House, Garden, Money Pit

The oldest part of Scarecrow Cottage was built about 250 years ago.  The owner before us (Lucy) once came across a brass plate from a travelling trunk in the garden and formed the theory that in its early life, Scarecrow Cottage was a coaching stop. Quite why coaches would have driving along what is now the A4061 but back then was a farm track going nowhere didn’t matter because when her husband (George) dug up an ancient pistol, it was taken by both of them as absolute proof that travellers in this part of South Wales needed protection from brigands and highwaymen. George subsequently reburied the pistol where he had found it so potentially I might uncover it one day when I am planting potatoes.

In 1861, Richard and Sarah Roberts added a two storey extension to Scarecrow Cottage, with a kitchen downstairs and a bedroom above. The original curving, stone steps which had been outside the house were enclosed in the cwtch dan star – a cubby hole under the new wooden staircase. Over the next sixty or seventy years and under the stewardship of different owners, Scarecrow Cottage continued as a productive croft with fruit trees, vegetable plots, a stable and a pigsty.  Water came from a well and the privvy was a tin shed in the front yard where chickens roamed beneath a spreading horse chestnut tree.

Progress arrived in the late 1940s: the village’s jobbing builder built a lean-to for an indoor bathroom and also installed electricity (although the electrician who rewired the house for us a few years ago called the builder a psycho and his work a death trap). In the next few decades the garden fell out of use, outbuildings were taken down and no maintenance was done to the house. By the time Lucy and George arrived in 1969 Scarecrow Cottage was in a very poor state with damp walls, a leaking roof and mice living in most of the downstairs rooms. The garden was overgrown with nettles and brambles everywhere.

When Annie and I took on Scarecrow Cottage in the mid 1990s the damp was gone, the leaking roof had been replaced and the mice evicted. Sadly many of the original features had been lost or covered up. Lucy and George – like so many people of their generation – had ‘seventified’ their home. The garden, having been returned to vegetable growing in the 70s, was lawned by the 1980s and of the once thriving boundary hedgerow, only two trees – an English Yew and a Sycamore – remained.

At first we made changes discreetly and slowly, not wanting to upset George who used to say things like “but Lucy loved the way that looked” or “Lucy asked me to make it like that” whenever we floated an idea past him. Now, with George no longer around, Annie and I don’t need to be discreet but the changes are still slow because with an old house, every change you make is likely to expose a problem that you were quite happily living with when it was unknown but has to be dealt with quickly once you find out about it.

We’re at the stage where we are considering whether our future lies at Scarecrow Cottage or if it’s time to move to something smaller, easier to look after and less likely to bankrupt us. Common sense, of course, says the answer is yes: we should set up an alert on Right Move, start scouring Estate Agents’ windows and maybe even put in a call to Kirstie and Phil. But – and it is, at the moment, an overwhelmingly big ‘but’ – as Annie says, could we find another house that feels like it hugs us every time we walk through the door?

On Such Days

Hand made teddies

The preamble to this is that I had a message from Barrie Llewelyn, my erstwhile Creative Writing tutor offering a writing prompt about something that had happened in the summer.  Some small thing that I would remember forever.  Well, something did happen but it wasn’t this summer.  Let’s go back in time…

On such days you find your supporters

When I went out for a run on the bright Sunday morning that was 6th August 2006, I had no idea that within an hour my life would have changed forever.  At 11am I was a mature student at the (then) University of Glamorgan.  I’d just finished my second year studying Creative Writing with Barrie Llewelyn (more about what she’s doing now here) as well as courses in Professional Welsh with other lecturers.  Thanks to Barrie my writing had changed from undisciplined and self-indulged to intelligent and edited: considered narratives that other people might be happy to read.  For my final year she had organised my placement with the best tutor in the Creative Writing department, and I had organised a career break from my role in the NHS so that I could fully concentrate on writing a detective novel set in a hospital.  I thought that after graduating I’d look for a new job a bit further up the ladder than the bottom rung I had been sitting on for too many years and I’d get lots of ideas for subsequent stories.  However by 11.30am I had tripped over a manhole cover when I was running downhill, fast, on tarmac.  I won’t go into details about the injuries – some of which traumatised my dentist for years to come – but the most long lasting problem was that my right arm from elbow to finger tips stopped working properly and all of my carefully made plans lay – literally – in the gutter.

I got my degree and returned to work only to find that the NHS didn’t want someone with only one and a half working arms.  After some argument it was agreed that my manager could find me a suitable occupation but only for one day a week.  For anyone who doesn’t already realise, NHS staff are not particularly well paid.  One day a week at “not particularly well paid” could also be termed “barely survivable”.  This was the point at which I decided I should monetise my various abilities.  I became self-employed as a Writer, Tutor and Textile Artist – roles which turned out to be more lucrative and more enjoyable than anything the NHS could come up with.  In December 2007 I took part in my first craft show.  It had been organised by the local council who refused to advertise any of their own events.  In case any of the community got an idea there might be something going on, potential customers had to find their way through the library and cafe into the auditorium of the Berwyn Centre theatre, climb stairs onto the stage and go behind the curtains before they found the 10 local craftspeople who were trying to protect their wares from rain pouring in through holes in the roof.  Was I put off?

On such days you find your team

No, I wasn’t.  I met some great people that day who’ll remember other events we did together: one was at a posh school where teachers had organised tables according to crafts so that all the jewellers were together, all of the card makers were sat next to each other and all of the muffin bakers’ tables were clustered in a little group.  If you’ve ever been to a craft event you will know that part of what drives buying is the wandering and browsing, the chatting to different sellers and the retracing your steps to something you’d seen earlier.  The teachers had thought of this eventuality too: only 10 customers were allowed in at a time and they were chivvied up and down the aisles so that the next cohort could advance.  On the school hall stage and final stop for anyone who wanted to climb the steps up, walk across and climb the steps down were two tables.  Me, with my dolls and teddy bears alongside Christine, Steven, their very pregnant daughter Rhian and her daughter Lowri with their embroidered cushions, rag dolls and painted wooden signs.  I don’t think any of us sold a single thing but – from our lofty vantage point – we were consoled knowing that hardly any of the other crafters sold anything either.  The only winners were the teachers who took £3 from would-be customers at the door for a speed walking event with a difference.

The reason I mention Christine, the much missed Steven, Rhian, Lowri and the bump that eventually arrived as Martha, is because when Steven found that I had arrived at the craft show by bus, he insisted on giving me a lift home.  So, imagine this – all of their unsold wares and all of my unsold wares piled ceiling high in the boot of the car, crammed into footwells and balanced on laps.  The car was pointed homewards with Steven driving, the two weeks away from giving birth Rhian in the front passenger seat and Christine, Lowri and me jammed between plastic bags full of cushions in the back.  In the years since we have stayed in touch rather that lived in each other’s pockets.  But look here – haven’t they done well for themselves?

On such days you find your tribe

My tribe’s summer has been marred by ill health, worries and sad news and I confess I dismissed Barrie’s writing prompt as something which didn’t apply this year.  But now I’m wondering what would happen if I put Barrie, Christine, Rhian and Lowri in the same room and fed them cake…

Hafren

Doll-making is a form of story-telling.  It’s easier when you don’t have a choice of stories.

Hafren the Middle Child

There’s a legend about a Welsh king called Pumlumon who lived on a mountain in North Wales. One day he cast out his three daughters and told them to find their way to the ocean. Ystwyth, the youngest daughter loved to play and was always full of energy. She ran as fast as she could to the west and soon reached the coast. Gwy, the eldest, was the most beautiful of Pumlumon’s children. She wandered south through the rugged hills and wooded slopes of Wales and all who met her marvelled at her loveliness. Hafren was not like her sisters: she was slow moving and plain looking but of the three, she was the one who was blessed with a kind and generous nature. Hafren took a long time to wind her way to the sea, making sure that the folk who lived alongside her would find plentiful food in her waters and that their farm land would be rich and fertile.  The local people came to worship her as a water spirit.

Hafren the Innocent

There’s a legend about a Welsh king called Locrinus who was married to Gwendolen but had a child with his mistress, Sŵs-wên. They called their daughter Hafren.  After divorcing Gwendolen, Locrinus married Sŵs-wên and they lived with Hafren in a palace near the town of Caersws.  When Locrinus was fell in battle. Gwendolen raised an army, took Caersws and became Queen. She had Sŵs-wên killed then decreed that Hafren should be thrown into a nearby river and drowned. Many of her soldiers pleaded that Hafren should be spared because of her beauty and youth but Gwendolen, consumed by jealousy and hatred, saw to it her orders were carried out. From that day the river Hafren was named to honour the innocent princess. The Romans thought of Hafren as a river goddess and renamed her Sabrina, which over the centuries was anglicised to Severn.

Hafren the Escapologist

The Hall of Residence I lived in when I was at university in Cardiff was called Hafren. I had a room with a sofa bed, a sink, a wardrobe, a desk and a little one bar electric fire. The School of Home Economics – known affectionately as “Cooks” – was opposite the BBC studios in Llandaff and within easy walking distance of The Heathcock and The Malsters pubs. You went to The Heathcock if you wanted to spot TV stars and to The Malsters if you were more interested in standing at the bar alongside legends of the Welsh rugby team who were at their playing (and winning) best in the late 70s. Until “Cooks” got absorbed by the University of Wales it had delusions of being an Oxford college. We had scouts (the Oxford term for a maid) to make our beds, tidy our rooms and leave us a packet of biscuits once a week. The communal kitchen was spotlessly clean, dishes were washed and put away by invisible hands and there was always fresh milk in the fridge. If only I had wanted to live in Llandaff, study Textiles and become a teacher.  Sadly I hated the place, the subject and the career destination.  My bedsit in Hafren was where I sat every evening, eating biscuits and planning my escape into another future.  

Have you guessed which story Hafren is telling?  She’ll be part of the Manifest exhibtion at the Workers Gallery this autumn if you want to take a closer look.

 

 

Right, Right, Right

My Right Knee – Part Two

In an effort to calm the anxiety that results from only ever driving north and west but knowing that today’s destination is south and east, I decide to leave home a bit earlier than Google Maps tells me to. It turns out the M4 is devoid of traffic and the usually clogged Brynglas tunnels empty of cars and lorries. I get to Monmouth nearly two hours ahead of schedule. But that’s ok because there’s a service station outside town with a mini Asda that is better stocked than my local superstore, clean toilets and a nice lounge where I can relax. After a cup of tea, a croissant and a visit to the loo,  I get back in the car and connect the Sat Nav for the last two miles of the journey.

Me: NP25

Sat Nav: Monmouth

Me: NP25 4LG

Sat Nav: Ribblesworth Avenue, Barnsley, Yorkshire.

I disconnect, reconnect and retry three times before I check my watch and decide I have to navigate to the event the old fashioned way. It’s now 9am and walkers on my route are to set off between 9.15am and 9.30am but before then there’s registration. This should be a straightforward give your name and get your number process but sometimes – people in front of you asking stupid questions, some fools recalling how everyone missed the 4th checkpoint at the river crossing on last year’s Bumpy Bimble walk or when there’s a dreaded kit check – it can take ages. I look at a map: I need to drive up the road for two miles, turn right at the traffic lights, turn right at the mini roundabout and the event field will be on the right. Estimated time of arrival: 9.15am.

9.02am I leave the service station and drive up the road for two miles to the traffic lights. There’s a sign saying “No Right Turn”.

9.06am Half a mile ahead is a roundabout so I turn, come back and take a left at the traffic lights. I’m in position to go right at the mini roundabout but there’s a big metal sign across the carriageway saying “Road Ahead Closed. No Through Traffic.”

9.10am I decide to ignore the sign on the basis that I’m not through traffic because I’m going to a field.  A kilometre ahead, it turns out that I’m right. There are about 20 other cars and a 50 seater luxury coach but no people other than the two ladies in charge at the registration tent.

9.14am I give my name, get my numbered wristband and set off with no fuss at all. Amazing.

10am The first couple of kilometres from Wyesham to Redbrook has been easy going so my right knee hasn’t bothered to wake up yet. I walk up a long slope of shallow concrete steps towards Offa’s Dyke and find a checkpoint at the top. The volunteers are only just setting up and haven’t opened the packs of Jammy Dodgers yet. My pedometer tells me that so far I’ve only used 65 calories. I know for a fact that Jammy Dodgers are double that and as you never leave a checkpoint with less than four biscuits maybe it’s just as well that the packets are still sealed.

10.45am My route instructions tell me to leave Offa’s Dyke and follow a deeply rutted path for half a mile until I reach a tarmac lane. My pedometer uses kilometres and after one there’s no sign of tarmac. At two, I’m wondering if I took the wrong turning but at three I hear a tractor. Tractors usually mean farms and farms usually mean tarmac lanes. At the top of the hill the track turns into tarmac.  To the right there’s a farm but my route goes left towards some stone cottages.

11.15am The weather is glorious, the scenery is spectacular and so far my right knee is behaving as a normal right knee should. The route instructions say I should follow the dirt track ahead and take care as it becomes steep and rocky. Well, that’s a description that was written with rose tinted glasses. The path is actually a dry stream bed filled with large stones which are obviously dislodged every time there’s a deluge. It becomes an anxiety filled, bone-crunching descent and I’m relieved to eventually climb away on to grassy ride between wood and fields. My right knee has woken up and is asking what’s going on so I sit on a bench that has one of the best memorial plaques I’ve ever read. I hope that Scarlett realises Jack is a keeper.

11.55am I give my number in at the checkpoint in the Cadora Woods car park and get a tick alongside my name. The volunteers have eaten all the Jammy Dodgers and the best they can offer is words of encouragement. I’m disappointed because my pedometer says I have used up 583 calories which equals four and a bit biscuits.

12.05pm I cross Bigsweir Bridge and am now on the Wye Valley Walk which is flat and well signposted. I tell my right knee that climbing is over and it replies that in the absence of biscuits, if I eat a Mars bar and a packet of crisps, it’s good for another few miles.

1pm I cross the river again at Redbrook Railway Bridge and walk through lush fields. I think I should finish at about 1.20pm but missing an overgrown path causes me an unplanned detour. I finally get back four and a half hours after starting. I tell the ladies in the tent, the organisers and anyone else who will listen that it was a great event and I’ll see them again next year.

Epilogue

It’s been a couple of weeks and I’m walking down the garden path. My foot catches on something; I realise I’m falling and the concrete is approaching much too fast. This is going to hurt. And it does. And guess which bit of me hits the ground first – yes, you’re right!

My Right Knee

July 1970. I am told to run as fast as I can to deliver a note to the PE teacher in the playing field. In case you think that I am making the next bit up let me assure you that this sort of route was not unusual for schools in the South Wales valleys and safeguarding children was still several decades away. I set off across the yard, down the concrete steps, through the rusting iron gate, over the road and into the cemetery, climb over the gap in the stone wall and onto the steeply downhill gravel path to the playing field. Gravel and running children don’t go well together and the inevitable happens. My right knee looks like  a squidged tomato so I hand over the note and stagger back to the school. There isn’t a plaster in the first aid box equal to the task so a spare teacher drives me to Casualty.

Using what looks like a Brillo pad the nurse scrubs away at my knee. Earth, gravel and blood cover my leg, my skirt and the paper sheet on the trolley. “I haven’t quite got it all love,” says the nurse, probing the wound with her fingers. “There’s a bit of stone in there I need to get out – oh, hang on, that’s not stone. That’s your kneecap.”  I pass out and wake up with lots of stitches, a pot of unidentified white paste that my mother has to apply nightly and a thick white bandage that stops my leg from bending and stays in situ for 3 weeks.

All this works because apart from an ugly purple scar across the front of my knee, an occasional feeling of wiggley-ness in the joint and a hatred of Brillo pads, I recover. Like most people I have occasionally tripped, slipped or otherwise fallen and every time, my right knee has literally taken one for the team. The only thing it asks in return for always hitting the ground first is that I don’t do things that require twisty movements – swimming, for example, is a complete no-no and cycling is best avoided but long distance walking will probably be fine.  Won’t it?

March 2026 and I need to motivate myself into getting (and staying) fit. I find that Monmouth Rotary Club is hosting the Walk The Wye Challenge in aid of Velindre Hospital. I know lots of people who have had to avail themselves of Velindre’s expertise so I sign up. I decide to gently introduce my right knee to what will be required of it by doing some training.

8th March

I start with a slow, gentle 8km that ends in our local country park. Easy. I reward my right knee with an ice cream.

17th March

I’m on my way home from Aberystwyth and get off the bus in Carmarthen to walk out to Llangain. This is flat but double the distance of last week at 15km. I stop thinking about my right knee when a man comes up to me in Llangain and demands to know my opinion of the Wales Coast Path signpost opposite Johnstown Leisure Centre. “It was pointing the wrong way,” I say. “I took no notice.” “ ‘Na fe!” he exclaims excitedly. “Months I’ve been telling the council but not for what they’ve done anything with it! Pointing back to town it is! Tell me, what made you ignore it?” “I’ve got a map and a compass and I know how to use both.” This reply sends him into raptures and as the bus pulls up, he says it has been a privilege to meet someone who knows how to walk properly. On the journey back to the railway station my right knee glows with self-satisfaction. Or possibly the start of arthritis.

24th March

I get off a train in Pyle and walk home through Kenfig Hill, Bedford Park and Parc Slip Nature Reserve. 20km, all flat. There is no complaint from my right knee probably because I allowed it to have a sit down and a cappuccino at the cafe in Parc Slip.

31st March

I am overcome by the need for a new baking tray so walk to TK Maxx in Talbot Green. 23 km later and my right knee is a bit grumpy. That might be to do with the fact that I get a banana rather than an ice cream in the Co-op on the way home. Also I don’t find a baking tray that I like enough to buy. Disappointment all round.

7th April

I catch the train to Port Talbot and walk home. The A48 is tedious until Kenfig Hill and from there I repeat the route of 24th March but with the addition of a hot dog at the cafe in Parc Slip. 25km .

14th April

Train to Carmarthen to try out the new Tywi Valley route.  I walk to Llanarthne and back. I tell my right knee that we’ll have a Solero or Cornetto in the village while we are waiting for the bus but it turns out there’s no shop. When the bus arrives it has no passengers. I comment on this to the driver who says that no-one ever catches this bus and she’ll be stopping at the National Botanic Gardens to have a wee whether I like it or not as she doesn’t finish her shift for another 6 hours and although her bladder control is considered by her fellow bus drivers to be excellent, she doesn’t want to chance today being the day it is sub-standard. I understand why there are no passengers.

23rd – 26th April

I am working and walk 93km over 4 days. My right knee is deeply unhappy. My bank account on the other hand is smiling contentedly.

30th April

My last training walk is 24km downhill, flat, uphill, steeply uphill, flat, undulating, gently downhill, steeply downhill and flat. My right knee says it wants total rest between now and the big day or it won’t guarantee us getting back to the finish line before the tea tent closes and the ice cream van departs the field.

To be continued after the 10th May when this might or might not happen….

Take Your Pick

I grew up in the 60s when “Take Your Pick”, hosted by Michael Miles, was the best quiz programme on television.  It was my mother’s favourite thing to watch on Saturday evenings.  Depending on how much she coveted the prizes, Mum would pause the ironing and loudly, repeatedly, urge the contestant to either take the money or open the box.  We all joined in the excitement – Nell would answer the general knowledge questions, I would stop sketching and chew the end of my pencil, Annie would dance about shouting whatever my mother’s choice was.  Contestants needed to get three right answers and then they could choose a key to one of the ten boxes within which were cards saying what had been won – three boxes had booby prizes, 6 boxes contained good (by 1960s standards) prizes and in one box was the star prize, usually something like a small car or a family holiday.  One of the boxes also contained the key to Box 13 – that might offer something like an expensive household appliance or it could be something utterly useless and unwanted.  The urbane Mr Miles would offer the contestant increasing amounts of money to not open the box.  You can only imagine the disappointment when someone accepted, say £10 only to find that the door opened to reveal that the prize would have been a holiday for four in Blackpool or similar.  Such a result would have Nell burying her head further into her book until her intellect was required again and me going back to drawing tiny people with an increasingly short pencil while Annie and Mum laughed at the unfortunate loser, demonstrating that schadenfreude was alive and kicking in our front room.

Now that’s fixed in your mind, let’s carry on.

Box 1

I don’t usually do Black Friday deals and I don’t usually buy from Amazon but last year my laptop died a death just when I needed it most and just when I didn’t have time to go proper shopping.  I ordered online.  Between it leaving the Amazon depot and being delivered to me, someone had ripped the box open box then taped it back together.  I told Amazon I wasn’t accepting the delivery, they said ok, I took the box to the post office, Amazon said they had received it in their returns centre and I’d get a refund in 14 days, max.  Six weeks later and after multiple interactions with Amazon’s Chatbot, I finally spoke to a human.  “What,” he asked, “do you want to do?  Take the money or have another box?”

Box 2

Next the printer had a meltdown. I had learnt from the Amazon experience and went to Argos for a replacement.  It turned out that the only way the machine would print was by me standing next to it, holding the power cable in the socket at the back.  The novelty of doing that wore off quite quickly so I took the printer back to Argos and explained the fault to an assistant.  He picked the box up and threw it to the floor behind him where it landed with a loud crack of shattering plastic.  “What,” he asked, “do you want to do? Take the money or have another box?”

Box 3

In last year’s fundraising for Crisis, Mickey the Teddy Bear was adopted by a nice woman who lives quite a distance from me.  Mickey was packed into a box and Evri was paid to deliver him with 48 hours.  A week later he hadn’t arrived.  Now when I say that Mickey’s new owner is a nice woman, I left out the bit that she’s also formidable and more than a match for Evri’s laissez faire attitude to delivering boxes.  After a month of her hounding them, Evri declared Mickey as “irretrievably lost”.  The bereft owner and I decided to take the compensation money and donate it to Crisis.  On Evri’s website, I entered the tracking number into a claim form and up popped a photograph with a chirpy caption saying “just delivered by Janet at 12.29pm!  Leave a review for Janet!”  So, on this occasion, we didn’t get the money but opened the box to find that Mickey was not lost at all.

Box 13 – Utterly useless and unwanted

Tuesday.  Annie staggers home from her morning doing voluntary work with a very large box.  A printed label on the side says “Chilli Flavoured Mini Rice Crackers.  20 kilos. Product of Taiwan.”  Underneath  the legend “BBE 24/11/25” was scrawled in black felt pen.

“Don’t start,” warns Annie as I get ready to remind her that we don’t like chilli or rice crackers, that we grow our own food and buy local produce so 20 kilos of ultra-processed crap that has travelled from the other side of the world was never going to find its way into my kitchen and that the box contents are already two months out of date.  “No-one wanted them,” she says.  “What was I supposed to do?”

I could have come up with a whole range of answers to that question but instead decide to open the box.   Surprisingly it really was a box full of Chilli Flavoured Mini Rice Crackers rather than a box full of individual bags of Chilli Flavoured Mini Rice Crackers.  I spend the next hour filling 20 food caddy bags with stale Chilli Flavoured Mini Rice Crackers and the hour after that washing my hands in hot soapy water in a desperate effort to get rid of the smell of Chilli, the orange crispy bits of rice that have got stuck under my nails and the grease which is coating my skin.

Epilogue

If you’re ever asked to take your pick, unless it’s a lost teddy bear, don’t open the box.  Especially if it’s 20 kilos of Chilli Flavoured Mini Rice Crackers from Taiwan.

Nothing To Worry About

Nothing to worry about but there have been clouds looming over Scarecrow Cottage for the last few months: not black or even dark grey ones, but definitely clouds.  The sort of clouds that hang on the horizon and that at some point in time not of our choosing, we would have to deal with.

Cloud One

The first cloud didn’t even look like a cloud when it arrived a couple of years ago in the shape of a newcomer to the village who took to leaning on our field fence while they smoked a cigarette.  Heledd the goat showed some interest initially but it was short lived once she realised that they didn’t have bread or fruit to offer her.  Prince Arthur (one of Heledd’s two sheep companions) wasn’t bothered either but that’s because he lives in a different reality which mostly entails staring into space.  Leroy was different.  Whenever he saw the smoker approach he would amble over and gaze lovingly up at the visitor.  It was only when Annie happened to be in the field one day at the same time that she realised the cigarette in question was not of the nicotine variety and Leroy was actually inhaling – deeply – which explained his increasingly laidback attitude to life.  This, however, wasn’t the cloud.  The cloud was that when the smoker left the village for pastures new, it turned out that they had used our address instead of their own.  We started getting bills that maybe they should have paid and letters from the taxman that perhaps they should have replied to.  We did what most people in the world would, writing “Not Known At This Address – Return To Sender” and popping the offending envelope back in the postbox.

Cloud Two

Last summer Annie was an innocent bystander at an incident which led to the involvement of someone else’s insurance company.  If you’ve ever had the misfortune to deal with an insurance company you’ll know that speed and sensitivity are often left out of their approach.  In this case the said insurance company thought that Annie’s insurance company should join the party simply because she’d been present.  As messages from the original insurance company began to range from rude to intimidating to aggressive, there’s no doubt that if the smoker of the first cloud was still around, Annie would probably have joined Leroy in the field and also started inhaling deeply.

Cloud Three

A few months ago Storm Darragh ripped through the aged polythene on our polytunnel.  After a lot of soul searching and money box emptying we ordered supplies and booked a man to do the recovering.   It turns out that recovering polytunnels is a very skilled job and waiting lists are long.  Still we got ourselves on one.  The first three appointments were cancelled – mostly because of a Land Rover that billowed black smoke every time it got near the M4.  The other thing about polytunnels is that there are more of them in the country than people who can recover them.  We would simply have to wait for the Land Rover to be repaired or replaced because there wasn’t an alternative man available.

 

Wednesday

Clouds 1 and 2 seem to be in abeyance.  As for Cloud 3 we receive a message from polytunnel man to say he is borrowing a van and will arrive on Friday.  My diary says that I am leaving on Thursday because I am due to be at a conference in Aberystwyth on Friday.   Annie says she is more than capable of making bacon sandwiches for polytunnel man and I should stick to my arrangements.

Thursday

I drive off at about 10am and start hearing text message pings from my phone within 15 minutes.  By this time however I am on the motorway so it’s past midday when I park in Narberth – where I have gone especially to visit the castle before the conference – and start to read them.

Text 1 – Annie to me:

Nothing to worry about but we’ve had a letter from a firm of debt collectors.  They say thanks for returning the final demands but they will be sending bailiffs to our house and we will need to prove to them that we are who we say we are, that we own Scarecrow Cottage and give them evidence that we’ve been living here for more than 6 months (shocked emoji).

Me to Annie:

DON’T LEAVE THE HOUSE UNLOCKED, LET ANYONE IN OR GIVE THEM ANY INFORMATION.

Text 2 – Annie to me:

Nothing to worry about but I’ve had email from the other insurance company.  They say if I don’t make my insurance company get in touch with them they will take me to court (head exploding emoji).

Me to Annie:

DON’T ANSWER THE EMAIL.

Text 3 – Annie to me:

Nothing to worry about but there’s been a text from polytunnel man to say recovering is a two man job but his mate is off sick so he’ll bring his 11 year old son instead.  Is that against the law? (hysterical laughing emoji).

Me to Annie:

DON’T CARE – JUST DON’T LET HIM CANCEL.

I send a message to Aberystwyth to tell them I won’t be at the conference, forget about visiting the castle and turn the car around to head home.

Friday

In the end there was nothing to worry about.  The man who owns the house the smoker rented took the bailiff’s letter and said he’d deal with it along with all the others he had.  Once Annie’s insurance company answered their phone the threat of court proceedings turned out to be just that – a threat.  The polytunnel man’s mate recovered so no-one had to worry about contravening child labour legislation and after 6 hours, we had a polytunnel that should last another few years.

Epilogue

Annie says she is not stressed by the cloud goings on and to prove it she rings a company to find out about grant funding for house insulation.  The lady who answers the phone asks Annie her name and Annie shouts in reply “I haven’t got time to answer questions like that!” and hangs up.

Waiting for the Right Moment

Even though I worked for the NHS I’ve never been far away from the world of Education.  Over the years I’ve taught, tutored, trained, coached or mentored people in all manner of subjects and regardless of their background or ability.  My experiences as an educator lead me to certain conclusions:

Context is everything

Firstly, remember the country before Austerity?  On Sundays buses used to leave many towns in South Wales and head for Brecon.  They’d all arrive at about 11am and leave at 4pm.  It was a great way to visit the Bannau Brycheiniog National Park without driving there.  I regularly caught one of those buses and had lovely times hiking stretches of the Monmouth to Brecon Canal towpath but thanks to George Osborne’s flawed approach to macro Economics and the consequent decimation of public transport services, the canal and I hadn’t seen each other in years.

Next, I think I am very easy to buy Christmas presents for.   This is because I produce a list of suitable gifts.  At the risk of seeming ungrateful I actively, loudly and repeatedly encourage present-givers to stick to this list.

Finally, I am a fan of Life Long Learning and since my first degree I have accumulated certificates and qualifications in a variety of subjects.  Some have been useful, some not.  Some have just been waiting for the right moment.

There are two types of people in the world – the ones who do what they’re told and the ones who don’t

Last year elder sister Nell and her husband decided they would be going to South Africa for a month in March 2025.  A house sitter who could take care of Molly the cat would be hired.  This arrangement failed to meet Annie’s standards.   Molly, she said, isn’t the sharpest pencil in the box and she doesn’t like strangers.  Neither of these comments could be disputed by Nell but not with much verve as she was too busy thinking about flights and AirBnBs.  Unhappy at such a laissez-faire attitude to Molly’s emotional welfare, Annie set about making her own plan and in December arranged to meet Nell in a café in Abergavenny.  Maria would come and stay in the house and look after Molly.  This solution would work because Molly never growls, spits at or scrams Maria and with nothing else to do Maria could write the book she has been putting off for much too long.  Meanwhile Nell wouldn’t have to worry about a potentially thieving, cat-hating psychopath in the house and because Maria would stay for free, Nell would save a shed load of money.  No, Maria didn’t know yet but she would do as she was told.

Which is how I come to be writing this – with a sleeping cat on my lap – in Nell’s house.  Being this close to the Monmouth – Brecon Canal has stirred some nostalgia so yesterday I caught a bus to Talybont on Usk to walk along the canal towpath like I used to in the pre-George Osborne days.

Time for another bit of context.  I made my Christmas list early last year and on hearing that Annie intended to go to Abergavenny, I gave her a copy.  It said “MARIA’S CHRISTMAS LIST – PLEASE BUY ONLY ONE OF FOLLOWING AND DO NOT GO OFF PISTE!”  Beneath was written: Jigsaw; Flask; Knitted Gloves (pink or yellow); Scarf (grey).  So  I was surprised on Christmas morning to unwrap a large parcel from Annie and find that it contained a red fleece jumper – especially as it was exactly the same as one that I had bought just a few weeks earlier when we had gone shopping together.  Once the fleece had been returned for a refund, I bought myself two new trekking poles instead which finally got tried out today.

As an aside, my old trekking poles had been bought in 2015 when I did an Ultra Marathon just south of Oxford the day after meeting the then Prince Charles in Aberystwyth.  I had got on the train in a flouncy dress and high heels and got off a few hours later in lycra shorts and trainers.  That’s a whole different story which we might get to one day but not today.  If there was one annoying thing about the old trekking poles – which even the heir to the throne didn’t know about because they weren’t allowed in the same room as him – it was that they were fixed length and therefore awkward to carry.  Over the years they have been bumped and battered, scratched and dented, straps have fallen off and they’ve worn through loads of ferrules.  The new trekking poles are telescopic and very smart.   In case you’ve never tried Nordic Walking, what you want is a nice flat surface like a canal towpath.

Education is never wasted

It was a lovely walk.  I passed or was passed by friendly hikers, runners, cyclists and dog walkers.  The only unfriendly person I encountered was a scowling woman with a wailing child in a pushchair.  A mile or so further down the path and I think I found the reason for the traumatised toddler.

In amongst those various certificates and qualifications I spoke of earlier is the one which was waiting for the right moment to be useful : the RLSS Bronze Medallion for Lifesaving.  One of the lessons I remember quite clearly is – if possible – don’t get into the water to rescue a casualty.  Use something that you can reach out towards them with; something that they can catch hold of so that you can tow them to safety.  A trekking pole, perhaps?

Epilogue

Yes, of course I rescued him.  He was a bit stinky but had a bath and spent several hours on a radiator to dry off.  I’ve called him Robbie after Robbie Cumming who presents Canal Boat Diaries on BBC 2.  I’ve knitted him a little jumper and pinned him into the pocket of my rucksack so he can come on adventures with me.