Getting out and about.

As the rest of my family had arranged to do a variety of separate things without me today and as it was, incidentally, a very nice crisp, sunny autumn day, I decided to go for a long walk around one of my favourite local beauty spots. I am sure I have mentioned this place before.

They call it Dovestone Reservoir because, so I am given to understand, of a rock formation which is said to look like a dove. Personally I have always thought it bore more of a likeness to a duck but I suppose Duckstone Reservoir lacks a certain something.

Be that as it may, I had a happy stomp around both the lower and the upper reservoirs, trying to avoid an annoying family being bossed about by a mother who felt that she had to train her children to ride their bikes and her dog to walk properly to heel in ringing tones which I am sure could be heard from the other side of the water.

The local birdlife was sunning itself very confidently – so confidently that I wondered for a while whether I had taken a picture of a bird that had just accidentally popped its clogs in a photogenic perching posture. But no, I think it was just resting.

On my way round the upper reservoir I was just reflecting that it was a good job we had had a few days of dry weather to get rid of some of the larger mud puddles which were still there in reduced form on the path when I successfully put my foot in one of them up to the ankle. This led to some rude words being said, not I hasten to add in ringing tones which could be heard from the other side of the water, and gave rise to a “Which shoe has had the mud bath?” photo.

Fortunately I had already rolled my trousers up so I did not end up with muddy trousers as well.

By the time I reached the end of my walk my shoe and sock had dried off nicely so, despite this small mishap, a good time was had on the whole and I returned home without further incident.

Earlier today I read with only a modicum of interest that aging French singing star Johnny Hallyday is making his UK debut next year, coming to perform in the Albert Hall. Not that I have a burning desire to see this man who was a star in France when I went there for the very first time while studying A Level French more years ago than I care to remember. I am just rather surprised that he has not been here before.

I suppose it’s a measure of the insularity of the British that most people here have never heard of him. But then, unlike la Bruni (aka Mrs Sarkozy) he was not able to marry a French president to promote himself internationally. Mind you, I suspect many people still don’t know who Carla Bruni is either.

I do wonder about the advisability of dressing in all that glittery gear at the age of 68 but he does still seem to have all his hair which is more than can be said for some of his age. Of course, if he were British he would be now be Sir Johnny and would probably appear alongside Sir Cliff (Richard), Sir Elton (John), Sir Paul (McCartney) and even Sir Mick Jagger.

That's how it goes; you start off as a rebel and end up a pillar of the establishment. I suspect that on theo ther side of the Channel you have to do something rather intellectually challenging beofre they give you honours and titles.

Back to the blogging board.

Having been reminded by my friend Colin that I’ve not blogged for a while, I decided it was time I got going again before the world collapses around me. And collapsing is certainly what it seems to be intent on doing.

There’s the Eurozone going strangely berserk and looking as though it’s about to implode. The sums of money talked about stop having meaning for me and when they discuss “buying” countries’ debts, well, my mind just gives up on the whole thing. And just where is all this “extra” money to shore up failing economies and guarantee loans going to come from. A part of me wants to run to the bank, demand all my money and then go home and hide it under the bed.

Then nature is going a little crazy as well. We’ve had a period of continuous rain which reduced everything around her to one huge muddy puddle. Then, in a surprising reversal of what usually happens, we had about a week of sunshine (well, part of the time) and fine if windy weather while other often more weather-fortunate parts of the country still had rain. This meant that we have been able to take ourselves off on long walks, admiring the autumn scenery. And then, as the autumn leaves pile up everywhere I noticed something odd about one of the bushes in the garden. Having gone through flowering in the spring, produced its crop of little white berries and lost most of its leaves, it is now flowering once again. Madness.

We saw a different aspect of nature’s crazy diversity the other night. We had spent the evening at the home of some old friends of ours where we had been very well fed and watered and then sat around talking and listening to music until the small hours. Eventually we decided that it was time to call it a night and as the night was clear and fine we opted to walk off the alcohol instead of spending an extortionate amount of money on a short taxi ride. So off we went, staggering slightly but definitely not rowdily drunk. Imagine our surprise as we got a shortish way down the road and discovered we had company of sorts. On the opposite side of the road a fox was busily scavenging in the bins in a pub car park. He looked up, weighted up our threat-potential, clearly judged it to be absolute zero, finished his rummaging in the rubbish and went on his way with scarcely a backward glance. I half expected him to swish his tail at us disparagingly.

With all this exciting stuff going on in Europe, my life seems very pedestrian: a fair amount of babysitting (including some amateur nursing as ALL the grandchildren managed to be ill at the same time) while my daughter discovers the delights of combining work, studying AND motherhood; some very pleasant early morning runs and later in the day long walks; a good deal of DIY (I have become an expert painter and decorator); and making clothes for teddy bears and producing strange woolly animals for the aforementioned grandchildren.

I am not complaining. We have managed the odd lunch with friends and we have been to the cinema to see Woody Allen’s latest offering, “Midnight in Paris”. Very good it was too. We really enjoyed it, even the cameo of Mrs Sarkozy as a sort of travel guide. This was still slender Mrs Sarkozy before she started to reproduce. Since then she has done her bit to boost her hubby’s popularity by being the first President’s wife to give birth in France. Jolly good show, Carla! Now let’s see if she can keep that little girl out of the public eye. Don’t get me wrong, I quite like Carla Bruni and discovered her as a singer long before she set her sights on the Elysée Palace.

All in all, life could be a lot more difficult and unpleasant. My friends in Vigo were complaining of storms yesterday. And then Ireland and Italy have had to suffer floods on top of their monetary problems. And then, the poor Italians have to suffer the embarrassment of Berlusconi on top of everything else.

That’s all for now. I have to get ready for the arrival of a number of small people who need entertaining for the afternoon.

Is it really so bad?

Is it really so bad? OK, so now it’s official: the UK is the worst place to live in Europe, well at least in the countries included in the uSwitch quality of life index. Apparently we have the worst weather, the second lowest hours of sunshine, the highest cost of living, the fourth highest retirement age and fewer days holiday than other places. (Once again, I have occasion to be glad to be born when I was and so to have been able to retire at 60. Phew, what a relief to be old enough to do these things.)

We even die sooner than the French do and our government spends less on health and education than many other places. We even come behind the Irish with all their current economic problems. And still we’re not out on the street protesting?

(At least we don’t live somewhere like Saudi Arabia where you can be punished for protesting, not just with time in a cell or a fine but with a number of lashes. Women are banned from driving because freedom of movement puts them in danger of sinning – just by giving them the opportunity to do so – and so they need protecting. Men of course don’t need such protection. Is it because they are all strong enough to resist temptation? A woman who protested by getting in her car and driving around was sentenced to 10 lashes. Her sentence was removed by order of the king who is described as “gently pushing for reform”. There has been no official confirmation of the ruling but it seems that Princess Amira al-Taweel, wife of the Saudi Prince Alwaleed bin Talal, tweeted: “Thank God, the lashing of Shaima is cancelled. Thanks to our beloved king. I am sure all Saudi women will be so happy. I know I am.” Maybe she should also get in a car and go for a drive instead of being so very grateful!!!)

Despite all the talk of how awful it is to live in the UK, it really doesn’t seem so bad at the moment. The sun has been shining nicely all week. So what have I and all the other ladies on our row of houses done? Washed everything that wasn’t pinned down, of course. There’s nothing like a bit of good weather to get us filling those washing machines and pegging stuff on the line. It’s just as if it will stop you having to wash it all on dull, wet days.

But that’s not all I’ve done. We’ve been out and about, taking the kids to paddle in the sea last weekend – only the British paddle in September, I’m sure.

And yesterday we were off having lunch with friends in Manchester where we saw that the deck chairs were out so that the workers could catch some midday sun. Splendid.

Sunshine and shipwrecks

September has begun, as predicted, with sunshine. Whether or not this will continue remains to be seen but today has been delightful and I have spent most of it ferrying two smallish grandchildren around the bridle paths and towpaths of our area from one children’s playground to another. Not a bad way to spend the day. Even into the evening the day remained bright and mild.

Before we began our wanderings, however, I checked my various forms of electronic communication and found that my sister had put a sad little post on Facebook. Now, my sister has lived longer in the Andalusian town of El Puerto de Santa María than she ever did in the northwest of England. I first went to see her there almost thirty years ago when she was still teaching English at a language school across the bay in Cádiz. So we would get up quite early, walk through the quiet morning streets of El Puerto down to the harbour where we caught the little ferryboat known as el vaporcito – the little steamer - across the Guadalquivir to Cádiz.

Around eleven years later my children also made that journey across the bay and years after that my eldest granddaughter also travelled on the ferry but I doubt that she remembers as she was only two. Just about all our family has crossed the bay that way at some time in the last thirty-odd years. On one famous occasion my father forgot his sunhat and got serious sunburn on his bald pate.

My sister’s Facebook post was lamenting the sinking of that very ferryboat. Apparently the boat ran into the quayside, making a hole somewhere near the bow and in seven minutes the boat was sunk. Just like that! ¡así de rápido! They managed to get all the passengers and crew off the boat but couldn’t prevent the poor little vessel from going under. The pilot has been breathalysed and found not to be under the influence of alcohol. This has not prevented fifteen passengers from making a denuncia, an official complaint against the pilot. Some of them claim that he fell asleep and had to be warned by passengers of the imminent collision. Whatever the cause, the boat was holed and down she went.

By nine o’ clock this morning, however, some 2000 people had already signed up to a Facebook page campaigning to get el vaporcito back to the surface. All the political parties seem to have affirmed that it would be a pity to lose the boat permanently and Pepa Conde, spokesperson for Izquierda Unida declared that refloating what she described as una de nuestras señas de identidad would be an investment in the future of the area. We shall see.

In the course of my investigations I discovered a little bit of the interconnectedness of everything. The ferryboat known generally as el vaporcito and really called Adriano III was built in Vigo in 1955, probably in one of the boatyards we know from our two years in Vigo.

As I have said many times before, el mundo es un pañuelo – it’s a small world.

The end of the summer?

As August rushes to a rather damp and dismal close here in Saddleworth, we ask ourselves if this is all the summer we are getting. It has certainly been a bit of a washout so far. Yesterday was a bank holiday so, of course, after a moderately promising start it rained! My tomato plants, which are thriving nicely and producing quite a lot of fruit (fruit? or veg?) need some warmth now to ripen up the tomatoes. Otherwise we’ll be eating fried green tomatoes. So what we need now is a bit of an Indian summer. In the past we’ve had some nice Septembers and I would like this year to follow suit.

It’s no consolation to read that Galicia is expecting rain and lower temperatures today. I’ve even read a report that they have had more cloudy days that sunny but I bet it’s been better than here and that no-one has felt the need to put their heating on.

Not that we haven’t had some good days, however. Last weekend offspring number one and his wife came to stay for a few days. We had a long and sunny walk around the reservoir and later along the canal towpaths to the garden centre which was very good.

And then on Tuesday we went off on an excursion to Fountains Abbey near Ripon in Yorkshire. We went in two cars and managed variously to get lost, one load from following SatNav too faithfully and the other from following instinct and getting tangled up in the Leeds one-way system.

Still, we had a good day out and I can heartily recommend a visit to the remains of what King Henry VIII didn’t quite manage to destroy completely. There was a rather know-it-all chap selling tickets who had been confusing some Japanese tourists by saying odds and ends in Spanish to them. When he started on us I threatened to speak proper Spanish to him and ended up doing so, successfully settling his hash! He then settled down and advised us quite knowledgeably on which was our best route, although he wouldn’t allow the smallest member of our party to ride his bike around the place, another thing which annoyed us somewhat.

We set off on a bridle path which took us to the rather charming St Mary’s church with quite excellent stained glass windows, a well-preserved tiled floor which you were not allowed to stand on without putting on protective slippers and a spiral staircase which we all wanted to take home with us.

Leaving the church we admired the view in a straight line down towards Ripon Cathedral, too far distant to appear as more than a blur in my photo.

We went past the rather delightful Chorister’s House which we were disappointed to find is a private residence as we would have loved to sneak a look inside.

Eventually we made it into the very fine gardens, some of us taking a detour to see the “surprise view” from Ann Boleyn’s seat. She must have visited before her head was chopped off.

And finally we reached the abbey itself and spent ages exploring the ruins. My children had a trip down memory lane watching the youngest of our party – aged 8 and 6 – running around inventing games in the different rooms of the place, doing exactly what they had done the last time we visited there when they were also aged 8 and 6.

Tired but happy we settled down to tea and cakes in the cafe and then the obligatory visit to the SHOP. No museum visit is complete without this marketing exercise but we escaped without too much outlay. Don sabelotodo – the know-it-all – from the entrance found us there and asked us if we had had a good visit so we forgave him for being somewhat overbearing at the start of the day. And so we set off for home.

The SatNav followers switched it off on the way back and succeeded in taking a wrong turn in Ripon and ending up going miles out of our way on the Leeds ring road. Such fun!

Arriving home rather later than planned we finished the day with a fish and chip supper. All’s well that ends well.

Rain and riots and stuff.

I have been rather neglecting this blog in the last week or so.

Partly this has been because I have been busy in an uninteresting kind of way, just getting on with things and helping offspring number two get some decorating done. All in all, not really the stuff of blogs.

Then we had a major internet problem. There was a quite impressive electric storm one day and it appears that our BT internet box might have suffered from a power surge when an enormous thunderclap went off right overhead. Either that or the law of coincidences came into play. Either way, the box was as dead as a dodo and our internet connection went bust. We did manage to piggyback onto the pub next door but the connection was very, very slow.

Eventually the new box arrived and all was back to normal. However, I was still running around cleaning and painting and getting stuff done.

In the middle of all this, total mayhem broke out in London, leaving us in some concern about offspring number one who has made the capital city his home for a good few years now. He was fine, of course, just rather angry at what was being done to “his” city. Understandable I suppose. After all, he had visited some of the restaurants targeted by the mob and that does make it all feel a little more personal. And there were some fine old buildings destroyed; they survived two world wars and disappeared in one night of rioting more or less.

On Tuesday night the madness spread to our own city of Manchester with semi-organised gangs running the police ragged and stealing designer goods from what looked like selected stores. I’ve had an ongoing Facebook conversation with a friend of mine who maintains that this is the deprived underclass striking back. Maybe ... but I note that among those arrested are an army recruit, a graphic designer, a classroom assistant, a university graduate ... shouldn’t these people be a bit more responsible?

Anyway, yesterday I had planned to meet an old friend in Liverpool. We planned to take in the art galleries, have lunch and catch up with our news. It was with some trepidation that I set off to cross two cities which had suffered problems from rioters and looters but there really wasn’t any difficulty. Liverpool looked just the same as it did last time I went, just rather wetter. On my return to Manchester, I walked the length of Deansgate (still in the pouring rain), taking in St Ann’s Square en route. It was all rather sad with boarded up shops and many more taking the precaution of closing early. The place looked rather like a very wet ghost town. I hope it gets back to normal soon.

Travelling to Liverpool from Manchester by train is quite enjoyable, if only for the names of the places you go through. I suppose Eccles is reasonable enough although it does have you thinking of the old Goon Show. But where do names like Patricroft and Whiston come from? Then there is Earlestown which sounds as though it should be in an old western or maybe in a Sprinsgteen song about the working man.

The most appropriately named place, given the weather, is probably Rainhill. It has certainly rained all around here for days and days and days. There were veritable rivers running down Deansgate as I walked along there yesterday. Summer seems to have gone awol once again in the northwest of England. I spotted an article in La Voz de Galicia last week complaining that the summer was rather poor over there as well with temperatures 3° lower than usual, if that’s any consolation for us here. Mind you, I’ve checked the weather online and I see that Vigo is still managing temperatures in the upper 20s so I think it’s rather warmer than here. So it goes.

Finally, a little comment on automation and the job situation. On the train yesterday I read a little item in the newspaper about a town called Hombourg-Haut in the north of France, near the German border. An enterprising chap there has made an automatic baguette-dispenser. Instead of queuing up in the baker’s shop and chatting with the boulangère about the terrible weather we are having, you put some money in a slot and the machine pops out a steaming hot loaf of bread. Some 4,500 loaves were sold that way in July of this year.

What about all the jobs in bread shops? Will they disappear of this new automatic way of selling bread becomes the norm.

Finding things to do.

Accompanying my daughter to collect her two youngest from school (they break up today, later than many other schools) I overheard parents wondering what they were going to do with the children for 6 weeks. I refrained from pointing out that Spanish children have already had a month of holidays; I don’t think they would have appreciated it.

The debate about school holidays has come up again as Mr Gove has been suggesting that the school year should be restructured to reduce this long break when, apparently, children from a disadvantaged background fall behind because they don’t get to do the stimulating activities more privileged youngsters are presented with. I can see the arguments for both sides but I still come down on the side of the pro-long(ish) summer holiday lobby. I always enjoyed the sense of a demarcation line between one year and the next.

Having said all that, on Monday I received a whole series of text messages from our eldest granddaughter to the effect that she was bored and that there was nothing to do. Her school finished for summer last Friday, the school where her mother works finished on Tuesday of this week and the smaller siblings’ school finishes today. As a result she was home alone and had not organised any activities for herself. (She had had a friend to stay over the weekend so she couldn’t be said to be deprived of company but that’s teenagers for you, I suppose.) My suggestions that she should walk the dog, tidy her room, read a book and so on did not go down well.

However, later on Monday I suggested to her that we might take a trip to Liverpool on Tuesday as the Tate Gallery is currently hosting a Magritte exhibition. This turned out to be the just what she needed. She is starting a GCSE Art course in September and has a homework task sheet (so much for six weeks of freedom and nothing to do!!) which includes, if possible, going to the Magritte exhibition and then doing some follow-up work. So off we went.

The plan was that I would get on the train at our nearest station – Greenfield – and she would get on the same train at her nearest station – Mossley. It was a brilliant plan except that either her mother had not told her or she had not been listening. Whatever the reason, she was not at the station but at her house when my train arrived at Mossley. Most annoying! I had to hop off the train and go and find her.

Eventually, armed with task sheet, sketchbook, camera, almost everything but the kitchen sink, we caught the next train an hour later and still managed to reach Liverpool in the very early afternoon.

The sun was shining, it was quite summerlike and Liverpool looked very good. They have done a lot of work on making the centre of the city pedestrian – shopper- tourist friendly and the result is good.

So we made our way down to the Albert Dock and into the Tate Gallery where we spent a happy hour or three looking at Magritte paintings, discussing them, taking notes, sketching bits and pieces and generally being very studious. Not a moan at all about this being too much like a school visit. The only (very minor) complaint was when I ran into an old friend I’d not seen for about 10 years and we spent too long catching up.

Having “done” Magritte, we made our way down through the rest of the gallery, happily discussing whether a pile of concrete bricks in a supermarket trolley or a heap of old clothes in a corner of a room really constitute a work of art. But we also got to see a Picasso, an Andy Warhol, a Mondrian, a Henry Moore and a load of other good stuff. There was some question, though, about why a Campbell’s soup tin was a good subject for a painting!

Finally, having expended a lot of energy in art appreciation the teenager needed sustenance so we stopped at Prêt à Manger on our way back to the station and found her something to eat. Then it was back to the station through the Liverpool sunshine, a final dash for a train which was leaving in two minutes time and which allowed us to make our connection back to our neck of the woods.

A successful expedition. She was very good company.

I suppose this means that she is now one of the privileged youngsters who are taken out to do stimulating activities. Only another 6 weeks to go.