Jenny Burrell

I would like to share one of the greatest adventures of my life! I spent four days and four nights exploring the wonders of Australia’s vast interior on a train. But, not just any train!! It was the Ghan train and it was epic!

The Ghan is an icon. It runs from Darwin to Adelaide or vice versa. We set off from Darwin, on Australia’s northern coast. We travelled into tropical countryside going south through the Northern Territory and across the vast desert landscapes of the Red Centre. The dramatic Flinders mountain range was our back drop as we headed towards our final destination in Adelaide.

But that description is far too brief as so much detail, excitement and adventure filled those four days. I’ll start at the beginning.

Arriving at the pick up hotel in Darwin very early one Saturday morning we made our way to the desk to register for the journey. My husband had his ruck sack mainly filled with cameras and a suitcase. I had a small case as my hand luggage and a larger suitcase. My hand luggage contained mainly shoes.

We were given labels and told to attach them to our luggage. We were then informed that the large suitcases were not allowed in our cabin but would be loaded into the luggage carriage to be collected at the end of the journey. This took a while to process. I looked at my husband.

‘So we can’t take our suitcases with us onto the train?’ I thought of my six pairs of shoes, some make up, a jacket and a book that consisted of my hand luggage. I went into a blind panic! I needed clothes, not shoes!

‘You should have read the instructions’, a sanctimonious old git offered his two penny worth!

After sharing the contents of my suitcase with crowds of interested onlookers, I managed to exchange the shoes for clothing. Carrying my little suitcase, still in shock, I boarded the bus to the station. I was sure that I’d forgotten some really important items so paid no attention to the buzz of excitement building in the bus. My husband looked chilled, leaning back and staring out of the window.

At 8 a m we arrived at the platform to be greeted by a carnival like atmosphere. Tables were laden with food and a man serenaded us with ballads. There were smiling faces all around but I wasn’t smiling. I felt a bit shell-shocked. It seemed surreal. I was offered and took my first glass of champagne. This was to be the first of many! For the next few days champagne would flow like water.

Finally, after walking up and down the platform a few times with my husband to get some exercise, we were allowed to climb on board. Debbie greeted us and ticked us in. We were shown our cabin number and told to ‘settle in’. However, my husband wasn’t ready to ‘settle in’. He decided to go back outside and take more photographs. One can obviously never have enough photographs! A couple of minutes later he was back. Debbie had informed him, that, once he had been ‘ticked in’ he had to stay on the train until he was ‘ticked out’! A while later she knocked on our cabin door to reiterate her warning just in case my husband tried to escape again!

Every day we went on an excursion. There was a choice so everyone was catered for. We sailed through a gorge, went on a tour around Alice Springs and had dinner under the stars. We were taken to the opal mine capital of the world where people actually lived underground in homes called dugouts. The town was called Coober Pedy and was fascinating where temperatures can reach as high as 52C! The homes were wonderful and cool, just without windows and pitch black when the lights were turned off. The landscape around Coober Pedy appears moon-like, most unusual. It’s dotted with shafts and mullock heaps from opal mine activities. There was a dingo fence near the town which apparently is one of the longest structures in the world, over 5,800 kilometres.

We were also involved in a collision with a road train carrying three carriages full of cattle. Fortunately no one was injured but our trip had to be extended for another day and night. The second engine had been damaged so health and safety being foremost, the decision was made to continue with only one engine. This decision wasn’t made lightly or quickly. It took twenty four hours and many rumours until we were fully informed. The staff were really good and very helpful, treating us to fancy meals and lots of champagne!

In fact, during the whole trip we were treated like royalty and the meals, of which there were many and varied were absolutely delicious! This sounds like an advertisement for trip advisor or a brochure for the Ghan, but, if anyone is planning a trip to Australia, I can highly recommend this train journey. It was the highlight of my holiday and definitely one I shall never forget. 👠

Last Tuesday I went to Cheshire Oaks, the big outlet village in Ellesmere Port. I had to spend a few days psyching myself up for this shopping trip as a couple of things were bothering me.

Firstly, the parking. I drive an SUV and parking spaces in this country in general are not spacious. Cars have got bigger but parking spaces haven’t. Thank heavens for power steering!

My next challenge was trying to find what I needed. Cheshire Oaks is a large complex and I’m only going to park once. I’ll need to find the best spot so that I don’t spend my time clocking up steps. Under normal circumstances this is a good thing but not when I want to get finished as soon as possible.

The reason why I’m going shopping in the first place is because I’m on a five week holiday in a few day’s time. For twelve days the weather will be hot, for the twenty odd remaining, the weather will gradually change from summer to winter. Every packers nightmare!

I needed a few shirts for layering, shoes for a wedding we’ll be attending in October with a matching handbag and other bits and bobs not worth sharing.

I had the parking area planned and a shopping list. I did the early exercise class on Tuesday morning, had breakfast and was about to set off when my phone rang. It was the travel agent in Chester letting me know that the holiday pack had arrived. My initial reaction was to ask her to post it.

‘The travel company have sent a large box with different goodies inside, gin, chocolates,’ she explained. ‘Posting will be difficult. Would you be able to collect them?’

Under normal circumstances this wouldn’t be a problem. My husband and I would go together. He’d park the car in the Tesco car park and I’d use this as an opportunity to visit Boots, M&S and perhaps pop into Zara. I’d get a chai latte from Costa before heading back to Tesco to spend £15 so that we got four hours free parking. It’s never a waste. We always need groceries!

My husband had another idea. Because I would be in Ellesmere Port, just down the road, I could pop to Chester on my way home. Really?

Yes, I know on the surface this makes perfect sense, but please let me explain. I really dislike shopping so want to get it over with as soon as possible. I struggle with parking so only want to do it once. I hate trying on clothes. Nothing ever fits properly and I seldom find what I want. I get very impatient when battling my way through browsing crowds intent on holding me up. It’s school holidays so was bound to be busy. And then, can you believe, people bring their dogs? Now why would you want to bring your much loved pet to Cheshire Oaks? They are restricted by tight leads, get knocked about by passers by looking in shop windows and not where they’re walking. Some dogs are tiny enough to fit into handbags, then yap at me as I push past.

By the time I was finished shopping at Cheshire Oaks I’d have to get onto the M53, with its roadworks and restricted speed limit, have another parking challenge, collect a large box and walk back to the car to deposit it. Spend £15 in Tesco to pay for the parking and drive home in peak hour traffic.

I voiced my concern to my husband who didn’t ‘get it’.

‘Take the other car,’ I told him. ‘It could do with a run’.

‘I need to mow and you’re almost in Chester so it doesn’t make sense!’

‘It made perfect, logical sense to me.

I did over ten thousand steps in Cheshire Oaks alone. In Chester I did another three thousand. I felt exhausted by the time I got home. It had rained for most of the day so had to include holding an umbrella on my parcel laden trek back to the car. There were two little bottles of gin amongst other goodies in the large box containing the travel documents. One went down very well with a fever tree tonic.

Sometimes, however, one just has to bite the bullet and get on with it. I did that last Tuesday. I found what I needed, achieved a really good reverse parking manoeuvre and enjoyed a chai latte and chocolate brownie while sitting people watching.

Luckily I very rarely have to do big shops. Christmas isn’t that far away so will begin psyching myself up to pay Cheshire Oaks another visit. Perhaps I’ll be able to convince my husband to join me. That way he can park the car, carry the parcels and keep control of the purse strings! Win! Win!👠

I’m not crazy about tattoos. In fact, I really don’t like them. This is a very personal preference and I’m not being judgemental. It’s the same with jeans that some men wear which expose most of their underpants. Another personal preference because a lot of men, young and old, wear them.

When my children were teenagers I warned them against tattoos. Have as many piercings as you like because you can change your mind. The holes will grow closed. With a tattoo you’re stuck with it forever!

When my son was seventeen and had finished his A Levels he went with a few of his friends to Spain. I wasn’t happy about this. My husband, always the pragmatist, told me to stop worrying. Everything would be fine. He’s almost an adult and needs to take responsibility.

My son came back sporting a tattoo. I was horrified and ‘went off on one’! That was probably an understatement! I flipped! My husband, not a tattoo fan either, was quite blasé which upset me even more, if that was possible! My daughter shrugged her shoulders and went for a walk for some ‘peace and quiet’! The saving grace was that it was on the top of his arm so could always be hidden. But what if he decided to get more! It didn’t bear thinking about! Weeks later I was shown the arm again. It had been a henna tattoo and had worn off. He found it hilarious! I wasn’t amused!

Our summer hasn’t been great but we have had some rare warm, sunny days. This is when bodies come out and tattoos are proudly on display. Years ago when I lived in East London in South Africa, the town had a natural harbour. Many ships docked and the place was regularly filled with sailors. As young girls we were warned to stay away from them at all costs! Sailors had girls in every port and could never be trusted! A nice girl never went out with a sailor!

That was my first sighting of a tattoo. Many sailors sported them and they were proudly displayed as they wandered around the town centre. I don’t know what it was about a man in a uniform, or perhaps it was just part of being a teenager and wanting to push boundaries, but my friends and I never found them as awful as my mother had warned. We didn’t go out with any, but smiled coyly back at them when they greeted us, then rushed into the nearest shop!

But I wasn’t enamoured with their tattoos and could never understand why someone would want a picture of a girl, some barely dressed, on their arms! Maybe it was just to pass the time away.

But now we have people of all walks of life sporting tattoos. Sportsmen, many of them icons, have bodies covered in different hues, not only black or navy. The sad thing is that many of these celebrities are role models and, if it’s okay for David Beckham to have tattoos all over his body, then that must be the way to go.

I was speaking to my granddaughter a while ago. Like me she isn’t a tattoo fan. I told her about my dislike of them and we chatted for a while about how having a tattoo in your youth unfortunately will stay with you forever. Tattoo in haste, repent in leisure! I then spoke to my daughter in law and the conversation came around to beauty treatments.

My daughter in law has had her lips ‘done’, a line tattooed around the edge and a pale pink as an infill. It then struck me that, although I really dislike tattoos, I actually have them myself! My eyebrows and eyelids are tattooed! My eyebrows have been tattooed for the last six years. So, am I the pot calling the kettle black? Maybe.

I’m using them as an enhancement, not as random body painting. Does that count? Oh well, you can make up your own minds. Thankfully we’re all different. It’s what makes us unique. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Tattoos just aren’t in mine! 👠

It’s not often that I see something that i really want but definitely don’t need! We have a house full of ‘things’ collected over the years or inherited by family. My father was an artist so our walls are full of his paintings and the few pieces of artwork we’ve chosen or inherited.

A few weeks ago we went on a very rare coach outing. Being retired we have the opportunity to go out during the week but seldom join other pensioners on day trips, preferring to do our own thing. This trip sounded interesting so I persuaded my husband come with me.

Our first visit was to the British Ironworks Centre. We presumed that it would be an educational trip with lunch afterwards. It’s advertised as the only company in the U.K. to make art and sculptures using waste materials. They are also the only Centre to be unveiled twice by a member of the Royal Family. They have over 90 acres of land to display their works of art and for the paying public to explore. The weather was a usual grey, wet summer’s day so not conducive to wandering around outside. We had hoped to see where they worked and examples of how and what they recycled but this was not on the agenda.

Driving into the grounds we were met with some spectacular sculptures. They ranged from super heros to animals and insects, leaving us in awe of the exemplary workmanship and sheer size of the exhibits. The indoor showroom was cram packed with trinkets and more artwork and sculptures. Most of our fellow travellers made their way to the already heaving restaurant to find a table and enjoy the delicious lunch on offer.

Not my husband and I. With umbrella at the ready I followed him outside. There was a menagerie of animals, herds of deer, stags, pigs, dogs and some hippos. We both love hippos! ! The one that caught my eye wasn’t life size but a caricature of one. It had a huge head and smaller body and was about three feet long two feet high and eighteen inches wide. And it looked as if it weighed a ton!

When my husband left South Africa he bought himself a cast marble statue of a hippo, much smaller, which was named Henrietta. She proudly sits on our coffee table in the living room and is much admired. Years ago friends kidnapped Henrietta and posted a ransom letter through our door. I found this amusing but my husband was not impressed! He threatened serious retribution if the hippo was damaged in any way! The stunt pulled in a moment of alcohol fuelled high jinks didn’t go down at all well!

Looking at the hippo that day in the rain and biting wind I had a big smile on my face and chuckled to my husband.

‘Imagine looking at that every day. It would really lift my spirits and bring a smile to my face. He’s really cute!’ And I named him Henry. I could tell that my husband was not as enamoured with Henry as I was but that didn’t deter my enthusiasm.

‘Look, love’, I said. He’s on the sale.

‘Where would you put it’ came his disinterested reply?

‘That’s easy. He’d love your fern garden’!

Now my husband’s fern garden is his pride and joy. He has two spectacular tree ferns and a number of other ferns in a rockery which he built then expanded last year. This is the one part of the garden that I leave alone. It’s his domain and a woman free zone! I waited for his explosive response. There wasn’t one. So I bravely continued.

‘Imagine waking up to that face every morning. It certainly would cheer me up and you know that a happy wife is a happy life! You’ve mentioned that often enough!’

Silence.

You’re very fond of Henrietta who lives inside. We’d have a Henry who’d live outside! A most unusual garden feature don’t you think?’

I’d lost him so we moved on. But I hadn’t given up. ‘Softly softly catchee monkey!’

I was glad that I hadn’t made an impulse buy so thought that giving myself time to think about it was very sensible. Unfortunately Henry had got under my skin and wasn’t budging. I went on line to see if there was a photo of him to remind my husband so that we could revive the conversation. I couldn’t find one. I also felt the need to justify the purchase as he was quite expensive. I couldn’t justify buying Henry but that didn’t deter me either!

The next week I used my powers of persuasion and Henry became a topic of conversation at our evening meals. I suggested we wander over to the fern garden and see if there was somewhere Henry could live. The discussion continued most evenings.

Now I’m not really sure if I won my husband over or, out of sheer desperation, he gave in for peace and quiet, but we did get Henry. Bigger and heavier than we’d imagined. My husband managed, by using his engineering skill and brute strength, to manoeuvre Henry off the pallet left on our driveway, tied him onto his sack barrow and wheeled him carefully to the back garden. He then had to haul Henry over a large rock and on to a stone slab. He did this while I was having tea in Tarporley with friends so wasn’t able to offer any help or advice. Not that I’d have had any sensible advise or muscle power to make any difference!

When I returned from my outing I rushed around to the fern garden. There was Henry, his big head peering out from behind a fern, nicely settled in and looking smug.

He makes me smile every time I look at him. I’m sure he’ll do the same for friends and family. Sometimes a bit of frivolity is not a bad thing. In this world where violence seems to be the order of the day, a harmless hippo residing in a fern patch at the bottom of a garden in Cheshire certainly won’t be doing anyone any harm! 👠

I’m not feeling well. A few weeks ago my husband woke up with a sore throat. Said his head felt like cottonwool. I came back from a dance class and found him slumped over the dining room table. Feeling quite concerned I suggested he ring the doctor.

‘What’s the point?’ He mumbled, bleary-eyed. I’ll be better by the time I finally get an appointment!

I couldn’t argue so suggested he visit the local pharmacy. We have been given instructions that pharmacists should become our first port of call if we have a list of symptoms. A sore throat is on the list.

My husband returned with a bottle of TCP. He was told that whooping cough and a summer virus were doing the rounds. The pharmacist suggested he buy a decongestant. TCP is his go to medication for sore throats but did get a box of decongestant tablets as well.

The following day was even worse. Unshaven, he slumped onto a chair and told me that he had no energy and could hardly move. I didn’t comment but secretly thought that he should man-up!

‘Bad case of man flu?’ I couldn’t resist! ‘Please don’t share. We’re meeting the family in London in a few days. Think you will last that long?’

But he did share!

Ten days before our trip to London I woke up with a sore throat. Day one was ignored. My throat seemed to ease during the day but I had a headache. Pain pills came to the rescue. I did housework, shopping and soldiered on. Day two was different. I could hardly move my head off the pillow and felt as if my throat had been scoured with a wire brush.

By this stage my husband was on the mend. With a croaky voice I informed him that I had his lurgi! ‘Thanks for sharing!’ I whispered.

The sympathy I received was ‘you are woman, you are strong!’

Really? That was it? No breakfast in bed, or even a cup of coffee?

So, while I dragged my aching body around the house to the mantra,’you are woman you are strong’ I have to truthfully say that, barring COVID, I have not felt so ill for a long time! For two days I wore no makeup. Makeup can really disguise how I feel but I needed to share this discomfort he’d inflicted on me!

‘I look as bad as I feel’, I told him on day three.

‘I feel very sorry for you,’ my husband showing sympathy?

‘You must be feeling absolutely awful!’

As I’m sitting writing this I am still not feeling 100%! We spent a wonderful few days in London with my children and extended families. There were no hugs on the first day but by the second day I was feeling much better.

I can only presume that I had ‘man flu’. I’m not usually as pathetic as I felt a few weeks ago. All this wokeness must has created a virus gender crisis. Flu has become the latest victim! The male flu virus is now identifying itself as female! Us girls will have to fight back! If we could give men a tiny taste of childbirth perhaps that would rebalance the status quo!👠

I’m not complaining that I am kept busy and that my life as a pensioner is far from dull and boring! It’s just that I find it hard to find a balance! I have always thought of myself as an ‘all or nothing’ type of person.

Resorting to my good mate Google, I asked him for a definition. His first suggestion was ‘All or nothing thinking is especially common in perfectionists and those with mental health disorders like anxiety and depression’. Okay, not what I was expecting!

The next example wasn’t a lot better! ‘All or nothing thinking refers to thinking in extremes. You’re either a success or a failure’. Apparently it’s this binary way of thinking which never allows for grey! I can vouch for one thing! I don’t like grey!

Google was getting worse. ‘All or nothing thinking rarely matches reality and can set individuals up to feel confused or disappointed! A single mistake ruins an entire project!’ There were no positives!

I’d read enough. Maybe I should rethink the opinion I have of myself. Maybe I’m not as ‘black or white’ as I thought. I am a bit of a perfectionist, I don’t like failing at anything, but who does? I know my limitations so never get inflated ideas about winning at e.g sport. Most people gets bouts of depression and go though times of stress. Well, don’t they?

The more I read about this type of personality ‘disorder’ the more depressed I got and the more depressed I got the more my stress levels rose. I sat back in my chair and looked out of the window. It’s grey and mizzling. Yesterday, when we opened our garden for charity, the sun was shining. Our garden wasn’t perfect but we’d done our best. I didn’t feel a failure. Not a typical sign of ‘all or nothing’ personality disorder!

Another symptom was negative thinking. Ok, I could tick that box but do seem to have mellowed over the years. I’m still not the most optimistic person you’ll meet but I don’t walk around in a cloud of doom and gloom. I do set quite high standards for myself but allow a margin of error. Life happens, weather happens, you can’t control people either. Instead of having huge expectations about an outing or a holiday, I don’t expect anything. Nothing wrong with that! It’s being a realist!

I’ll own up. I have always been very hard on myself. I was my own worst enemy and can still beat myself up when certain things, often beyond my control, don’t go according to plan. But, and this is a big but, I’ve learnt to move on. I try never to dwell on disappointments, failures or mishaps for long.

Chatting to my daughter this weekend she said that, when she’s sad, she allows herself to acknowledge the pain. It’s what her brain is telling her she feels in that moment. But then she releases it, and tries to concentrate on something else. The sadness won’t suddenly go away and will probably return, but will not become the dominant emotion. I’m not talking about grief. That is completely different and I could never advise. It’s little disappointments, concerns, things causing upset outside of our control.

At the beginning of this blog I was being typically hard on myself. No surprise there! Sometimes it’s good to take time out and honestly assess where you are at the current stage of your life. I had to be ‘black or white’ in my job. Working in Treasury I had no choice. However, in my management role I definitely had to accept grey areas which I called compassion, being human.

Thank you, Google, for your assistance today. Not what I wanted to hear but you are only as good as the information fed to you. Our brains are very powerful organs and humans are so complex that we cannot be put into boxes. One size does not fit all.

We are made up of a number of character traits resulting in many different personalities. The older I’ve got the more I’ve come to realise that I am unique. As are each and every one of you. As long as we have compassion, generosity, respect and love for our fellow human beings, we should include these attributes for ourselves too.

And we should never give up trying to be our best selves, regardless of what life and genetics have thrown at us!👠

My husband and I were born in the same year, thirteen days apart. We share the same star sign but are two very different people. When we have birthdays we like to celebrate them in different ways. My husband is happy to share his age whilst I ignore it, just another day!

So, when we reached a significant birthday, dreaded for years but a fact that needed to be faced head on, we had a number of options to celebrate, or, in my case, commiserate. Having close family in England, the US and Australia, we decided to acknowledge the momentous day in each country.

I must stress, I’m not a coward! I suffer from vertigo, a known phobia. Many years ago I was involved in a near fatal car accident and fractured my skull. I was left deaf in my right ear. Surgery to try and restore hearing failed but my ear is very sensitive so try never to get it wet. Due to an injury climbing Ben Nevis I have a knee that complains bitterly when going down steep declines. So, when choosing birthday celebrations, especially one so significant that I have to acknowledge my age, I had hoped that my phobia and physical ‘issues’ would be taken into account.

Our first celebration was with my American family in New York. Bearing in mind that it was my husband’s birthday as well it was never going to be all about me. Totally understood and accepted! Five out of six in our group decided to go to ‘The Edge’ the highest sky deck in the western world. This glass deck is suspended in mid air giving the feeling of floating in the sky with 360 degree views, looking down 100 stories. Really? People want to do that? Why?

I had a choice. I could stand on the solid concrete floor alongside the glass ledge or I could banish my phobia and stand on the ledge. I watched the rest of my party nonchalantly wander over to the glass ledge, looking around, up and down, marvelling at the sights. My granddaughter had sat down on the ledge, all smiles, calling for me to join her.

I tentatively shuffled over to the ledge and glanced down. I immediately looked up, the sky, a glorious blue and felt the sun beating down on me. Before I could change my mind I stepped on the glass ledge and sat down next to my granddaughter. Then, bizarrely, we both decided to lie down! In for a penny, in for a pound! But I did it! And I have a photograph as proof! Vertigo phobia challenged! Tick! But I never looked down!

A few months later we were off to Australia. I wanted to sail around the Great Barrier Reef sipping champagne and watching dolphins leaping gaily around the boat, relaxing and enjoying the warmth and sunshine. My family had other ideas. They wanted to go snorkelling before relaxing on the deck nursing glasses of champagne! Now, I have a huge respect for the sea! I love to listen to its waves crashing down onto the shore. Standing on terra firma I can marvel at its magnificence! But I don’t want to dive into it, just me and a snorkel, pitted against its brute force with sharks, rays and other predatory sea creatures lying in wait therein! Why would I want to do that? Especially on a birthday where I have finally acknowledged my age and am no longer a ‘spring chicken’, but, hopefully, still have a few good years left on earth!

Once more, I found myself totally out of my comfort zone, ear plugs firmly inserted into sensitive ears, wetsuit on, goggles and snorkel firmly attached. I was then unceremoniously dumped into the middle of the Coral Sea, somewhere within its 2,300 kilometre coastline, a lone lady of a certain age, more than likely never to be seen again! But, before the grim reaper, or in this case, a man eating shark, abruptly ended my days on earth, I managed to marvel at tiny brightly coloured fish and beautiful coral. Despite waves bashing around me and knocking me into other intrepid snorkelers I was surprised to realise that I was still a good swimmer. I ventured further out to sea, in fact, I became quite gung-ho but never lost sight of the boat.

So, I did it! Under duress and not something I would ever do again. I’ve ticked another box, my ears survived and I lived to face another day. Snorkelling was never on my bucket list. Neither was standing on The Edge!

The third and final birthday celebration was in Scotland, this year, a couple of weeks ago. My daughter and her family arranged for us all to stay in a little cottage in the north of Scotland. I was excited. There were no prearranged challenges and I could spend time with my family and relax. However, not far from the cottage was a Munro, the Scot’s term for a mountain. It was Ben Vorlich. My husband has a motto, see mountain, must climb! That meant that Ben Vorlich needed to be climbed! Ben Nevis was 1,344 metres high. Ben Vorlich was only 985 metres. It would be a doddle!

Ben Vorlich apparently posed little threat to seasoned walkers with the right kit and good navigational skills. The views over Loch Earn are spectacular! It also offered great views over the lowlands and highlands as it’s close to the Highland Boundary Fault! Everything to win, nothing to lose!

Sunday morning dawned with mist blocking out any views beyond a couple of metres. I heaved a sigh of relief. We’d have to climb Ben Vorlich another day! Alas, that relief was short-lived! A couple of hours later, in the rain, clutching my stick, hiking boots on, water and chocolate bars packed, I found myself starting the ascent. The U.K. has suffered with one of its wettest winters and springs for many years. Not only was visibility still only a couple of metres, but the paths were muddy, very slippery and, in parts, quite treacherous! On some of these paths the ascent was almost perpendicular!

The last half kilometre was the most difficult. I clung onto my stick with one hand and shrubs and stones with the other. Finally, on reaching the summit the fog was so thick that I could hardly see the chocolate bar I was hungrily eating for energy to get back down. I was in panic mode. Climbing up was bad enough but would my knee, actually both knees, cope with the descent? The last thing I needed was being out of action for weeks or even months on end, unable to do my weekly exercises!

But I’m sitting in my office writing this blog with another tick in a box. Climbing that mountain had not been on my bucket list either! Four hours later the mist cleared towards the end of our trek back down. The views were spectacular! So, I climbed Ben Vorlich, remained injury free and lived to tell another tale.

I am very grateful that the birthday celebrations (sic) are over and life has got back to ‘normalish’! Living with my husband, just thirteen days older than me, sharing the same star sign yet being two very different people, he’ll probably continue dragging me, kicking and screaming, out of my comfort zone! Perhaps he should write a bucket list for me? On second thoughts, maybe not! 👠

Many years ago when the children still lived at home we visited Ireland with my husband’s parents and his brother. We stayed in a small farm cottage out in the sticks in County Galway. It was very basic and, at night, pitch black. And it rained. A lot!

To get to the pub for our nightly pint of Guinness we had to walk across a causeway and past an old church and graveyard. There were no mobile phones to use as torches and the only torch we had was very dim. It was early September so we walked to the pub in the twilight but the trip home was a challenge! Luckily there was no traffic so the causeway remained empty. Even if there was a full moon we never saw it! It was always cloudy and invariably wet. And very dark! Every night I was convinced that I would see a ghost. Fortunately they left me alone!

On the only sunny morning we decided to catch a ferry and sail over to one of the Aran islands called Inishbofin. The last time I’d been on a small boat was when I went Marlin fishing in Mauritius. I was terribly sea sick. To make matters worse I was sent down into the diesel fuelled hull! Eventually the other three passengers joined me and the boat had to turn back. We never saw any fish, let alone tackled a Marlin!

So, it was with trepidation that I climbed onto the little ferry and made my way outside to face the elements and get plenty of fresh air! I can happily confirm that I felt just fine. There was no retching over the rails. The thirty minute trip was, thankfully, uneventful!

Inishbofin is a small island off the coast of Connemara. It’s twelve square kilometres so to circumnavigate it would take about two hours. It has a pretty natural harbour which became one of the most important sailing ship havens on Ireland’s west coast. In the north of the island are sharp cliffs, a breeding ground for all types of birds, guillemots, razorbills and beautiful little puffins.

My parents in law loved museums, as does my husband. Over the years I have whiled away many boring, impatient, wasted hours hanging around them. I haven’t found all exhibits boring but a lot were! However, the museum and heritage centre on Inishbofin was fascinating. It told the story of the history, dating back to the Bronze Age, and day to day life of the inhabitants. It was housed in an old cottage which had a history of its own! During the time of Cromwell, Inishbofin became a penal colony for Catholic clergy and was the last Royal stronghold to fall to Cromwell’s army.

Something I found really strange was the absence of trees. Apparently, many years ago, all the wood had been used for heating and trees had never been replanted. Leaving the museum, I noticed that the sky had begun to darken and the dreaded rain clouds were rolling towards us at break next speed. I was holding a supermarket bag with a bottle of water and some biscuits but had forgotten to pack an umbrella. The heavens soon opened. Standing under a shelter I looked around. Barring my family, no one knew me or would ever see me again. Handing the packet of biscuits to my husband I took the bottle of water out of the bag and tied the bag around my head. I decided that I would rather see something of the island than just sit in a cafe waiting for the family to return. I had never thought of packing a hat! And getting my hair wet was not an option!

I have to confess that the plastic bag was used a few times when out walking. Climbing up and down hills with an umbrella in a howling gale was impractical. I subsequently destroyed the only photograph taken of me! I blamed the magical powers of the Emerald Isle which encouraged me to explore its beautiful rolling hills and dales despite the weather, even if it meant looking like a muppet! Is that an Irish term……..👠

In October we arrived back froom our holiday in Australia to discover that our deep freeze had broken down. We keep our freezer full. Everything was rotten and the smell was awful. Unfortunately it wasn’t only the freezer that was no longer working. The deep freeze had tripped a switch which serviced our fridge as well.

The deep freeze was in the garage, which was a bonus as it had caused a serious olfactory challenge! The fridge in the utility room was almost empty but it was black with mould which took a lot of scrubbing to remove. I still have an open bowl of bicarbonate of soda on a shelf to keep any residue smells at bay.

So my husband ordered a new freezer. A Miele. It was not cheep but apparently could cope with -C temperatures in the garage. The insurance paid out for the food loss but not the freezer. It was over thirty years old! We soon got the new freezer up to full capacity and life returned to normal. That was until three months later when our all singing all dancing Miele stopped. Dead. Never to go again.

My husband contacted the store where he had bought this highly rated deep freeze with an almost life time guarantee. It would certainly outlast us! The retailer told him that the contract was with Miele and they’d contact them. We managed, with the help of kind neighbours, to find homes for all our frozen food.

A week later we were still waiting for someone to contact us from Miele. Getting really frustrated my husband called an electrician who came out a few days later but, when we mentioned the guarantee, he wouldn’t touch it. Said it would invalidate the warranty so we were back to square one. My husband went back to the store for an update. There wasn’t one! Getting the phone number to contact Miele directly he impatiently spent an afternoon trying to speak to a human being. Everything does come to those who wait and he was given a date when an engineer would visit, three weeks later!

Feeling bad about asking neighbours to store our food there was no way that I was going to make a nuisance of myself by constantly knocking on their door to take food out of their freezers. This meant that menus had to be planned in advance and our weekly shop became much more precise. Manageable but not ideal!

Three weeks later the Miele engineer graced us with his presence. We had been without a freezer for a month. I was naive to think that he would exchange our broken one for a new one! A dodgy thermostat switch was the verdict. A replacement would have to be ordered from Germany. This could take up to four days.

Another week passed and we still hadn’t received a return date from Miele. I’d had enough! I rang the store. I told them that it was close to six weeks living without a freezer. I was going to cancel the credit card payment and buy a new one. It would be up to the store to resolve the issue with their bank. Louise, the women in the repairs and exchange department, appeared to be very understanding and apologetic. By now it was too little too late. She asked for an hour’s grace so that she could speak to her manager.

Within the hour I got a call back. Miele would return with the part in two week’s time. Louise’s manager offered a £200 cash discount if we would wait. That would be two months without a freezer! That same afternoon we bought another deep freeze, £300 cheaper than the Miele but with the same guarantees. It arrived within a couple of days.

So we had two deep freezers in our garage for another week before the store collected their useless Miele. When writing this we hadn’t received a refund but hopefully that will be winging its way to us within the next few days. It wasn’t the store’s fault that Miele were so useless but it’s not our fault either. And the customer is always king, or used to be in the good old days! Companies once cared about us and showed pride in their products, workmanship and their good names!

And no, I’m not going to blame covid! That excuse has passed its sell by date! 👠

For the last few months I have been going to a Zumba class. The first few classes I found very difficult but persevered because I thought that I’d soon be rhythmically pounding the floorboards like a pro!

My first class was a revelation! I was relatively confident that I would manage fairly easily to get the basic steps. Two instructors stood in the front of the hall. I decided to stand at the back of the class to familiarise myself with the routines. All I could see were two psychedelic bright green trainers moving with great speed. They were periodically blocked from view by a women leaping around with gay abandon, obviously not a novice. I needed to get closer to the front but didn’t want anyone to see me. I soon realised that I was useless. And it surprised me how utterly useless I was!

Walking home after that first class I felt very despondent. I hadn’t realised how intricate the steps would be and the speed at which my feet had to move! I had kept missing steps then trying to improvise to catch up. There was no way I could learn the dances with only partial view of the instructors. I had to bite the bullet and stand in the front. Perhaps then it would suddenly click!

So, lesson number two found me right in the front row. That was a brave move as I’d taken a huge gamble that I’d suddenly get all the steps right. I focussed on those two psychedelic green trainers. My eyes never wavered and my concentration was great! I could do this! After the warm up and the first dance I decided to ignore the arm movements and only worry about my feet. I let my arms just flap around, moving to their own rhythm.

There were no verbal instructions, only hand movements to give me a clue as to what came next. That meant that I had to learn the hand movements to preempt what those psychedelic trainers were going to do. Alas, that soon became a useless exercise. The hand movements for a merengue, salsa, cha-cha and reggaeton are all different. Then there was the soca, hip-hop, bellydance and Bhangra steps to name but a few more! There are sixteen basic Zumba steps. How long would it take me to learn the feet as well as the hand movements? The routines changed with every song. I was fast becoming more and more confused. I decided to revert back to my original plan and just look at the feet. Zumba certainly was not for the faint-hearted!

The music was loud! My watch transmits sound volumes to my phone which later warns me that I am being exposed to significantly higher intensity of environmental sound levels than advised. This could make me go deaf in my other ear! Perhaps Zumba classes should come with a health warning!

The music was very different to the kind that I usually enjoyed. The classes are based on all sorts of Latin music with versions of salsa, merengue, Cumbria and reggaeton. There are four basic rhythms, each one having four basic steps. Some of the moves are quirky which still causes added confusion!

Walking to the first class I had pictured myself feet and hand perfect! I would move like a pro, leaping around the dance floor! Soon my lithe, slim Zumba body would be toned. My bright Sweaty Betty tights would become a blurred vision as I sashayed, salsased and bellydanced at great speed, feet and arm perfect, easily keeping up with the youths!

Alas, I soon realised that was never going to happen. I am a few months down the line. I still stand in the front row, eyes glued to those two psychedelic green trainers, arm still flailing by my side. I still look nothing like a pro! But I so enjoy the challenge, the music and the dance moves. I escape into my own little world. I leap around the dance floor, sometimes getting the steps right, often not. I don’t care. I shall forever live in hope that one day it’ll click.

Perhaps one day that old lady in the front row of the Zumba class will remember all the routines and both feet and arms will move in unison! If that day ever comes you’ll be the first to know!👠