Jenny Burrell

My sister and her husband are on their annual visit to England from Australia. My sister spends time with our mother but we arrange two day trips each week so that they can see parts of the United Kingdom as well as Cheshire. This week we went to Wales.

We have a Welsh heritage. My paternal grandfather was Welsh. He was born in Wales to Welsh parents but married a Cornish woman. My father was born in Reading so we can claim to be part Welsh. My brother has shown greater affinity to his Welsh heritage than my sister and I!

We stayed at a very good Bed and Breakfast near Harlech. My husband booked a trip up Snowdonia by train and we planned to visit Portmeirion, a unique village in Gwynedd, North Wales. It was built by Sir Clough Williams-Ellis between 1925 and 1975, based on an Italian village.

I also tried to arrange some summer weather but that didn’t work! We left on a bleak grey day, gazing out of the car window at ‘mizzling’ rain, interspersed by heavy showers, thankful that we were in a warm car and not outside fighting the elements!

On our first night we went to the only local, a small pub which offered basic fare but made us feel as if we were in a foreign country as they all spoke a foreign language! It was different. It was frequented by farmers and local tradesmen. Walking into the tiny bar we felt as if we were intruding and couldn’t wait to find a table on the perimeter, far enough from their obviously hallowed sanctum but still within the walls of the pub! This was the only restaurant within walking distance and we didn’t feel like getting back into the car! We needed to stretch our legs and make Fitbit happy!

The steam train up Snowdonia was a disappointment. We were offered a full refund because the train couldn’t go to the summit. Having come so far we decided to go only two thirds of the way just for the experience. Not one of our best decisions because the fog outside hampered visibility and the breathing inside clouded up the windows. Our supply of tissues soon ran out and by the time we were on the descent we could have been anywhere in the world on an overcrowded train with blacked out windows!

Portmeirion was far more enjoyable. The weather had improved (how weather obsessed I have become since living in England!) and we were able to wander down to the beach after a delicious lunch and liquid refreshments. I have a new plant app so had great fun identifying plants and shrubs along the way! I felt like a child with a new toy! Sad but embarrassingly true!

My mother has deteriorated quite significantly since my sister saw her last year. Even though I tried to warn her she was not fully prepared. Understandable but still very upsetting. This is why our weekly breaks are important to put distance between the visits and allow time to adjust to the changed circumstances.

My mother still retains most of her dignity. She is a beautiful woman and I ensure she dresses well. There is not a lot I can do to aid her along this debilitating cruel and evil dementia journey. I can be her gate keeper and protect her where possible. I do this by frequent visits and close interaction with the carers and management staff. I ask questions if unsure and voice concerns when they arise. A really sad end to someone who gave so much of her time and energy in helping others! 👠

I like discipline. I also feel comfortable obeying rules. My husband, on the other hand, likes to break rules and, unlike me, doesn’t feel comfortable being stifled by boundaries and any kind of restrictions. He is not an anarchist or a criminal, he just likes the freedom to chose but does stay within the wider boundaries if the country’s laws! Thankfully!

I’ll give you an example. If the speed limit is 50 miles per hour, I’ll set my cruise control to 50 miles per hour. My husband will set his to 52 miles per hour because he says that his car’s speedometer is slow! He hasn’t got a speeding fine but I’d be anxious in case one came in the post weeks later!

He also doesn’t worry. I worry all the time about everything. Last Wednesday morning at about 4:00 am he had a very bad nose bleed. There was blood everywhere and the bathroom looked like a war zone. I called 111 and within five minutes an ambulance was on its way. Luckily the deluge had become a trickle just as the ambulance arrived. His blood pressure, heart rate and haemoglobin count were normal so they left him some paperwork and told him to see a doctor later that day.

I couldn’t get back to sleep. After washing the carpet and changing our bedding my husband slept like a baby. I tossed and turned and then got up and did the ironing! He couldn’t get an appointment for that day and was told to ring back first thing the following morning! I contacted 111 again, explained the situation and within a few minutes there had been a cancellation and my husband saw a GP that same afternoon!

He hadn’t been too concerned! I had been really annoyed and very concerned! He was sent for blood tests. The doctor said that there might be a problem with his platelets. I diagnosed leukaemia immediately! My husband insisted that there was nothing wrong with him and moved on. Not me! Today I rang the surgery, gave the phone to my husband to ask for his results, much to his annoyance and he was told that all was normal! “As I tried to explain to you all week”, my husband said. “Nothing wrong with me! Just one of those things!”

So, I think I have inherited another dodgy family gene to add to the ever expanding murky pool! Both my parents were worriers. Someone had to inherit so, being the eldest, I took the hit! Not that my siblings appreciate it! Nor the rest of my family!

There is, however, a gene that my husband and brother-in-law were very sorry that neither my sister nor I had inherited! My mother was always very careful with her money! My father gave her control of the family purse as soon as they got married. My mother never abused this ‘privilege’ and stuck to the mantra ‘look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves’!

I overheard my husband and brother-in-law talking. “A pity my wife didn’t inherit her mother’s ‘mean’ gene” my brother-in-law commented when my sister and I had returned from a shopping trip. “Probably too mean to pass it on” came my husband’s acerbic retort.

So, my husband and I are poles apart. Chalk and cheese or yin and yang? Either way, I am grateful that I married someone completely different to me. Imagine if we were both the same? We’d never have had all our exotic holidays! We’d probably never have travelled further than our places of work!

We’d be sitting up together in the wee early hours contemplating our stressful lives and not wanting to go out at all. No, it doesn’t bear thinking about! We balance each other out. I’m the voice of reason (sic) and he is the catalyst that I need to bite the bullet and get on with life! A union made in heaven? Maybe? But one certainly made on earth! 👠

Who would have thought that filling up my husband’s car this morning would have been such a challenge! I have been filling cars since time immemorial so when I was driving to the gym and heard the alarm to warn me that in fifty miles I would need fuel, I had no qualms in going to the petrol station after my class.

There was an offer on at one of the large supermarkets so the queues of cars stretched back into the main road. I was undeterred. I had time to wait and my husband would be happy that his pension had been wisely spent! I listened to the radio and checked my emails. The time passed by pleasantly and I found myself behind two aged gentlemen filling their cars so my wait was coming to an end. Or so I thought!

The gentleman directly in front of me filled his car and went into the kiosk to pay. In front of him the first gentleman was still holding the nozzle and staring at the petrol pump, immobile. He was still holding this pose when the gentleman in front of me returned, climbed into his car and started his engine.

We both sat and waited, watching the figure, still not moving, one hand holding the nozzle and his body turned towards the pump, It felt like an eternity. The gentleman in front of me moved closer to the statue’s car. I had turned the engine off as it made no sense to leave it running!

We both sat and waited. We couldn’t get out. I looked behind me. There were at least five cars in my queue. The forecourt was a hive of activity. All the other lanes were moving at a sensible pace. The gentleman in front of me edged closer. I turned on the ignition and moved forward. I could just make out the petrol gauge. It had stopped. So what was the holdup?

It was then that I noticed the petrol gauge move, just fractionally and then stop. In the blink of an eye it moved again. Then stopped. So that was the reason for the intense concentration and the huge delay! Said gentleman was trying to get the amount to round up to the nearest pound! I’d seen this happen before but to younger, more agile customers! The amount showed £23.97! I blinked and then it was £23.98. We had two pennies to go!

The next blink saw the amount change to £24.01! I held my breath, a feeling of dread washing over me! With baited breath I stared at the gauge, then at the statue. It felt like an eternity before the gauge shot forward then stopped. £24.66. The tension was building in my shoulders and neck! It felt as if time had stood still. The gentleman in front of me suddenly climbed out of his car. He walked towards the statue. He laid a hand on the statue’s arm. Gently he prized open the statue’s fingers, took hold of the nozzle and I watched in awe as the petrol gauge shot forward and stopped at £25.00.

So, to cut this long story short, the statue paid for his petrol, I filled my husband’s car and could continue with my day. This must be just another form of mental illness. Now that I am sitting at home nursing a delicious cup of tea I feel sorry for this poor elderly gentleman. I could not imagine living like that! It is so sad and I feel bad about being so annoyed. I apologise unreservedly 👠

I don’t like hospitals. Actually, that’s an understatement. I really don’t like hospitals. There are a number of reasons. Firstly I suppose, I go to a hospital because there is something wrong with me. That on its own creates stress but this morning was different. I was just going for a checkup, feeling fine but still dreading the visit.

As I’ve got older I’ve realised that my gene pool isn’t all good. There are some little critters that I would not have chosen as travel companions. There is glaucoma in our family. My grandmother, aunt and now cousin on my father’s side were unlucky and have suffered and still do with this potentially blinding disease. Unlike other awful illnesses, there are eye drops which can delay or even halt the onset.

So, for the last twenty odd years I have received my annual invitation to attend the local ophthalmology department. Because it’s primarily an ‘old age’ disease I join the queue of little old ladies and gentlemen as they wait patiently to be called in to have their eyes checked. It always starts with a vision test, then a ‘field’ test (the worst, it really stresses me out!) and finally images taken of the corneas and back of the eyes (don’t blink because if you do it could take hours!).

After struggling through the long line of commuter traffic for the first time in almost a year I arrived, bright and early, at the hospital. I had also received a telephone call and a text message to confirm attendance. I was advised that this appointment costs the NHS £120! After stating my name, date of birth and the first line of my address, I was shown to a row of blue chairs. When my name was called I followed the nurse, confirmed my name, date of birth and first line of my address and had a vision test. I was then told to make my way to the minor injuries department (?) and sit in one of the yellow chairs.

I’m not sure how many children were at school this morning. A significant amount were waiting with stressed parents to see a triage nurse who would decide on the severity of their ‘minor injuries’! Barring one young lad limping and in obvious pain, chasing after his impossible little brother at the behest of his lazy mother, none of the other children looked ill.

After almost an hour listening to irate parents trying to control bored children and the occasional grunt of displeasure from the other little old ladies and gentlemen who had joined me in the yellow chairs, my name was called. For the third time I confirmed my name, date of birth and first line of my address. Happy that I had been correctly identified I took my place at a machine. I was given a cover for my left eye and told to rest my chin on the indentation and to look at the orange light in front of me. Little white dots would appear randomly around the screen. When I saw them I had to push a button which was placed in my hand. This was the field test and I had to concentrate on not chasing the little white dots around the screen but to focus on the orange light. I didn’t want to blink in case I missed a dot so, by the time the alarm heralded the end of the test for my right eye, I had blurred vision in both eyes and was convinced that I had failed miserably!

I was told to go back to the blue chairs so made my way down to where I had started. The area was filling up and I had to squeeze in between a young man staring avidly at his mobile phone and a women clutching her walking stick in one had and a huge handbag spread over her lap in the other.

I didn’t have to wait long before I was called again. Once more I confirmed my name, date of birth and the first line of my address. I followed a lady into a small office. I sat down opposite her and was fascinated by the brightly coloured peacock tail tattooed on her forearm. I wanted to have a good look but dragged my eyes away to concentrate on what I had to do next. This was the photographic session so, once more I placed my chin on the little indentation where many other chins had nestled before and was told to stare at a green cross which was on the right hand side of the screen. Like the field test, I was given a blindfold to cover my left eye.

I was allowed to blink but, when the camera was in position and the warning came, I had to open my eye wide and stare at the green cross. The right eye completed I removed the eye patch, rested my chin as before and found the green star. The only problem was that the green star was so blurred that I had to sit back, blink and try to focus. The eye patch had been too tight and the tissue that should have protected my eye had scratched it.

After numerous images the best one was chosen and I moved into the final seating area, or so I presumed because it was opposite the consultant’s door. Take five of stating my name, date of birth and first line of my address and I was ushered into the hallowed sanctum. Drops that changed the whites of my eyes to a jaundiced bright yellow were administered, my eyelids forced open and a brilliant white light blinded first one eye and then the other.

‘Your eyes are fine. Just keep on using the drops. I’ll see you in nine months.’ And that was it! Two hours after arriving I walked back through the ophthalmology department with the blue chairs, on past the ‘minor injuries’ and the yellow chairs, through phlebotomy, surgery and reception, all with different coloured chairs and out into the fresh air. I took a deep breath, grateful that I had survived another hospital visit. Being a bit of a hypochondriac I always imagine the worst! Hospitals make me uncomfortable. I don’t like seeing people unwell and struggle with the protocol. I also don’t like being treated as a child! The waiting around for hours gives my vivid imagination wings so I have self-diagnosed the worst possible outcome by the time I reach a consultant!

I have nine months to prepare for my next visit. Anything can happen in nine months ….. 👠

My husband’s family have been share holders of a North Yorkshire racing club since it’s inception. A great uncle had been one of the founder members at the turn of the twentieth century. This means that once a year the share holders gather together for the AGM, have a delicious lunch and catchup with the wider family.

It is also the only time of year that I gamble and this part of the day I find the most challenging! I have some idea about form, ‘studying’ the racing section of the Sunday newspapers and the race card. However, my choices are rarely scientific and that could be the reason why my kitty runs out after the first couple of races. After all these years I still rarely rely on the experts to try and recoup my losses. These are never significant but just as frustrating and very annoying!

Last Sunday was no different. I gatecrashed the share holders meeting (I am only married to one of the share holders and not officially invited!) then enjoyed an excellent meal and wine. The atmosphere at our table was mellow and relaxed and my husband’s cousins are always excellent company. After the cheese and biscuits the conversation inevitably turned to racing.

The Racing Post was strategically placed on a table close to hand. I had already opened it to the correct page and marked the professional verdicts on all eight races. I had also checked the race card and noted any similarities. All that was left was for me to wander down to the ring and look at the horses. I do this for two reasons, one to build up steps (yes, Fitbit was also at the races!) and the other to aid my decision. This can be based on the jockey’s colours, the size of the horse and its temperament. The more excitable and fractious (as in raring to go) the better! I then rush over to the exit and watch the horses canter off towards the starting stalls.

This is where I make mistake number one. I’m not rational! I should take a step back, study my marked race card, include another column showing my ‘ring’ choices and decide on an overall winner. By the time I reach the Tote I take the last vision of the best looking horse with me and place my bet. I am always confident and just ‘feel’ that it will come in the first three. I never back any horse for a win. It’s always ‘each way’ so keep my options open.

Mistake number two is when I panic and check the horses I have marked. I look at my race card and return to the Tote to place a couple more bets just in case my gut instinct hasn’t worked. I initially spend £4.00 on an ‘each way’ bet. I choose two more horses, ‘each way’ and spend another £8.00. I have now covered all options and can’t lose! I rush back into our section of the grandstand satisfied that at least one of my horses will perform! I have also made a significant dent in my kitty!

This is the routine on most race days unless my daughter and her husband have made the trip and we have a pooled kitty. My son-in-law takes the most risks and this usually leaves us in pocket by the end of the day, sometimes even winning!

My husband sees no point in losing money so spends his afternoon eating, drinking and chatting to family and friends. He enjoys himself. I do when I’m on a winning streak! This year I almost broke even. I did find some change in my purse that I had saved in a pouch for a rainy day. It had ‘rained’ briefly on Sunday after the seventh race so was used to supplement my final bet. Money well spent because I could back and win on the last race!

The weather was generous to a fault, the meal and company excellent, a significant win on the last race left me able to reinstate the rainy day kitty with change and I managed to get my ten thousand steps. A very good day indeed! 👠

My friend, the PE teacher, was called away on family business so I took the exercise class for the residents at my mother’s care home yesterday. Not the expert I spent a bit of time planning two exercise routines, one for arms and the other for legs. Exercises are done sitting in chairs so this comes with a number of restrictions, as you can imagine!

After months of behaving, my docking station (yes, I still use that same docking station that survived Noah’s Ark!) periodically misbehaves. Over the Easter weekend when I hadn’t quite managed ten thousand steps and my Fitbit had warned me to ‘get moving’, after washing up I closed the kitchen door. By way of manic dancing to tunes on my iPod, which is connected to the said docking station, I reached my target. Fitbit and I would go to bed happy! One evening I started dancing to the Stones’ ‘Honky Tonk Women’ when suddenly it was replaced by a Katie Melua ballad. Not even the next song but a random choice!

So yesterday, docking station packed with two pieces of paper, one with the list of songs and the other the dance moves, I arrived, albeit a bit flustered, at the care home. Most of the residents were siting in their chairs watching a brass band playing old war tunes. This is how the activities manager gets them ‘into the mood’!

I started with a slow warm up to ‘As time goes by’ and we moved our heads, necks and were just about to raise our shoulders when the gentle crooning was replaced by the Troggs ‘Wild Thing’! I had the music quite loud and the doors were both closed so this sudden gravelly rendition of an unknown pop song created quite a stir! An old gentleman, taking his morning nap, was rudely awakened and tried to stand up, I presumed to leave the room, not to start gyrating!

We started again! This time Vera Lynn’s ‘White Cliffs of Dover’ was my choice and the class continued without further interruptions. The little Irish lady on my right, who had obviously kissed the Blarney Stone many times, was on top form. It never ceases to amaze me how supple she is as her high kicks in her chair would be the envy of most can-can dancers! She either sits and stares around the room passing asinine comments, or throws herself whole-heartedly into the class. Yesterday we had the latter.

In front of me and struggling but determined to work as hard as possible was 102 year old Maggie. She had been a land girl during the war. She is in the care home to help with physical disabilities but remains as bright as a button! She told me that she does her exercises every morning to keep supple and really looks forward to these weekly classes. That’s why my friend and I persevere, for people like Maggie and Mark.

Mark is the only gentleman who joins us to exercise. There are others who sleep or just don’t bother. But Mark is an active member of our class and a real joy to watch. Every session ends with ‘I would walk 500 miles’ a lively song where we have shown everyone the hand jive, which we perform with gusto when we hear the chorus. Mark has been known to stand up and march along to the beat. When this happens my friend dances with him and he radiates such joy and delight in the moment that this memory stays with me for the rest of the day!

There are times when we feel that the staff don’t help enough to get the residents into the sitting room and I’ve even had to confirm with the care home manager if she wants us to continue. But the activities manager is very grateful and the residents, who actively take part, some of whom have sat for weeks or even months before joining in, make this hour we give up of our time once a week worthwhile. It took Joyce until a couple of weeks ago to slowly begin to follow the exercises and she is now one of our most ardent fans!

Mum, however, continues to deteriorate but I still try to coax her to join in the classes. She often cat naps or just sings along to the music. Most times she’s comfortable and is being well cared for so there is not much more I can do. It’s families who suffer as much, if not more, than the patients! Until my mother went into a care home and I could see the many stages of dementia, I had no idea how low this disease could stoop! If only we could wipe it out, together with all mental illnesses. The world would be a far better place! 👠

I love Spring. Okay, I love Autumn too but Spring comes first and fills me with hope for the coming year! New leaves are always a brilliant almost translucent green. This happens so suddenly. I want to stand and watch as the buds burst open and the new growth slowly uncurls, one tiny section of leaf at a time. It’s as if I go to bed on a Monday and on a Tuesday morning a naked tree is miraculously clothed in a splendid green gossamer gown!

This floral part of nature I love and can relate to. It’s the fauna part that I sometimes find very disturbing.

Today, wandering around my garden, seeing the Lilly of the Valley’s tiny perfectly formed cream ‘tulip’ shaped flowers peering through their tall leafy protectors, inspired me to start preparing my tubs and hanging baskets. I love huge double begonias and always choose orange, red and yellow. These colours show up really well and flourish in our challenging conditions. Our house is in a dell and, because of all the trees, we get restricted sunlight. There is also a wet strip running along a broad section, covering about a third of our back garden, shared by neighbours on both sides, which seldom drains completely.

So, our garden has taken many years to understand. Most plants like well-drained soil. We can’t accommodate so have learned to work with our ‘palette’ and create a different type of garden. I have made separate rooms and have filled each with the types of shrubs and trees which grow in their specific conditions. I have a ‘shady’ room, a ‘bog plant’ room, a sun room and a few rose rooms. Within each room I have a couple of tubs where I plant the double begonias. These create colour throughout the summer and it doesn’t matter what condition the soil, the tubs are fertile and kept moist. A lot of work but well worth it!

Therefore, spring is when I go around each room, check which plants haven’t survived the winter and plan for a new year. Snowdrops and daffodils have already been and gone. A few bluebells in our ‘wild patch’ at the bottom of the garden are bringing colour just before the rhododendrons burst into a mass of beautiful mauves, pinks, reds and yellows!

Exciting times! This year I don’t have to wait for weekends to get stuck into one of the rare jobs I really enjoy! I have the choice of time and even a live-in labourer to boot! So, roll on Spring! Even my Fitbit can relax and stop reminding me to ‘take a walk’! 👠

A few days ago my husband and I sat in the conservatory enjoying a cup of tea. The sun was shining on the new green leaves on the trees in our garden and the wood across the road. The wind had abated and early evening had crept in quietly so as not to disturb the ambiance.

A pigeon wandered lazily beneath the bird feeder, scavenging for seeds and pieces of suet that had been dropped by the smaller birds. Another pigeon appeared on the fence a couple of feet away. He watched for a few minutes before dropping down onto the grass near the scavenger who was still mooching around siphoning up the scraps. Suddenly he pounced and the tranquility was shattered as the two birds waged world war three on our lawn.

Just as suddenly and with a shrill squawk they were joined by another bird. Pandemonium reigned before one of the pigeons flew up into the apple tree above the bird feeder. There remained two birds on the lawn and my husband had shot out of his chair to stand at the window where followed a running commentary!

‘Wow! There’s a sparrow hawk attacking the pigeon!’ he shouted excitedly. ‘He’s taking big chunks out of the pigeon’s breast. The pigeon’s still alive and struggling to get away! He’s got no chance!’ I got up and looked across at the pile of feathers on the lawn and more wafting around a wider perimeter. I heard a high-pitched shrieking noise and saw the pigeon pinned to the ground by the hawk ferociously ripping chunks of feathers from its breast. My initial reaction was to rush outside and chase the hawk away.

I didn’t. The sparrow hawk was doing what nature intended. Finding food to feed it’s family. I couldn’t watch the slaughter and wanted to get as far away from it as possible. My brain was telling me that this is a natural process and needs to happen for survival but my heart hated the sound of the mortally wounded pigeon and the hideous way it was going to die.

I also saw, at first hand, that women are from Venus, men from Mars! My husband fetched his camera and excitedly took photographs of the gory killing. I went back to my chair in the conservatory, finished my cup of tea and, going into the kitchen, started the evening meal. I tried to erase the ‘dark’ side of nature by busily doing what nature had intended for ‘civilised’ human beings!

Dinner in the oven I poured myself a G&T and went into the sitting room with my iPad to catch up on family and friends via Facebook. My escape 👠

The evening we arrived back from Madeira, still feeling like ‘bed would be the best option’, we went food shopping. Very good friends of ours had arrived from Devon and we were expecting them and two others for lunch the next day. I had no choice but to drag my annoyingly aching and pathetically sick body around the supermarket.

In a daze, clutching the shopping list I had made on the plane, I followed my husband up and down the aisles desperately hoping that I wouldn’t bump into anyone who knew me! My standards had plummeted and I hadn’t even bothered to repaint my lips. I just wanting to get back, have a long soaking bath and go to bed!

I need to explain that I have suffered many illnesses in the past. I have soldiered on throughout my significantly long working career sitting at my desk when I should have been at home. But I had never felt quite so bad! I can only presume that it must have been a particularly potent virus or, heaven forbid, I have become ‘soft? Is that what happens when one become a ‘Lady of Leisure’? No, it most definitely doesn’t and never will!

A couple of days later and moving on, (which I have!), the six of us ‘People of Leisure’ decided to spend a day at a National Trust working cotton mill. The engineers in our party would find the water wheel, that once drove the mill, fascinating. We girls, as good mates do, would wander around, catching up on family news and old friends (none of us at a loss for words!) while enjoying the sunshine in the early spring gardens. Lunch would be typical National Trust fare, which is always edible and saves any of us having to prepare.

The biting wind and my still ‘fuzzy’ head didn’t spoil the day. I have been to ‘Quarry Bank’ on a number of occasions and always found it thoroughly enjoyable. Wandering around the ‘Apprentice House’ on a guided tour gave us a sense of life in the early 1800’s before strict rules were introduced to protect the wellbeing of children. The owner of the mill treated his young workers significantly better than most and they were always well fed, but the lack of sunlight, the fine fibres and dust from the cotton, injuries from the machinery and long working hours certainly took their toll.

Life was hard but parents were desperate to get their children to work in these mills because they were taught basic literacy, even the girls, as part of their apprenticeship. If you were lucky enough to stay until you were eighteen your skills were highly acclaimed and there would be a ‘job for life’ either at Quarry Bank or any of the other cotton mills dotted around Lancashire.Thankfully times have changed!

Chatting to my friends as we put the world to rights made for an enjoyable day! We had similar upbringings and outlooks on life. However, being such good friends also allowed for occasional differences of opinion and these were respected and tactfully handled so as not to offend. Brexit was off the agenda! Thankfully! We now have an extension until the end of October so the debacle will go on and on and on …….

The sun is shining today. I need to get into the garden and get rid of the weeds before the ground cover, trees and shrubs take over. Oh the joy of being in control of my time and not have to leave everything for the weekend and hope for decent weather! I will never tire of this luxury! 👠

We landed, flying through the same moist grey skies we thought (and hoped!) we had left behind! But there was a difference. It was significantly warmer!

Within a few hours we had sped along the motorway in a private taxi, been shown around the beautiful Reid’s hotel and settled into our room, overlooking the small harbour. Two huge cruise ships had docked and we were warned that Funchal would be very busy.

Funchal was very busy! The long walk down a winding road leading from the hotel stretched our legs and the mass of people filling the pavement coffee shops and bars made little difference to the colourful and exciting sights and sounds of this pretty little island 🌴. A huge hotel was under construction. The usual timeshare representatives offering ‘not to be missed’ special offers for ‘just a couple of hours of your valuable time’ was a slight irritation but we soon learned to rebuff or ignore.

Fitbit went to sleep happy that night and for the following four nights as my step count exceeded twenty thousand every day! We arranged two walks and hired a car for two days. And we walked and walked, every day, whether it was alongside ‘levadas’, up and down ridiculously steep Funchal streets or wandering around public gardens, museums and all the many places of interest Madeira has to offer!

And then I hurt my hip and caught a very bad cold! Everything was going so well and I was feeling great! The hip was the start. I climbed into a cable car, facing the wrong way. I turned around to watch the ride up the mountain and sat in that position for a about half an hour. The cable car slowed down but didn’t stop so I needed to step off smartly and with confidence. I could do that! But embarrassingly I couldn’t stand on my right leg! Luckily my husband alighted first so caught me as I fell unceremoniously into his arms.

There followed a painful walk around a lovely park and garden until the spasm in my hip gradually subsided. We decided to walk back to the hotel, which had been the plan over breakfast. We didn’t realise how steep the little streets were so the ‘easy’ stroll back to the hotel wasn’t ‘easy’ at all! Luckily my husband came to the rescue once more. My knees, old war wounds from the climb down Ben Nevis a few years ago, were not happy! Out came two bandages which made good knee straps and, with what can only be described as a crab-like gait, I survived the walk down the mountain to sit on the balcony outside our room hugging a cup of tea, glad to be back ‘home’.

It went downhill from there. The following morning we had arranged a 13.5 kilometre ‘levada’ walk. This is the irrigation system used in Madeira and you can follow these mini canals for miles up and down their mountains. The difficulty level was moderate. Not a problem. So I thought, until I awoke in the early hours of Friday morning feeling like a truck had driven over my chest! Every breath caused pain and I had a splitting headache. I had the flu jab in October so this surely couldn’t be flu? I tried the usual. Forget about it and it’ll go away!

Alas, a few hours later, staying in bed seemed the best option by far! When I tried to get up I couldn’t stand on my right leg and my laboured breathing made me sound like Darth Vader! My husband was still asleep, oblivious of a crippled old woman trying to get to the bathroom. I needed to take pain pills ASAP but had to eat something first. In the ‘welcome’ fruit basket was an old tangerine and an apple, both not very appetising. I peeled the tangerine, ate the few edible pieces and gulped down two tablets with the help of an ice cold bottle of apple juice.

And that got me through the next few hours! I took two more tablets five hours later, got back to the hotel early evening, had a hot bath, a pizza and went to bed! What joy! No bed had ever felt better!

The next two days I sat in a car watching the world go by, a large box of tissues and bottles of water strategically placed on the back seat, at my feet and on my lap. I felt very sorry for myself and even sorrier for my poor long-suffering husband as I shared my pain and discomfort every time we drove up and down mountains and my ears ‘popped’! Oh, the pain ….. 😩

But, life goes on. I survived. We’re back home and expecting a visit from good friends we haven’t seen for a couple of years. Nothing lasts forever, not the good nor the bad …….👠