Weather and bluebells and feeling grateful. Some thoughts about fear.

After thunderstorms in the morning, yesterday settled down into a quite decent day, although we are definitely not having the spectacular spring we had last year. I suppose that was too much to hope for. On the whole though, our bit of the North West hasn’t done badly in recent weeks - not sunbathing weather but pleasant enough for the most part. Each time I have listened to a weather forecast, my heart has sunk and then I have been pleasantly surprised. 

I suspect, however, that today is going to be the day that breaks that cycle. I ran along the Donkey Line earlyish this morning. It was not raining. Indeed it felt quite warm running along. Since then it’s gone somewhat downhill. A drizzly rain has set in and there have been a few windy spells. Strong winds are forecast for just about everywhere so I am not surprised. It just goes to show that it’s worth the effort of getting up early ... or at least reasonably early! But I really need to go out to post a birthday card to my Spanish sister. That might have to wait until tomorrow.

Anyway, in the late afternoon yesterday we went to have another look at the bluebells along our “forest path”. They’re coming on nicely. Here are a few photos. 

And I realise I shouldn’t complain about the weather, not when we are fortunate enough to live quietly and safely in a place where we have patches of bluebells within easy reach.

So many people are so much less fortunate.

Reports tell that in some parts of India families are having difficulty cremating their dead and are resorting to “immersing” them in the Ganges, presumably because the Ganges is a holy river. But the bodies are being washed ashore, wrapped in their shrouds, further downstream, creating another problem  for overstretched authorities to deal with. They say you can smell death along the river. 

Argentina looks close to being overwhelmed by another wave of the pandemic. Their hospitals are struggling. One doctor interviewed said that many people are disregarding restrictions, attending clandestine parties or refusing to wear a face mask. It’s as if they are refusing to believe in the gravity of the situation: “We are witnessing the failure of a foolish and stubborn society, a dehumanizing society in which our own interests are routinely privileged above those of our neighbours.”

And the whole business has become political as the centre-right coalition party, Together for Change, in a bid for power, fights against health measures President Alberto Fernández has tried to impose. Together for Change says they are a restriction of personal freedom. Oh, boy!!

Here’s a link to an article by someone called Samiha Olwan, born in Gaza, an impressively, and internationally, qualified young woman - she has a Masters Degree in cultural studies from Durham (yes, our Durham, UK) and a PhD in English and comparative literature from Murdoch University, Western Australia. She has worked with the Palestinian Centre for Human Rights in Gaza and taught at the Islamic University of Gaza and is now a researcher in literary, cultural and gender studies in Australia. Living in Australia since 2014, she hasn’t seen her Gaza family for a few years. She writes about talking to them by phone and video link, about her fears for her brothers, and her brothers’ children, and wondering if it is better for them to arrange to live closer to each other or if that just increases the risk of losing both of them. 

I’ve never experienced war, for which I am very grateful. 

As a child at primary school in the 1950s, I remember an occasional fear that war might start again, putting my family in danger. Maybe it was the continued presence of air raid shelters in the school grounds, or maybe it was the games we played. 

I was reminded of that time when I heard recent news reports of a house destroyed by a gas explosion. When I was about 9 years old we were woken in the night by an explosion. In a house less than a mile away, someone had been “fiddling the metre”, rerouting the gas supply to his house so he would not need to pay for all of it. Something went wrong and the house blew up one night, killing all the family. The adults spoke in hushed tones about memories of bombing raid in the recent world war. 

In the early 1980s, with small children of my own, with the suggestion that nuclear war might be a real possibility, I had a few nightmares about having to decide what to do if the 4 minute warning came when Phil was working in one place, I was in another, one child was in school and the other with a childminder. Who would I rush to first? 

But the closest I’ve come to the reality was going to Birmingham for a conference in 1974, very soon after the bombings. Fear was palpable in the city centre. Otherwise, we’ve had the Arndale Centre bombing in Manchester, but I was safely miles away on the other side of the city. I was on a tram travelling through Manchester Victoria maybe half an hour before the explosion at the Ariana Grande concert. 

I’ve been lucky. There’s a lot to be thankful for. 

Life goes on. Stay safe and well, everyone!