Author: anneethompson

A Cafe in Riga

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I am writing this in a cafe in Riga. Going to a cafe on my own and buying a coffee is fairly high on my scary list, so I am feeling somewhat tense, but there were no real options. Husband was at work all morning, and has returned to make phone calls and I know from past experience that these will be very loud/shouty and the chance of being able to concentrate and write to you is tiny. So I left, and found a cafe that looked empty and might not mind a lonely blogger making a coffee last an hour while they type. And I am very keen to write this, because I want to tell you about my morning. I was brave this morning too.

I walked to Modes Muzeja Kafejnica, which is the fashion museum and cafe tucked away behind St Peter’s Church. This is the first cafe in Riga that I have dared to visit on my own (at some point this will be normal) and I had passed it yesterday. It looked so pretty, I was determined to go in. As soon as I stepped inside a lady in an old-fashioned apron and cap welcomed me and showed me to a round wooden table and sofa. I was given a multi-lingual menu; old-time dance music was playing and I felt like I had stepped back in time and should have been wearing a long skirt and lacey blouse with a fat broach at the collar. But I wasn’t. I was wearing jeans and boots and a thick ski jacket that I folded onto the seat next to me and opened the menu. The cafe served drinks and cakes—this was so my kind of place.

I ordered at the counter: a filter coffee which customers pour themselves, and an eclair. There were several types of eclair and I chose one dusted with icing sugar and oozing with cream and strawberry conserve. It was delicious.

Pictures of fashion throughout the ages were strung from the ceiling, reminding me of pictures in books from my mother’s childhood—little girls holding puppies, suited gentlemen with cigarettes, while the women fluttered fans and eye-lashes over their pearls. It was all wonderfully art deco 1920’s. It even smelt 1920’s, with a sort of fruity floral undercurrent.

There is a discount if you buy a museum ticket, so when I had finished my coffee and daydream, I paid for both at the desk. The girl suggested I could leave my jacket on a peg in the cafe, but I am too foreign to trust things like that, so I thanked her and left, hugging my bulky jacket with gloves and hat to my overheated body like some sort of nervous sweating snail.

The entrance to the museum was slightly confusing, with a man who seemed to be shouting at a woman in a ticket booth—but he may not have been shouting, Latvian tends to sound cross. I waved my receipt over his shoulder, so the woman could see I had paid. The woman checked it, and offered to hang my jacket in the wardrobe (I’m not sure if I had pushed in, I hope not. It’s easy to be rude by mistake when you’re foreign).

I walked into the museum (still clutching coat and gloves and hat) and was greeted by glass display cases of dresses. They were long with bouffant skirts and the little girl in me wanted to try them on and twirl. Especially as dance music was playing—ideal for twirling in flowing skirts.

An old movie was showing on a television. Screens projected images of clothes. Glass cases displayed gloves and fans and shoes. There was a tiny carved table holding a sewing basket, and velvet drapes covered the walls (Oh! I so wanted to twirl!) I wandered along the row of dresses, staring at the tiny waists and tight sleeves and laced necklines.

Then I realised there was a corner where you could dress up in crinoline, and I wanted to. But no one was with me to take a photo and laugh with me, and I had already been brave by having coffee alone. Maybe next time.

The next room held more dresses—mainly from England, France and America. I didn’t see any Latvian clothes. Why?

It was all so pretty, the air smelt of lily-of-the-valley, music was playing, and I wanted to go into the glass cases and touch the silk and lace and velvet. They sort of lured you to touch them. Which is perhaps why they are displayed in glass cases.

The next room was a dark cellar. I began to search for a light switch, and a helpful lady told me to just wait, and look. (She said it in Latvian, but I think that’s what she said.) The display cases all lit up individually, in time to conversation and music. Each one was a miniature drama, the manikins placed so the words and music told a story, each one in the language of the country where the clothes originated from, with accompanying music by a composer from that country. One display showed traditional Latvian dress—a much simpler peasant outfit in coloured cloth. I still don’t know what the rich women in Latvia wore, maybe they imported their clothes from England or France.

I took some last photographs, and left. I loved this museum. I am also sort of glad that Husband was at work (not saying that he would have spoilt it or anything, but I think his interest in floaty dresses is probably less than mine.) If you have a 10-year-old daughter, or played dressing-up games for hours when young, then you must come to Riga and visit this museum. It is like eating smooth chocolate.

The cafe I am now in is also nice, but very different. It is modern, with hard seats, and instead of soft music it is playing loud radio that’s difficult to ignore. Especially as it sounds just like Terry Wogan, but speaking Latvian! I will finish my coffee and leave. Thank you for reading.

I hope you see something lovely today.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

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Return Trip to Riga

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Return Trip to Riga

Last week, Husband had another work trip to Riga, Latvia, so I decided to tag along. (The wonderful thing about writing is that you can do it pretty much anywhere. At least, anywhere that’s not ugly. I cannot write in ugly places.)

The taxi took us to Gatwick, and we found the airBaltic desk and then waited a very long time for the staff to arrive so we could drop our bags. We had breakfast in Pret (I don’t especially like Pret, but Husband has bit of an addiction, so we found a Pret and I didn’t make too many comments). We also bought sandwiches for lunch, to avoid having to eat aeroplane food.

The flight was quite fast due a tail wind from Storm Dennis, and it took less than the three hours I was expecting. The airport is fairly small, so going through customs and collecting our bags was very quick. I wonder if that will change after the EU transition period has ended. We walked to the taxi rank, and remembered to check the prices on the back door of each taxi (see the blog I wrote last summer—the price of a taxi varies a HUGE amount, but the price is displayed on the back door. In Riga, you do not have to take the first taxi in the line, which is likely to be the most expensive one and shunned by locals).

We stayed at the Pullman hotel, which is situated in the old part of Riga. The hotel is modern, with a horse theme (not sure why). We were met by a life-sized horse statue in the lobby, and horse art is displayed in all the corridors and rooms. Some of it is quite nice. Everything else is grey and white. It’s clean, but not especially welcoming.

We found a restaurant on TripAdvisor and walked through the cobbled streets of Old Town, past the 13th century St. Peter’s Church, to Petergailis restaurant. It was only 6.30pm (4.30pm in the UK) but it felt much later. The sky was properly dark, the shops were mostly closed, and there were very few people on the streets. The air was cold and crisp, though there was no snow (which I had been hoping for). I was glad of my thick jacket, gloves and hat—and my flat shoes, because walking on cobbled streets is fairly brutal on heels. As we walked, I began to remember Riga. In my mind, it has become entangled with Krakow, as we visited both fairly close together, and they share cobbled streets and pretty buildings, interesting markets and a sad history. Gradually Riga emerged in my memory, I recalled the beautiful guild halls, and the striking churches, and the house with a cat on top which has themed most of the souvenirs.

Petergailis restaurant was perfect. It has a cockerel theme, and we had coffee on the terrace last summer, but the terrace has gone now, only marks on the wall remain. Inside was cosy but not too hot and as we were eating relatively early, it wasn’t too crowded. The menu was full of interesting foods I’d never tried, but not so unfamiliar as to be scary. They brought us breads with flavoured butter, and tiny glasses of pumpkin soup to taste. We chose different dishes and shared, so could taste each other’s food (this turned out to be a good idea, because Husband chose better than me). I drank a single gin and tonic, and lusted after the huge glasses of red wine on the next table, but knew that after a flight and a long day I’d have a migraine if I drank it. We left feeling full.

The following day, Husband went to the office after breakfast, and I wrote and explored the city. But I’ll tell you about that in another blog. Thanks for reading. I hope you eat some lovely food too today.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

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I Don’t Iron Things

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One rather exciting piece of news this week—this will really amaze you—I bought a new iron. This is a rare occurrence. In fact, I have never ever bought an iron before, because the iron my brother gave me in 1988 when I got married, works perfectly well, despite being dropped a few times. To be fair, I don’t iron things. Not unless I really have to. It feels like a waste of time when they just get crumpled again when you wear them, and so my iron has had fairly light use. But the cables are beginning to get worn, and to be honest, I don’t trust it to not electrocute me, so I decided it was time, and took the plunge, and visited a hardware store. I bet your week hasn’t been anywhere near as exciting, has it?

We also went shopping for a new car. I’m not sure if this is the correct verb, as we often go to look at new cars, and we never buy one, but it’s quite a fun thing to do. This time we were looking at the Land Rover Discovery Sport and comparable models. I rather like the Discovery Sport, though compared to the Discovery it feels very small, and the extra two seats in the back are extremely cramped and almost impossible to climb into. I felt that I should try them out, so asked the sales assistant to help me. He politely moved the middle-row seat forwards so I could climb in, and offered to hold my handbag. I then hoisted myself up, almost fell on top of the sales assistant whilst trying to find somewhere to put my feet, bent double trying to fit under the low ceiling, whilst very aware how completely inelegant I looked with my bottom sticking up and my back bent, and my legs sort of stuck with one on one side of the back seat and the other jammed somewhere near the door. But I managed it. The sales assistant went off for a coffee to recover and I sat there, on a little seat in the very back of the car, wondering if I was ever going to get out again. This makes it an ideal car to buy if you have elderly relatives who you don’t especially like: help them into the rear seats, and leave them there for the rest of the day.

We were offered a test drive, so took it for a spin, with the sales assistant (who seemed to have recovered) sitting in the back (not the very back of course, he knows about those seats). Off we went, Husband driving, me offering helpful advice.

I asked the sales man if he had ever been kidnapped on a test drive. He said no, but his father had also been a car salesman, and one day he took an elderly couple on a test drive, and after about 20 minutes, they drove into a driveway, both got out, locked the car (with the salesman still sitting in the back) and went into the house. Apparently, they had forgotten they were on a test drive, and had driven home!

We drove along the lanes, and it happened to have rained, so there were puddles. Husband has a thing about puddles, and driving right through them so the water splashes over the whole car and you can’t see for a second and the car gets covered in dirty water. He managed to restrain himself, but I was very tense the whole way in case he lost control and decided to plunge the very shiny car through a pond-sized puddle. However, we managed the whole drive with no puddle driving, except right at the end, when there was a large muddy expanse of water and Husband sort of veered almost round it, but not quite. We left the car at the garage looking rather less shiny than when we’d started (but not as muddy as our own car, which is, I think, the absolutely dirtiest car in the country). I’m not sure the sales assistant was terribly sad to see us leave.

We looked at a few other cars that were similar to the Discovery Sport. I can tell you that BMW make beautiful cars but they are very expensive (and the rear seats are no easier to get into). Toyota doesn’t keep a comparable car in its showroom. Audi makes very uncomfortable cars, and when you look at them, there are no helpful sales assistants to be found. But maybe the Land Rover man had phoned ahead and warned them to hide.

I hope you have a good week and don’t get stuck anywhere. Take care.
Love, Anne x

Thanks for reading.
Why not sign up to follow my blog?
anneethompson.com

Have you read my latest book yet? A feel-good family saga set on a farm, it will make you smile.

Sowing Promises
by Anne E. Thompson
Available from an Amazon near you today.

UK link: Here

US link: Here

 

 

Fortnum and Mason — Bit of a Treat

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My Monday was great fun. It began with breakfast near Fortnum and Mason. Have you ever been? The best place for breakfast (I think) is not one of the restaurants inside the actual shop, but at the restaurant hidden at the back, 45 Jermyn Street. It has orange awnings, and a rotating door, with a man who stands outside to greet you. Inside, there are comfy orange seats (I do like a comfy seat!) and a desk where they take your coat and show you to the table.

The menu is nice—not too big so you don’t spend hours looking at a book trying to decide, and I don’t think they change it very often because it always seems to be the same when I visit. The prices are high, but not super high, not for London, and not as much as you might expect for somewhere rather lovely. The service is efficient and unobtrusive, and everything is very clean.

I chose what I always order—buckwheat pancakes, with caramelised pineapple and coconut yogurt. I don’t much like pineapple, but it’s so sweet, it’s easy to ignore. The coffee is delicious, and the orange juice is freshly squeezed. (Though do be careful, the drinks aren’t priced on the menu, and they add a lot to the final bill!)

The washrooms are behind a door marked: ‘Leeks and Peas’ (confused me for a moment!)

It really is a lovely place for breakfast, and it’s full of people in dark suits, so don’t arrive in your ripped jeans.

 Afterwards, we went into Fortnum and Mason. I have never properly explored the shop before, so we started at the very top (which was bit of a waste of time, as there were only restaurants up there!) On every floor, the staff greeted us, and asked if we wanted any help—but not in a condescending snooty manner (like in some posh shops). They seemed friendly, and willing to help. Even when we were looking at the hampers, and Husband (always to be relied upon for helpful comment) told the assistant they were a ridiculous price, she simply smiled, and said we would probably find the same products at a cheaper price in the rest of the shop.

The hampers were interesting. Some were themed, so you could order them for a wedding, or a birth, or a special occasion, like the Chinese New Year (this year is the year of the Rat, and everything was decorated with rats, which wouldn’t be my choice of decoration for a food hamper!) There were even hampers for animals (lots I could say here, but I won’t because I assume they give pleasure to the owner, even if the dog would be unimpressed).

I walked around taking photographs, and no one seemed to mind. On one floor there was a display of teapots, with signs explaining their origins. A shop assistant told us they were preparing to do a tea-tasting, and if we came back in a few minutes we could try some tea. (We didn’t, but it was nice of her.)

 It’s a nice shop to browse. The lighting is bright, but never harsh, and the displays are beautiful and full of colour.

We skimmed the ground floor, which was full of tins of shortbread with chocolate chips in (always wrong) and chocolates in fancy boxes—all aimed at tourists, who were pushing through the ground floor in their masses. Instead, we went down to the basement.

The basement is full of food, and I had a voucher. There was a golden tree, surrounded by citrus fruits. I love pomelo (which look like giant grapefruit) but I first discovered them in Morrisons, and these were triple the price and not ripe. A chocolate orange was also tempting—brown-skinned and grown in Valencia, the sign said it was very sweet.

The bakery was full of bread and cake and tarts, all looking delicious, but all unwrapped (and therefore potentially sneezed on by tourists, which I found off-putting).

In the end, I chose a tiny jar of fish eggs (sort of pretend caviar, but rather cheaper than the £400 price tag I saw for the real thing!) A man was cutting thin slices of salmon, and he chatted to us for a while, and offered us a blini—a tiny pancake topped with salmon and cream cheese. Behind him, there was a blini-making machine, and we watched it while we chatted. Really, the staff were very friendly.

I also bought some sour dough bread (I found some that was wrapped, and safe from stranger-sneezes!) and a china pot of Welsh rarebit, four miniature puddings, a pat of black garlic butter, a packet of blinis, and a tiny pot of pesto.

We carried everything home, and had a sort of picnic in front of the fire, drinking some prosecco that we were given at Christmas time. What a lovely treat!

I hope you have some treats this week too. Take care.
Love, Anne x

Thank you for reading.
Why not sign up to follow my blog?
anneethompson.com

If you fancy a treat, why not read my latest book? A feel-good family saga, set on a farm that will make you smile.

Sowing Promises
by Anne E. Thompson
Available from an Amazon near you today.

UK link: Here

US link: Here

 

Coronavirus: How Do We Know What to Believe?

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Are you feeling muddled about the facts of the Coronavirus? I know that I am. This is partly due to conflicting messages in the media, and let’s face it, it is so very difficult these days to know whether what we read in the media is true. It seems increasingly common to read a ‘shock’ headline, which turns out to have no basis in truth at all. For example, the headline: “Black’s Bank Investigated for Fraud” turns out to be a story about a routine investigation, which all banks undergo routinely every year, and which includes a check for fraud. But what we remember, is the link between the fraud and the bank—even though there never was one.

This is dangerous. This results in the media becoming little more than entertaining gossip, so we stop taking it seriously, and the hugely important function of keeping us informed, of keeping our leaders accountable, of spreading useful information, becomes obsolete. We need a media that we can trust.

Now, back to Coronavirus, how do we know what to believe? We are told that it is similar to seasonal flu, and it can be dangerous for the elderly and vulnerable. We are told how many new cases there are, on a daily basis, and how many people have died from the virus.

But have none of those patients recovered? Why are we not hearing about the thousands of people who have contracted the disease, been mildly ill, and now are well again? Why are we not hearing about the progress of a possible vaccine, and when scientists hope it might be available? Are they even working on a vaccine—I assume they are, but I have heard nothing about it. The news has been full of new hospitals being built, and increased risk, and new laws. Nothing on a vaccine or cure.

We are told it originated in China, and this seems to have provoked a stream of racism against Asian people, which reminds me of the very worst parts of our history, when we refused to learn anything about other cultures and anything different was deemed inferior. Undoubtedly some cultural differences are inferior—but others are incredibly superior. We focus less on those.

For example, the wearing of face masks. All the Asian people who I know (and I know a lot) tell me that people wear face masks to protect other people. If a Chinese person has a nasty cold, when they are shopping, or using public transport, they will wear a face mask to protect others. This seems to be beyond the scope of most English people, who automatically assume that a face mask is to protect the wearer. If you want to buy a face mask on Amazon, the write-up is all about whether the mask will protect the wearer, absolutely nothing about whether it will stop the spread of germs from the wearer to others. This is the sort of point that the media could highlight. But it doesn’t.

I have no idea what to expect from the spread of Coronavirus. I don’t know whether to prepare to catch it, or assume it will have died out this time next week. But I do know that I would like the media to change, and for it to start giving us actual facts and unbiassed information, and less sensational reports; because then we can start to make informed decisions.

Thanks for reading.
Anne x

 

If you do happen to be ill, confined to bed, and need entertaining, the ideal book to read is:

Sowing Promises
by Anne E. Thompson
Available from an Amazon near you today.

UK link: Here

US link: Here

1917: I was probably not their target audience.

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Some very classy actors each appeared for about 3 minutes.

I have just returned from watching 1917 at the cinema. Have you seen it? We had a free afternoon (old sort-of-retired couple) and I had heard good reviews, and so I dragged Husband away from his desk. We had slightly weird seats right at the back, at the top of the stairs. They would be good for short people, as no one is in front of you. But we are not short, so it just felt weird.

We watched 27 hours of adverts, as per usual at the cinema, and then the film started. It has some very classy actors, who each appear for about 3 minutes. The scenery is spectacularly realistic, and the story is gripping. Within the first 10 minutes I realised that I do not like war films.

I am an author, my ‘job’ is all about empathy, getting inside someone else’s head, understanding how they feel in different situations—in fact, more than that, it is about actually feeling what they would feel. Which makes watching a war film pretty traumatic. I hid under my coat and wished I had a fast-forward button.

Now, 1917 is an exceptionally well made film. It is all about (no big spoilers) a soldier being given a mission that will save hundreds of lives, and how he overcomes huge odds trying to accomplish this mission. We watch scenes which I assume are very realistic, see people dying as they would have died, see the bodies left to rot, see the ugly destruction of nature and property and people that is the result of war. And the soldiers were so young. The death of boys is always horrible.

 I found I spent the whole film trying to detach myself from the horror I was watching! I told myself, “listen to the music, try to identify the instruments being played, think about the orchestra” or “imagine being the person who put this set together, which things would they have made and what was here naturally” –anything in fact to distract myself from the film. I was probably not their target audience.

I think everyone should see one, excellently made war film in their life. They will then realise how awful and destructive and traumatic war is. This film is certainly worth seeing if you have not seen such a film. I remember the first such film that I saw, it was Platoon, when I was a student, and in a couple of hours I went from utter ignorance about the Vietnam war to shuddering whenever I heard it mentioned. I did not enjoy the experience, but I think it was probably good for my naïve young self to watch it.

If you like war films, or have never seen a decently made one, then I suggest you watch 1917. However, if you want a relaxing afternoon, I believe Little Women is still in cinemas.

Thanks for reading. I hope nothing in your week is traumatic. Take care.

Love, Anne x

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MRI — The Machine Did Not Explode

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Well, my Wednesday was very annoying. This was partly my fault, as I managed to get extremely stressed over something which I know, from past experience, is not a thing worth being stressed over. But I’m out of practice.

As my regular readers will know, a few years ago I had a small brain tumour removed, via craniotomy, and hence ceased a 5-year migraine and a lot of hassle, and a whole new lot of weird things needed to be coped with, but on the whole, I was much better. However, the nasty little tumour they removed (I think all brain tumours are nasty, but perhaps I’m biased) has a tendency to regrow. It’s not malignant (cancer) and so I suppose if you have to have a brain tumour, my type was one of the better ones. But it was still nasty.

Now, when they operated, they told me that due to nasty tumour’s tendency to regrow, I would have occasional MRIs for the rest of my life. These have become further and further apart, and in November they sent through an appointment—for Wednesday. I have been in many MRI machines, I know the drill, I know it is mainly boring and very loud and slightly uncomfortable because you can’t move and you’re lying on a hard surface. But they are nothing to worry about, there is no need for stress. I know all this. However, Wednesday morning I was tense and snappy and couldn’t concentrate and the whole morning was spent waiting to leave for London.

I left far too early, telling myself that trains might be cancelled and I did not want to be late, and I could have a cup of coffee at Victoria. Then, as we sat on the train, watching the rain-saturated fields whiz by, Husband’s phone rang. For some reason, the hospital only seems to have Husband’s number (I have given them mine many times, so perhaps they don’t really trust me). Anyway, it was the imaging centre, saying that my appointment had been cancelled.

We got off the train at Croydon, and I called them back. The administrator told me that yes, she was very sorry, but the MRI machine had broken, and the engineer needed to get a new part, and therefore my appointment was cancelled.

I tried to change her mind. I asked if they had more than one MRI machine (they do) and why I couldn’t simply be scanned in the other one. I told her that we had already set off, and that the scan was to discover if my brain tumour had regrown (which I don’t think is the case, but we can’t be sure). She checked her lists, and tried to fit me in, but eventually told me that sorry, I need to be in the machine for 45 minutes, and that was just too long to fit into an already full schedule. She made another appointment, for Friday. Which was not so very long to wait, but I was still annoyed. I really hope I was also polite—it wasn’t her fault, and she was being very kind.

We walked across to the other platform, and caught a train home. As I travelled home, I wondered how they had chosen which patients to phone, because I’m pretty sure we would not have been allocated to a specific machine. I then realised, that actually, some of those appointments would be emergencies. There would be people with hydrocephalus, or in agony, and for them to be scanned ahead of me was completely right. My appointment, whilst important, is not urgent. I need to be checked, but I won’t die while I’m waiting. If I learnt anything about being ill, it is that medical things rarely go smoothly, and you need to be a little chilled about it. I tried to forget about it, and got on with my day.

***

Friday arrived and I repeated the process. I travelled up to Victoria again (managed to get further than Croydon this time) and Husband kindly met me after work. We wound our way through the busy London streets, because I prefer to walk than take the underground. Walking calms me, and helps me to focus on not getting lost rather than on the unpleasantness ahead. Husband wondered if they had fixed the machine properly, and said he hoped it wouldn’t explode while I was in it. I didn’t find this a very helpful comment.

We arrived at the imaging centre, and I filled out a questionnaire, and assured them that I had been scanned several times since my surgery, therefore whatever they rebuilt me with must be safe in their machine.

Then it was time, they gave me ear-plugs and headphones, I lay on the hard bench, they secured my head so I couldn’t move, and lowered something like a visor over my face. I was given a plastic thing to press if I needed their attention, and offered a blanket. (I always accept the blanket, those machines get cold!) I shut my eyes, so I could pretend I was in a wide open field, and I felt the bench being slid into the machine. The voice of the operator boomed into my ears, asking if I was alright, telling me she was ready to start. I like it when they speak to me –some operators are better at that than others. Then the machine started, with judders and thumps and what sounded like metal grinding against metal, and at one point the whole machine trembled and shook, and I wondered if the world outside had exploded, and I was the only person left alive. I kept my eyes shut, and tried to not move (does swallowing count as moving? I’m never sure if I’m allowed to swallow in there!) I tried to pray, because there’s not much else to do when trapped in a machine, and it seemed a good use of time, to pray for friends and family and the possibility that the world might be about to implode.

Eventually, it was finished. The very nice operator sent someone to slide me out from the machine, and I returned the ear protection, and folded the blanket, and felt a little dizzy from lying still for so long. They couldn’t tell me anything, I have to wait for my appointment with the surgeon in 3 months for that. But I didn’t really care. It was done ( and I know from experience, that if there had been anything urgent they would have delayed me until a medic had checked the scan).

We left. Jay met us on his way home from work, and we ate at The Natural Kitchen in Baker Street, and the evening was rather lovely.

I hope your nasty things this week have lovely endings too. Thank you for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

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anneethompson.com

 

 You can read more about my brain tumour experience in my little book: How to Have a Brain Tumour by Anne E Thompson

Available from Amazon (free if you have Kindle Select).

 

The Beast of Exmoor

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One of my favourite places in the world is Exmoor. I love the wildness, the untamed views, the weather-deformed plants, the wildlife struggling to exist in an austere landscape. I love that people have had so little impact, and that wild ponies wander over areas of toughened grass and wiry heather. So, when we were in Devon, and Husband suggested a walk on the moors rather than another beach walk, I was very keen. 

I dressed in my new bobble hat and gloves and thick coat—because whatever the weather when you leave the house, the moors can catch you out with harsh winds that push through layers of clothes and freeze your bones. We drove to one of the roads that meanders through the moor, crossed the cattle grid, and looked for somewhere to park. There are several areas along the road where cars can pull off and stop.  There were various cars parked on areas of rock, and we were in a 4-wheel drive, so it was easy. I’m not sure how the Fiesta would manage. (But then, our Fiesta has moss growing on it, so I’m never sure it will even make it to the shops and back!)

The moor is covered with tracks, and we followed one towards a triangulation point (a small tower of concrete used in mapping). The earth was black, sodden from the rain, rivulets of water running between the granite stones. The wind snatched at our hats, tangling hair and tugging at our clothes, the heather whispered beside us as we walked up the hill. Kia had to be kept on the extending lead, because I didn’t trust her not to chase sheep or deer, but actually we didn’t see any animals at all, only their tracks.

We saw lots of footprints, and Exmoor is home to sheep, wild ponies, and deer–as well as possibly a panther.
We didn’t see any of them while we were walking.

The water was seeping through the peat soil, meeting a layer of granite and trickling down in a mini waterfall. Kia used it as a drinking fountain!

I was also looking out for signs of the Exmoor Beast—a probably mystical animal that has been sighted for decades on Exmoor. Apparently at one time, after a farmer had a flock of his sheep killed, the government based the Marine Commandoes on Exmoor, in hides, to try to confirm whether the animal existed. They didn’t see anything. Most people think that probably a panther was released there in the 1970’s, when the law changed so it was illegal to keep them as pets—but who knows? Unless it eats some people, it’s unlikely to be discovered.

We didn’t have a compass, and Husband worried that we might get lost if we wandered too far from the sight of the triangulation post. I thought we’d be fine, and marched off into the wilderness. It was surprisingly hard to find the same route back. If the mist had come down, I think you could wander for hours.

As we drove away from the moor, we saw a herd of deer, the males standing tall against the horizon—beautiful.

There is something about Exmoor that reminds us how small we are, how vulnerable we are when immersed in a wilderness, whether there are panthers or not, which is a good thing to be reminded of occasionally. A long walk in the wind also makes you feel a tea with scones and cream is completely justified—which is the part of Devon that should be enshrined in law.

There are triangulation posts scattered over Exmoor, which make helpful markers for not getting lost. Other places have standing stones: large slabs of granite standing up like soldiers.

I hope you have a wonderfully wild time this week. Take care.
Love, Anne x

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A Christian is Someone Who Leaves a Washroom Cleaner Than When They Entered

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I always struggle a bit in January—do you? I’m not sure if it’s the lack of sunlight, or the residual tiredness after Christmas, or just something weird that happens in my brain; January for me is full of scowls and negative feelings and wanting to cry. It has been even worse this year, partly because I have been hurt by my church and because it’s January, I have been focussing on it more than is healthy. It was something small, not even worth mentioning here (because you will think me silly) but for me, it mattered.

Now, this happens a lot in churches—has it happened to you? The trouble is, churches are just people, and everyone is busy, and trying to prioritise their time, and frankly, we only tend to notice the person playing the music, or operating the sound system, or unlocking the fire door each week, when they mess up. We don’t remember to thank them, but we’re quite quick to give input if we feel they could improve! We also tend to announce what we want to happen, and are sometimes insensitive to what others might want or need.

But I was still hurt. My brain told me not be stupid, it was tiny thing, not important. But the child in me raged and felt bitter, and wanted to leave. I need to be noticed, and I often feel invisible.

The solution to this, for me, is found in a little book tucked away at the back of the Bible: 1 Peter. In chapter 2, Peter talks about how kind God is and it calls us to be like living stones. It says that in God’s eyes we are ‘chosen and precious’. We might not be noticed by our peers, but God sees us. God thinks we’re precious.

The writing goes on to tell us to allow ourselves to be ‘used in building a spiritual temple’. A stone on its own is of little use, but as part of a building it becomes magnificent. I have to let hurts dissipate, I can’t be useful on my own, I need to be part of the larger Christian body. (That’s me told then!)

It talks about offering a sacrifice that’s acceptable to God. But what is that? In the olden days, people offered animal sacrifices, but God doesn’t want that today. In other parts of the Bible, it makes it clear what God does want. He wants us to do what is just, to love kindness, to walk humbly with God. Justice is about being fair and wise. Walking humbly isn’t about banging people over the head with what I believe. And being kind? Well, that’s sort of obvious. We all need people to be kind to us.

Which is why the title is what it is. I think perhaps Christians (me) need to think a little more carefully about how they’re being kind to others. A Christian is the person who holds open a door, who helps with the washing up, who leaves a public toilet cleaner than when they entered. Probably no one will notice, but God will—and he thinks you’re precious.

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Snappy Lids Are Very Loud!

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Snappy lids are very loud!

 

It’s that time of year when all the ‘vouchers’ my family gave me for Christmas are being used up, and I am having lots of nice treats (much nicer than another pair of socks!) Last week I used my ‘afternoon tea’ voucher.

To be honest, when I suggested a voucher for afternoon tea, I had been thinking about a trip to London, to one of the big posh hotels. I have already been fortunate enough to have been invited to a tea at The Ritz (which is sort of the ‘ultimate’ traditional English afternoon tea venue) but I have heard that Claridge’s does a very good tea too. (At £70 per person, it jolly well ought to be good! The Ritz is a bargain at only £60 per person—though don’t be tempted to pay another £50 for a birthday cake, as the cake which arrives is the size of a cupcake and looks rather dry, in my opinion. I have rather strong opinions when it comes to cake).

However, my gift was not for tea in London, it was for afternoon tea at the Watersmeet Hotel in Devon—where you might remember we had an exceptionally lovely tea last year. We were staying in Instow, Devon, for a few days (Husband tends to take me there every January so I can recover from Christmas—I tend to be not very nice and exceptionally explosive when I’m over-tired, so it’s probably a good idea). I packed some smart clothes (ie, clothes not covered in dog/cat hairs or mud) and we drove to the hotel on Sunday afternoon. The drive was a pretty one, through lanes bordered with high hedges, past tiny streams meandering through valleys, and through towns with old churches and stone cottages and lanes only just wide enough for a car.

 The Watersmeet Hotel has a dining room with big windows overlooking the cove. It looks very nice on their website, but last year when we arrived for our tea, we were seated in the lounge—still nice, but not quite as nice. Last year I had commented, and tried to show them my voucher, with photos of the dining room. Husband whispered that actually he had made the voucher himself, by stealing photos from their website, so perhaps my position wasn’t as strong as I thought it was! This year though, Husband had specifically asked if we could sit in the dining room when he booked the tea. We were shown to a seat, in the window, looking down on the cove. It was perfect.

The tea, when it arrived, was enough for at least four people. I had remembered this from the previous year, and had come prepared. Smuggled into my smart blue bag, were tiny plastic containers with snappy lids, all ready to store any leftover food.

We sat and drank tea (proper, strong, made with tea-leaves, tea). We admired the food, and ate the sandwiches and some of the cakes and one of the scones. I then, very stealthily, drew the first container from my bag. It was small—the perfect size for a fat scone. Husband laughed at me, and commented that his nan* would be proud of me. All was going well, no one else noticed, until I came to close the lid. Snappy lids are very loud. The sound echoed around the empty dining room, and the family sitting in the lounge looked up, surprised. Husband laughed. I looked at the remaining cakes, and glanced at the row of small containers sitting deceptively quietly in my bag. Dare I use them to store the leftover cakes and cause a whole series of loud pops?

 Yep, I dared. It was loud, and the waitress popped in to find out what was happening, but the cakes weren’t wasted.

Actually, we were offered boxes to take home the leftovers, but the cakes were delicate tarts and soft sponges and last year we arrived home to find a mangled mess of unidentifiable flavours, so snappy-lid containers are much better. If somewhat louder.

We enjoyed the view, which is so much more spectacular than any London hotel could offer.

When we arrived back at the cottage, the cakes were still perfect in their containers, and we enjoyed them over the next few days.

I hope you have some things to enjoy too. Thanks for reading. Take care.

Love, Anne

PS. Afternoon Tea at Watersmeet Hotel is £22 per person, and with an incomparable view—but remember to ask to be seated in the dining area when you book. And don’t forget to take some containers for the left-overs.

 

 

*When I first met Husband’s family, way back in the 80’s when we were teenagers, his family were still eating the sugar which his nan had stockpiled during the sugar shortage of the 70’s! I am never sure whether being compared to her is necessarily a compliment. . .

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