, sitting on his bed, patting his hand and comforting him. Tony and Sheila next door are always there for a chat and a cup of tea (not at the moment, of course). Margaret, and Beth and Alan down the road are friends and everyone in the road looks out for everyone else.

We drop the shopping off and have a chat, which is hard because of social distancing and Dad’s increasing deafness. “Ruth’s brought some cake, dear.” “What’s that? Snake?” “No, CAKE. SHE’S BROUGHT A CAKE!” No doubt the whole of Orchard Place can hear our bellowed conversations, but they’re probably having similar ones.

On the way back down Walnuts Lane, we run into our friends Clare and Lana walking the dogs. From a safe distance, we have a conversation full of laughter and jokes. It’s great.   

The sky is still a clear, startling blue and the blossom-clad trees arch up against it, their long slender arms clothed all in white. Wood pigeons coo seductively to each other from the trees. Pedalling back down our lane, a pair of dog walkers do the obligatory leap sideways when they see us coming and we direct them to the circular walk past Loudham Hall down our lane and through the farmyard.

If you’re still with me, you might be wondering why I’ve written about a bike ride in the Suffolk countryside. I’ll tell you. It’s because it’s taken a pandemic to make me realise that community means different things to different people, but to me, it means valuing the people I know, relying on my friends and neighbours and knowing that they can rely on me and truly taking in the beauties of the place where we live. Trundling along on a bike, you can’t help but see the tiny details of the trailing pink flowers on a wall, the tough stalks of yarrow and the carpet of wood anemones on the grass verges.

When this is all over, if I haven’t learned to slow down, to appreciate where I live and to enjoy the moment, then you are fully within your rights to tell me I’m an idiot. This enforced isolation, slow living, simpler routines have their drawbacks, but I’m determined to find the good and the encouraging. I live in Suffolk with its big skies and open fields, and I know how fortunate I am. But community is everywhere if you look for it, and I hope more than I can say that when this is all over, we don’t forget about it.

Please, stay safe and well and enjoy your community, wherever it is.

 Images by Pixabay

From Eastbourne to East Suffolk: The Unstoppable Adolphe Audusson

Yesterday morning I had my first Zoom meeting since lockdown. It was a cross between Celebrity Squares and Through the Keyhole, with our twelve little faces smiling out in a grid with various backgrounds. One of our number managed to conjure up an idyllic tropical beach by some Zoom-related wizardry. The rest of us offered windowsills, home offices, coloured in African animals and rather nice curtains as our backdrop.

Since this all began, I haven’t put make up on once and have developed a look you might call Pioneer Frontierswoman Chic. By this I mean messy hair, untamed eyebrows, earth beneath my fingernails and a reluctance to tart myself up. Since our meeting was at 9.00, the time I am normally sitting up in bed enjoying my second cup of tea of the day, steps had to be taken. I arose at 8.30, cooked breakfast and did the tea and then slipped into something less comfortable. I applied a thin layer of cosmeticry, including a good slick of Speaker’s Lipstick[1]. Following my own advice (please see here: https://bigwordsandmadeupstories.blogspot.com/2020/04/ruths-top-lockdown-tips.html) by draping a posh scarf over my top half, I then climbed back into bed and dialled up, or whatever you do on Zoom.

Image by Pixabay

It was good to see everyone. We shared our stories. We’re all self-employed small business owners in Suffolk. Some of us still have work. Most of us don’t. I was impressed at the fact that none of us were giving up, throwing in the towel or calling it a day. We’ve all worked very hard to make successes of ourselves and although this pesky virus has put a dent in our plans for 2020, it won’t finish us off.

Which rather neatly brings me on to Adolphe Audosson who lives in our front garden. He is looking particularly fine at the moment with his glossy dark green leaves and his double petalled red blooms. He is a camellia bush (full name camellia 'Adolphe Audusson' of the family Theaceae.) But not any common or garden shrub. He’s been through a heck of a lot in his time. Let me tell you his story.

My husband’s grandma, Grace Ivy Spence, was a keen gardener. In the early 1970s, she was given two camellia bushes, one pink, one red, by her brother, Uncle Reg, the Head Gardener at Valentine’s Park in Ilford. The two bushes were duly planted in her garden at 85 Woodgate Road, Eastbourne which she shared with her two sisters, Auntie Bab and Auntie Cis. My husband has very happy memories of that garden. It was in the old English style with apple trees, two greenhouses, a veg patch, an apricot tree and old-fashioned sweet-scented roses and sweet peas. The two camellia bushes thrived.

In 1983, she moved with Auntie Bab (Auntie Cis having died in 1981) to 107 Chelmsford Road, South Woodford. I came on the scene in 1985 and remember her garden well. The camellias were doing well, until a leak was found on the flat roof at the back of the house. The sisters called in a dodgy odd job man. Having fixed the roof, he threw all the old wood on top of the camellias, crushing them. To add insult to injury, he then had a bonfire. Both camellias were both burnt to the ground. The pink one was a write-off, but camellia Adolphe Audusson had one pitiful little stalk still hanging on.  With careful nurturing, plenty of manure and lots of loving care, it was somehow brought back to life.

Its next challenge came in 1991 with yet another move, three miles up the road to 81 Russell Road, Buckhurst Hill. Sadly, a year later, Grace died and in autumn 1993, we got married and moved in. We inherited the camellia bush, which features heavily in photos of our early married life. The huge, glossy flowers lit up the garden and clashed beautifully with the forsythia behind it.

In 2006, we left Essex to move to Loudham, right here in Suffolk, and of course camellia Adolphe Audusson joined us on our journey up the A12. We were anxious about how it would adapt to yet another move, but we needn’t have worried. I can see it out of the kitchen window as I type, tall and healthy and covered with huge, beautiful blooms. It’s probably not a surprise to you to learn that camellias are sometimes known as the roses of winter. Buds appear as early as December, and in March, they burst into glorious bloom.

You don’t need me to provide the subtext for this – but just in case, here goes.

Times are hard. We don’t know what the future holds. Some of us may be feeling uprooted, damaged, vulnerable, crushed and with good reason. These are frightening times. But at our core, we are strong and versatile and even the vicissitudes of life will not finish us off. Like our hardy camellia, which has survived being crushed and broken, then burnt, as well as move after move, somehow, we will see the green shoots of growth when this is all over. We may even burst back into bloom.

Image by Pixabay

We're all in a hard place, but we’re in it together. Let’s remember to hold on to hope and to support each other until we are re-planted in the fertile soil of society where social distancing and lock-down are distant memories, stories to tell our grandchildren.

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[1] A fine red lippy, worn only when networking or speaking at events. The upside is that it brings out the colour of my eyes (I know – weird isn’t it?) and makes me feel confident, the downside that it transfers to the front teeth, necessitating frequent grimacing in mirrors.

Surely you jest: some stuff I never thought I’d be writing about

Welcome back, valued and lovely readers. It’s Wednesday night, I’ve got a glass of wine to hand and I really should have written this earlier. Today I found myself pottering around doing all those things that I visualised myself engaging in the minute I went off on maternity leave, 17 years ago this July. Ambling around in the garden, gently snipping at overgrowing foliage, pottering around making bread, knocking up a batch of scones for my hard-working husband upon his return from work, sitting in a chair gazing up at the intense blue sky and doing nothing. Dear reader, I did none of those things back then. But today, I did.

I would never describe myself as a home maker. I mean, I live in one, I do home makery stuff like dusting and hoovering and occasionally choosing new curtains (once every 13 years), but it doesn’t bring me joy. I have to do housework, but if I didn't have to, I wouldn't. I’m not like the ladies I see online who cannot rest until their toilets are gleaming, their skirting boards immaculate and their floors shining. One of the things I’ve always wrestled with is how you succeed in enjoying the moment. I have never been able to manage it. I’m always racing ahead to the next thing, or worrying about what I haven’t done.

Not this past week, though. Blimey, it’s been a revelation! As a self-employed person, I’ve watched nearly all my work dry up overnight. That’s not great, but my philosophy has always been, “If life gives you lemons (which it undoubtedly has), make a lemon tart.” Just a few weeks ago, my days looked like this:

Wake up. Roll over in bed and hope it’s Saturday. It’s not. Get up, stagger about yawning, check various school bags and packed lunches, herd children into car, do school run. Come home. Diddle about a bit washing up, drinking tea, hanging out washing, making bed, putting off work. Sit down with tea. Write some stuff. Write some more stuff. Amble off for a bit to do more housework and think about the stuff I wrote. Come back to it and change it a bit. Do some letters and bills for catering business. Think about doing tax return and decide against it. Look at clock and realise am late for school run. Do school run. Come home. Talk to children, break up fights, talk through latest hormonal challenges. Do tea. Drink wine. Watch telly. Fall asleep on sofa. Go to bed.

And repeat.

Everything’s changed. My days are completely different. Here are some things I have done over the last week.

1.    Baked bread

2.    Pimped up a cheese scone recipe with exciting results

3.    Made cake

4.    Helped husband build two compost bins, covering self in chicken and quail poo in the process

5.    Stared at rhubarb

6.    Made rhubarb gin (numbers 5 and 6 are related)

7.    Opened compost bin to feel temperature

8.    Lovingly massaged outside of compost bin daily for same reason

9.    Genuinely considered installing a hen cam so that I can work out which of the ladies is laying thin-shelled eggs

10. Written 4.5 short stories in 10 days (never written a short story in my life)

11.  Come up with a new business idea in conjunction with 2 fellow self-employed Suffolk ladies (there is a clue to what this might be in last week’s blog: https://bigwordsandmadeupstories.blogspot.com/2020/04/ruths-top-lockdown-tips.html

And weirdly, I am living in the moment, for the first time in my life. So back to the lemons analogy. No income. Not so good. But my tax return for 2020/2021 is going to be a piece of cake. No new writing work. But I’m finding new ways to write and loving it. No social life. Really grim. I miss my friends. But I can chat to them in other ways (hello FaceTime!)

This is a really difficult time for all of us. We are in a situation we never anticipated and all the control and comfort has gone. However, I choose to encourage, to inspire, to support and to love, rather than to waste my time worrying incessantly about things I can’t change. When this is all over, I am going to remind myself that last week, I was as happy as I could be standing in stained old clothes with my husband shovelling grass cuttings, egg shells, old tea bags, veg peelings and the aforementioned poo into a compost bin. I was investing in the future. That compost will help our veg to grow. My short stories might just be published and bring in a new source of income.

Who knows what will happen? Not me. 36-year old Ruth with her glossy hair, unlined skin and neat little bump back then had aspirations she never achieved. 53-year old Ruth is. Who would have thought it? Not me. Not in a million years. Or even 17.

Images by Pixabay

Ruth's Top Lockdown Tips

I love a list. There’s something very comforting about reading other people’s tips. If you agree with them, you get a warm glow of fellow feeling. “I’m not the only person in the world who is offended by hydrangeas! How wonderful.” If, however, you think the person is talking utter doggy doo, you can huff and puff self-righteously about how they’re wrong and you’re right. Either way, it’s a win-win situation.

Before you start reading, please refer to my terms and conditions. “Views expressed are the writer’s own. The writer may well be talking out of her bottom, due to lack of social contact and drinking too much sherry at tea time. Please do not use naughty words if you disagree with the tips.”

OK, so now we’ve got that out of the way, let’s get on with it.

1.    Stay in touch with friends and family. We are social animals and loneliness and isolation build up very quickly in a situation like this. Texts, Facebook messages, WhatsApps or picking up the phone are easy. Use technology to your advantage.

2.    There’s always a way through. Run out of loo rolls? Use newspaper, but don’t forget to have a dedicated bag for disposal. No flushing! A warm feeling of satisfaction can be added if you’re repurposing a publication which annoys you. Choose a columnist who really gets up your nose and do your worst.

3.    Remember that we’re all in the same boat. At the end of this, we’ll all have terrible hair. Let’s go back in time to find a solution. During the Second World War, root retouching and keeping on top of their perms wasn’t number one on the list for most women. They often chose to cover up their crowning glory with scarves or turbans. This is your chance to develop a whole new look which will take you anywhere. Customise your head covering with a home made felt flower, feathers or fruit. My friend Fiona recently celebrated a big birthday by dressing as Carmen Miranda (see picture below). Her top tip? Use plastic rather than real fruit (because of the fruit flies, you see).

4.    Don’t compare yourself to others. Comparison is the thief of joy. Yesterday I made a loaf of soda bread, two batches of scones and put all the clothes away. Am I Super Woman or what?[1] However, I have an unidentified lump of sticky material matted in my hair (I suspect golden syrup from an earlier baking experiment), haven’t brushed my hair for two days and look like a crazy woman. It all balances out.

5.    Surround yourself with positivity. Don’t be tempted to watch the news and depressing programmes too much. Build in time to enjoy films, TV, reading, craft, box sets, baking or whatever floats your self-isolated boat.

6.    If you are working from home, remember to dress for the occasion. Pyjamas and slippers are de rigeur for the solitary home worker, but if you are invited to a conference call, slip on either a plain coloured pyjama top or a tailored piece and accessorise. A tie works for chaps, a big chunky necklace or a scarf for ladies. Your work colleagues need never know that beneath the waist you are clad in a way that would get you arrested on the street!

7.    Exercise if you can. This could be a bit of stretching, a brisk walk or run or having a dance to your favourite music.

8.    Don’t beat yourself up if you feel sad or low or hopeless. We all do sometimes. Reach out for help, sit outside and get some rays if you can or do something creative to release endorphins.

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[1] No.

 And that’s it for now! Stay safe everyone and feel free to comment with your own tips.

Images from Pixabay and Fiona Mearns

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[1] No.