Author: anneethompson

Jamaica Warmth

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Thursday

I was tired, and I twisted my ankle yesterday when getting into the sea, so I walked rather than ran in the exercise room this morning. It’s a very good exercise room—everything works (not always the case!) and there are remote buttons to work the air-con and telly, clean towels, wipes to clean the machines, a water dispenser and rubber mats for stretching afterwards. I think it would be too hot to run outside (plus we would probably be hit by a car on the crazy roads).

After breakfast we went back to the supermarket to buy more water. It was busier today, with security guards at the carpark entrance (free parking for 2 hours, but we needed to get the ticket stamped in the supermarket). We looked at the shops in the small precinct. Lots of bright clothes, a barber shop, two book shops, a shop of spare engine parts. Plus a toy shop—which displayed white babydolls in the window. Why white? Nearly everyone here is black. Makes no sense to me.

After the supermarket we went to look at a ‘craft fair’ opposite. It was full of stalls, all selling the same thing (as far as I could see)—brightly coloured dresses and hats, fridge magnets, beads, knitted goods, carved wooden goods. It reminded me of a similar craft fair we visited in Zambia. All the stall holders encouraged us to look at their goods (even though they were identical to the stall next door) and asked us to name our price. I checked the price of their fridge magnets (in Jamaican dollars). Most were $1,000 (about £5) though some were double and some were half that price. One lady was nice—friendly but not pushy, and her price was $600, plus she had some nice wooden magnets rather than just plastic ones. I bought one, and asked for a photograph. She was called Dianna. You can look for her if you ever visit Ocho Rios—I liked her.

One stall had an open Bible on the table. I asked the man serving what he was reading. He told me it was a Bible, and he had it open to encourage good vibes. I felt like I should say something—to maybe encourage him to read it, or to ask him what he believed—but it felt inappropriate. Not the time for a deep discussion, and I thought it might appear intrusive. (I tend to react against the ‘scalp-hunting’ mentality that typified my teenaged religious experience.)

We drove home without incident. It was a fun little excursion, and I feel more comfortable now. I am used to being the only white person.

Friday

Another lovely day in Jamaica. After running in the gym, we had breakfast next to the sea. I had pancakes. The menu lists the food—so it said banana pancakes with caramalised banana and maple syprup. I have learnt that when I order food here, I need to include the whole description, otherwise half the dish is missing. (So when I ordered grilled fish and veg, I received grilled fish and veg—but not the potatoes or sauce listed in the menu), Today I forgot, and asked for pancakes. Therefore I received plain pancakes. Luckily I relised my error and snaffled a banana from the fruit plate. Nice breakfast.

As we walked back to our room I threw some leftover toast into the sea (I have watched other guests doing this). Lots of striped ffish (I think called Sargeant Major fish) scurried over (can fish scurry? These could!) to eat it. Fun.

We chatted to one of the hotel managers, who spotted that we are new guests (most people have been coming here for years, and the staff also tend to stay, so it has a family atmosphere). The hotel is relatively small (50 rooms) and there is a sense of space and privacy even when (like this week) there are no vacant rooms. It has also hosted a few famous faces (Marilyn Monroe honeymooned here).

We heard there is a deserted beach further along the coast, so drove there. Driving in Jamaica is quite an adventure—massive pot holes to avoid, while someone sits inches from your bumper (sometimes beeping) and drivers whiz towards you on the wrong side of the road. Husband is very calm in these situations, and we arrived without incident (but personally, I would never drive here). We followed Google Maps to Duncan beach, and parked on the verge of an unmade road, near to where some houses are being built. There was a pathway, towards the sea. It looked private, but we went along it anyway. At the end, a man was leaning against a tree, watching us. We asked if we were allowed there—was this the right way to the beach? He smiled, and waved us on, and said yes, we were welcome, have a great day. This typifies my interaction with people here—they have mostly all been friendly, smiley, and helpful.

The beach was narrow, with volcanic rock beneath the surface of the water—the water was turquoise, and warm, and completely clear. We walked along the beach for a while, looking for shells, finding washed-up coconuts, and saweed, and lots and lots of plastic bottles. In the sea, tiny fish darted (these were not the scurrying kind) and crabs scuttled away from us. It was very sunny, so we didn’t stay too long (I have already managed to burn one arm, which was very silly of me). We ate a picnic of digestive biscuits and water before driving back to the hotel.

As we drove, I tried to take photos, to capture a flavour of the place. This part of Jamaica (St, Anns/Ocho Rios) has some luxury resorts, and some fairly basic-looking housing. Everywhere has bright colours. Goats and dogs wander next to the road. There are a few places with heavy industry, linked to the bauxite quarrying. (Bauxite is a metallic mineral, and it’s the only source of extractable aluminium.) Bauxite is a soft red clay, and as we drove near to where it was being loaded onto ships, the road and trees were tinged with the red dust. I worry it might not be too healthy for people living nearby. I didn’t manage to capture photos of the fishing boats bobbing on the sea, or the children playing, or the animals. But you can see how green everywhere is, with lush plants filling almost every space, and trees covered with vines and air-plants.

I have enjoyed Jamaica, even though we have seen very little of it. Maybe next time we will do more touring, and try to see more of the island, but even this short week has given us a flavour of the place (and a warm flavour of rum and smiles). The service here is warm and relaxed, and you have to lean into the pace and forget the English schedules. Jamaica is a place to relax.

I hope you find time to relax too this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

I am going to miss the fruit punch!

anneethompson.com

More Jamaica Inn

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I am beginning to relax into the rhythm here. I wake about 5, and lie in bed, listening to the frogs (which are very loud—they sound like the ceiling fan is struggling to turn, a volley of squeaks—they start at sunset and continue until dawn). At 6 am an urn of Blue Mountain coffee is put out on the veranda. It’s super-strong, and kick-starts the day wonderfully. Today as I stood on the veranda, looking across the palm trees to the sea, something wafted, very quickly, overhead, then disappeared behind the branches. Pretty sure it was a ghost, pale grey, silent, floating at speed. Began to wonder what, exactly, might be in the coffee. Then the ghost reappeared, did a speedy lap of the bar and library before floating back towards the sea. A huge grey bat. It was light grey, and much bigger than the mouse-like bats we have living in our garden at home. I don’t know much about bats, or whether they bite people, so I went back to the room. (Later research found it was probably a fruit bat.)

The library, sans bat.

I persuaded Husband to come to the exercise room, and ran for half an hour. Then we had a quick dip in the pool before breakfast. We have freshly squeezed orange juice, strong coffee, and a whole selection of food. I’m trying to not eat too much fat (many meals here, so bit of a losing battle). I tend to order mint tea, porridge (called oatmeal) and fresh fruit. Then I eat bits of Husband’s Egg Benedict or pastries or toast, and steal sips of his coffee. He has started moving his food further along the table…

Breakfast room.

There are activities here, which Husband is keen to investigate and I am keen to avoid. He has already made friends with some croquet players, and today he plans to go out in a boat and snorkel. I want to stay in the room, staring at the beautiful view, reading theology books. Today, by chance, I have started to read a book by J.Richard Middleton, about the image of God or imago Dei. He begins by explaining that as a white man growing up in Jamaica, surrounded by mainly black friends and neighbours, he felt unsure about his identity, which led to his research into the imago Dei.  (Genesis describes humans being created ‘in the image of God’ and people have decided this is what defines us—and they then argue about what exactly ‘the image of God’ might be!) It feels very appropriate to be reading a book written by a Jamaican, about an aspect of creation, while being in Jamaica, surrounded by Eden-like beauty. I will let you know what he writes (unless it’s boring—some theology books are best forgotten).

While reading Mr. Middleton’s book, a waiter appeared on the veranda, delivering drinks to the room next door. He asked if we had had our complimentary drinks, and said we are entitled to a free drink every day, after 11, from the bar. I’m not sure if this is true. He then said he would collect us some—would I like a rum? Well, it would have been rude to refuse. He yelled to the man in the beach bar, telling him to bring us a complimentary rum. (Husband had an orange juice. You can make a man retire, but you can never remove the accountant within.) I drank my rum. It was strong. Feeling very fuzzy. Mr. Middleton is now not making as much sense as he did 10 minutes ago!

Tuesday

We spent the day at the hotel. It’s too perfect to want to leave.

We have to dress smartly for dinner here—men must wear long trousers and a shirt with a collar. It’s quite fun.

This evening they set up the beach area for a gala. There were drinks on the terrace then a buffet on the beach. Lanterns were strung from the trees, and a band played. I had bit of a headache, which was a shame. They let us take our food back to the room—a waiter carried a tray and set up the table on our veranda with a cloth, salt and pepper, cutlery and napkins, glasses of iced water, a basket of fresh bread—as well as the plates of food we had collected. We could see the beach, with lanterns hanging from trees, and hear the band playing. It was a shame to miss it, but where we ate was still beautiful. This is one of the things I love about this hotel—they seem to genuinely want you to have a lovely time, there are very few ‘rules’ and if you prefer to eat alone on your private veranda, well that’s fine, and they will carry your food and set your table, and do everything they can to make it special.

I hope you have something special today, wherever you are. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Jamaica Inn

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Day 6

A travelling day. Never fun. Miami airport was quite difficult to negotiate, with various steps which were not obvious. We flew with American Airlines, which involved checking-in at the airport (using a screen, but it needed a person to verify our documents so not possible to check-in ahead of schedule in the hotel). Then we had to add the labels and drop our bags ourselves, which always makes me nervous. But all was fine. The security check was as rude as most security checks in the US, with officials snapping instructions, and our stuff whisked away on the conveyor belt before we were ready, and then it arrived in a heap the other side, with no time to snatch our belongings before the rude person operating the machine dumped another lot of belongings on top—so we lost a nail (but not a finger) and nearly lost a passport, and the man next to us couldn’t find his backpack and all was confusion and stress.

To enter Jamaica we needed to complete an online form—the website was at the airport (though not advertised in advance, so was unexpected). We used our phones to complete the form while we waited for our flight, and then when we landed in Montego Bay we used the machines to scan our passports, and it photographed us and printed out a thin document, which allowed access to the country. It was very efficient.

One of the declarations on the form asked whether we had an fruit or veg. I had a packet of walnuts and almonds to snack. Did that count as fruit? I seem to remember that the outbreak of foot and mouth in the UK a few years ago was due to a lorry driver throwing away a ham sandwich. But I don’t know how anyone would know that, so possibly a myth—though the fact I had heard it made me wonder whether it was possible, and therefore whether carrying nuts—even processed ones from a supermarket—might be a problem. I decided I was too scared of security guards to not declare it, and too scared of Husband being annoyed because we would be delayed at the airport if I did declare it, so I threw them away before we left Miami. What a waste.

We arrived in Jamaica, picked up a hire car, drove to Jamaica Inn. Beautiful spot. It was like giving birth—instantly forgot the pain of travel in the wonder of being somewhere beautiful. I won’t remember it properly until I have to travel again, and then the horror of airports will come flooding back!

Day 7

I am writing this in our outside sitting area. We have never had one of these before, the hotel room is a suite, with the doors from the bedroom leading to a covered patio with sofas, dining area, fridge and lamps. The open side looks across the garden to the beach. Rather lovely. It’s currently raining. It seems to rain a lot here—warm wet showers that make the banana leaves glisten. In a few minutes it will stop, the sun will break through the clouds and the air will be warm and moist. Easy to relax in a place like this.

After breakfast on the terrace, we went to find a supermarket. Most were shut (it’s Sunday) but we found one online with a big car park, about 10 minutes from the hotel. Driving there was easy but we needed to be aware—lots of potholes in the road, fast drivers coming towards us and the car behind sitting inches from our bumper. We are the only people in Jamaica who obey the speed limits (but we’re foreign, I don’t expect they would be kind if we were caught speeding).

The supermarket was a mini adventure in itself. Supermarkets in other countries are always unfamiliar; this one had high shelves, and narrow aisles. We took a shopping trolley from outside, and searched the shelves for bottles of water and bread for lunch (because the hotel provides breakfast, tea and dinner, but we didn’t want to pay extra for lunches too). I felt very foreign, I was the only white person, and I was aware that people spoke very fast in a dialect that was hard to understand, so I walked round smiling at people but trying to look as if I knew what I was doing. At the checkout, the shop assistant told us we couldn’t take the trolley outside, there were other ones for going to the car. I went outside, found a metal trolley, started to take it into the shop, but a man stopped me, said it wasn’t allowed. I explained the situation, apologised, went back inside. The assistant told me I could not take the trolley outside. Another assistant appeared with a metal trolley, said she would push it, customers were not allowed. Now, this was difficult. In all probability, there was a system which we did not understand—but it was possibly a scam and the person pushing the trolley for us would expect to be tipped and be nasty if we refused. Difficult. Husband (who also spotted the possibility of a scam) politely refused, said we were fine, he could carry the water, our car was nearby. They looked confused (which probably indicates it wasn’t a scam) and let us carry our groceries. At the door, we were stopped by the man who wouldn’t allow me to move the trolley, and asked for our receipt. He took it, wrote something on it, handed it back. Husband checked it, we said thank you, left. I noticed as we left that the man who was behind us in the checkout also showed his receipt as he left. There was obviously a system here, which we didn’t understand. Maybe if you pack your own bag you need to show your receipt before you leave. I don’t know. We left, feeling foreign, got in the car, locked the doors—though nothing had been at all threatening, we just didn’t know the system. Drove back to the hotel without incident.

The hotel is lovely, too beautiful to describe though I’m hoping the photos give some idea. It’s not cheap—it’s Husband’s birthday treat, a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Most of the guests are English or American, and mainly white. The staff are all local, and I can’t help wondering what they think of us, a whole hotel of mostly white-skinned guests visiting their lovely island. I don’t know why I am noticing this. In SriLanka we were the only white people, and on some of our trips to India and to China. But it feels different here—I wonder if it’s because I know there was a history of slavery here, or because in the UK some of the dark-skinned people at university talk a lot about the history of slavery and systemic racism—whereas those of Chinese or Indian ethnicity do not, so I am less aware of the difference, less worried about how they view me, a white person. I don’t know.

We are right on the coast, but behind us are mountains. Everywhere is lush with plants. The coast seems to be full of resorts, with private coves and fancy hotels. The roads are less plush, and many of the buildings are either half-built or falling down (it’s sometimes hard to tell which one). There are brown dogs wandering around (not sure of the breed—maybe thin golden retrievers) and goats, and thin horses. Not sure why the horses are thin, as there’s lots of grass, maybe they are naturally lean, like the herd of cracker cows we saw in Florida which survive the heat because they are thin and muscular rather than fat. The road is lined with large billboards, often faded by the sun.

The island is very beautiful, and the people seem friendly and helpful. I will tell you more in another post. I have never stayed in such a luxurious resort, it’s such a treat.

Hope you have some treats planned too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Florida in February

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Day 3 of Road Trip

Woke about 5 am (definitely changing my internal clock now). Drank coffee, went for run about 7am, which was around dawn, so it was light enough to feel safe. We ran along the dock, with several other runners/walkers (people here don’t say hello to strangers, and most seemed to be deep in conversation with their mobile phones). Breakfast in a cafe attached to the hotel (not great). There is a conference here, so steered Husband past the rather nice breakfast put out for people wearing purple tabards.

We went shopping for shoes. Not a usual thing for us to do, but Husband’s trainers are falling to bits. We found an excellent shop, with an excellent assistant, and bought two pairs in the sales. Then we looked for a bagel shop, because I hankered for a cinnamon bagel that I could eat outside, somewhere pretty. We failed on this one, though as we wandered around the docks area we did see lots of pretty places. Returned to Fresco’s Waterfront Bistro for an early lunch. I had a fish burger (again) which was nice (would have been nicer if I actually liked fish, which I don’t much, but I am trying to not eat meat). It was a pretty place to sit, right on the water, with flags and lights and blue umbrellas to shade us from the sun.

Then we wandered to the Salvador Dali museum, which we visited in 2019 and both enjoyed. The gift shop has very attractive merchandise, which is as lovely to look at as the pictures, not that I would actually want to own any of it, but it’s fun to look at. Then we walked up the spiral stairs to the galleries and were amazed again at Dali’s skill, enjoying the colours and images, especially the paintings that had images within images. I felt that Dali enjoyed telling a story, or making a statement, or sometimes just enjoying the science of how the brain detects images. The best (in our opinion) display of 2019 had gone, which was a shame—previously there had been an audio-visual digital display explaining the paintings, helping you see what was hidden within them.

In the evening we went to a bar. We found the same bar where we sheltered in 2019 during a typhoon, and ever since I have wished we had drunk shots rather than cokes. It was raining again when we walked there, so was very reminiscent. I had an espresso martini, which was very tasty but tasted as if there was very little alcohol in it (which was fine, it still felt very grown-up to sit at a bar and sip a martini). It was ‘happy hour’ so a martini and a beer only cost $5.

Dinner was at The Ford’s Garage restaurant, which has a car suspended over the bar, and has oil rags as napkins and sauces in buckets. The food is good—fresh veg and not giant portions, which suits me. I drank still lemonade, and as I finished the waitress replenished it, which is always a nice thing and one of the things that makes US service the best in the world. Lazy evening, I watched Rebecca on Netflix while Husband planned tomorrow. He likes planning.

Day 4 of Road Trip

Woke at 2. Went back to sleep (sort of) until 5am. Made coffee. After looking at various options, and discussing different attractions we could visit, I suggested that we just drove. So we chose a route that avoided motorways and meandered through small towns, and we set off, heading down the centre of Florida.

We like driving. Husband enjoys driving the Mustang, with the roof down, on the wide straight roads that cover most of the US. I can cope with the wind and draughts by wrapping in several layers and wearing a cap to stop my hair knotting up, and I enjoy being driven, and looking. Just looking. Seeing unfamiliar things, and half-forgotten things—like the yellow school bus with it’s flashing lights, which means all the traffic, on both sides of the road must stop, while the small boy hops down and runs with his school bag across his lawn and into his house. Or the long lawns of green grass, with the houses set right at the back of the plot (so everyone can see how much land you own, whereas in the UK we put our houses at the front of the plot, and fence the back, so no one can see and it’s all very private). We drove past lakes, which would be full of alligators. And the trees hung with Spanish moss (named after the wispy beards of early Spanish settlers, not because the air-plant originated in Spain). We drove through acre after acre of orange trees, laden with fruit, with smaller younger trees wrapped in protective plastic. We passed areas of swamp, and palm trees, pine trees, scrubland. We were passed by big trucks, and giant lorries with their exhaust pipes sticking up next to the driver’s cab, and cars with outsized wheels. But mainly trucks. Lots of trucks, with a flat bed at the back, and a high cab at the front for a cowboy (but usually a woman, or a family, or a couple of teenagers).

I needed to buy swimwear (because we go to Jamaica next week, and after 20 years, the elastic in my swimwear has died, leaving me exposed in unfortunate places!) We visited a T.J. Maxx (the US version of TK Maxx in the UK) where I liked to shop when we lived here because they sell end of season stuff, so you can buy good quality things at cheaper prices. I selected a few swimming costumes to try on, but the fitting rooms were shut. They told me to buy them, and return them for a full refund. Which doesn’t work as well when you’re travelling. So I bought them (I could tell Husband was feeling anxious as I paid about $400 for a big selection of swimwear) and then I went to a different shop, tried everything on in their fitting rooms, returned most of them to T.J.Maxx. It seemed to work, and I now own a couple of nice things to wear on the beach.

We stopped for lunch at a diner Husband found online. It looked a bit seedy as we approached, but inside was magnificent. Egg City is a 50’s diner, and the turquoise and white decor was full of memorabilia— juke boxes and records and shiny lights. The washrooms were labelled eggs or sausages which made me laugh! I ate pancakes, which of course were much too much, so I took the leftovers with me in a polystyrene box.

We (Husband) decided to stop at Bok Gardens. I am not a fan of public gardens (except in Japan, where they are a work of art). Usually they are filled with plants that excite gardeners but don’t really interest me, and I much prefer the wild countryside or farmland to organised gardens. These were particularly boring, as most plants seemed to be dead (with fake ones to show what was supposed to be there!) Not my kind of thing. There was a tower, which was beautiful, and inside (we couldn’t go inside) was an instrument made of bells, which a man played. We watched a film—it looked like he was playing an organ keyboard. I suspect a campanologist would be fascinated. I was not. It was just noisy. [*Fun fact: Did you know that a campanologist is someone who studies bells? A bell ringer is called a … bell ringer! Or possibly a carillonneur if you want to be annoying.] 

We drove to Sebring, and our next motel. This one is a ‘Residence Inn’ and our ‘room’ is actually a small flat, with a kitchen area and sitting room. It’s lovely, overlooking a lake. We had dinner at Cowpoke’s Watering Hole which was on a very busy road, full of marshals for the motor-racing tomorrow, and extremely well run. They served hundreds of people, very efficiently, and the food was very nice. We sat in their straw-roofed outside area, and there was music from the 80’s, and friendly waiting staff, and the drinks and salad and garlic bread were ‘bottomless’ so they kept topping them up until we were completely full.

Went to bed but unfortunately didn’t sleep, as there is a fan, which is not operated by the thermostat, and it blew cold air over the bed all night. Very annoying, and a shame, as the room (apart from that) is perfect.

Hope your day has no annoying things. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

If you let your eyes fuzz—or view from a distance, you should be able to see Abraham Lincoln. Very clever.

Alligators and Herons on Babcock Ranch

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Day 2 of Florida Road Trip, Feb. 2025

Woke up in the Four Points by Sheraton in Punta Gorda. Waited for Husband to wake, then went for a run. It was still dark, and I worried about crocodiles and snakes and criminals. Some of the walkways were well-lit, with fairy lights wound up the palm trees (very pretty). But the main cycle path, which was attractively placed next to the water, was very dark and I was too nervous to run that way. So we had a not-great run mainly next to the main road. Arrived back at the hotel without being murdered/eaten, which I considered a success.

Breakfast in the hotel. We had a voucher, which covered everything we ordered except a $2.75 order of extra toast. I was interested that they charged us for this (Usually Husband’s  loyalty card means breakfast is included—even the toast.) Very nice hotel though, with no broken ice-machine roaring outside our door all night, so no complaints.

We packed and left. I really dislike constantly having to rummage through a suitcase when we travel, and I find I waste a lot of time looking for things. I therefore organised everything into smaller bags: A bag of everything I need at bedtime, a bag of electricals, a bag for when we go out for the day, a bag of running clothes, etc. Not everything fitted back in the suitcase, but I decided it didn’t matter if I needed to do a couple of trips to unload at the next hotel.

We set off for Babcock’s Range, East of Punta Gorda—a find in the guidebook. (We are old, we still use guidebooks.) It was a ranch in the middle of nowhere, but they advertised ‘eco-tours’ which Husband decided would be worth doing (I wasn’t so sure—we don’t usually like tours because it’s impossible to make the guide stop talking and they are usually very irritating). We arrived, drove down the long driveway, and parked. There was a gift shop (with a rude woman serving, who did not pause her phone call to serve me, but I spotted a mug and a fridge magnet that I fancied, so I bought them). There were also washrooms (always welcome after a long drive). We were directed onto a school bus, which had been painted green and had the windows and side supports removed. One of the other tourists remarked that this made the bus structurally unsound should it roll, which was not reassuring when combined with a big sign stating that under Florida law, eco-tours were not liable in the case of death or injury. We sat at the back (I don’t like being breathed on.)

The driver/tourguide was a fairly cynical ex-fireman, and I liked his style. He drove us round the ranch, pausing to show us various features, and described the natural world that we were seeing. It was actually very interesting (I am much more interested in the life-cycle of an alligator than the history of the rich ranch owner.) It’s dry season here, and we drove through swamps that had no water, looking at the stubbs of cypress trees which form sort of ‘tent pegs’ to secure the underground roots in the wet soil when the swamp is flooded. We passed marshes, with alligators sleeping while water birds walked between them. (A swamp is standing water, so dries up. A marsh is moving water, so lasts unless the stream dries up.) 

Apparently the alligators and great blue herons cohabitate areas, each allowing the other to eat their young. Most young alligators are eaten by herons, and the herons will toss a couple of chicks to the alligators because they hatch more than they can find food for. In return, the adults ignore each other. Nature is a grisly affair, even without human intervention. But we didn’t see this, we saw peaceful ponds where gators and birds slept and fished side by side. It was lovely (though we weren’t tempted to go paddling).

The ranch also has ‘cracker’ herds, which are cows introduced by the Spanish. Most cattle died due to the heat in Florida, but this herd survived. They are small and thin, and no good for beef, but they are bred today as an historical herd and sold for rodeos (where cowboys show their skills at catching cows—which is still necessary on the vast ranches). I like the idea that some cows are bred today not for beef. We also saw wild pigs, which are common in Florida, and from the bus they were cute and funny (but I understand that pigs are way more vicious than alligators if you encounter them in the wild).

We heard that humans have tried introducing crocodiles in Florida (crocodiles are salt water animals). Crocodiles live much longer than alligators and grow much larger. Alligators are not generally a threat to humans because they never grow to be big enough for humans to be easy prey—they prefer small mammals like racoons and dogs and baby pigs. But recently there have been cases of hybrid alligator/crocodiles found in the everglades, which is very worrying because a huge alligator would definitely see humans as prey—and alligators are everywhere in Florida (we even saw one in a pool at a motorway rest area). There is now a reward for anyone who hunts the hybrid species, as they hope to stop it reproducing. Which is yet another example of humans interfering and messing up the natural order of the world and then trying to put it right when they realise how it negatively impacts them. Humans seems to constantly mess things up. Frustrating.

After the eco tour (as we were still alive) we drove to Arcadia, a nearby ‘cowboy town.’ Didn’t see any cowboys, though several shops sold hats and boots and saddles. We ate in Myshelly’s Kitchen, which was clean and friendly. The menu included things like ‘Bison Burger’ and ‘Gator Bites’ and ‘Boars Head Pastrami.’

Drove to St.Petersburg. Checked into the Hilton. They insisted on valet parking, so my multiple small bags instead of a single large suitcase proved rather embarrassing as we hurried to unload everything we would need before the car was whisked away. Room was nice, and we could see the waterfront from the window. Dinner in a nearby Italian restaurant (Gratzzi Italian Grille). Another good day. Went to bed about 8pm, so gradually converting to US time. Slept well.

Hope you stay safe today. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Day 1, Florida Road Trip 2025

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I’m writing this in a happy fuzz of espresso martini treat. This is my current drink of choice, and it’s always fun to see whether the order brings a look of joy or fear in the bar tender’s eyes. Sometimes it’s a very long time in arriving and I wonder if they have gone to search the recipe on the internet! I’m thinking of doing a survey—which place in the world serves the best espresso martini? So far the winner would be the King’s Head near Rye. Today’s entry was in Punta Gorda, Florida. It was nice, but very strong. I was quite giggly by the end. When I had finished the waitress came to offer me a second one, and Husband said No! in a very definite voice. He told me I was the same colour as my shirt. (I was wearing pink.) Tasty though.

I will try to remember the rest of the day through the blur. I woke at 2 am, stayed in bed until 3am, because I have decided to adjust to US time an hour a day. Made a coffee, and read until 6am, when the business lounge opened (they serve breakfast). Very nice breakfast. I had porridge, because it’s healthy and I am reducing my cholesterol. Then had a muffin, and a cake, so it didn’t finish so well. Husband went straight to the fried stuff, so he’s worse.

First job was to collect the car (a Ford Mustang convertible—treat for Husband’s birthday). It took a long time to walk to the correct place (which was right opposite the hotel) and even longer to drive back, because we kept missing the turning and all the roads were fast and multi-carriageways. Made it while still friends.

We left the hotel and drove to Sanibel. It was cold. Husband wanted the roof down on the Mustang, which was very chilly. Stopped at a nature reserve to use the washroom and walked along a raised walkway, looking at alligators and exotic water birds, and turtles and huge fish. Very peaceful with an undercurrent of threat. Didn’t actually see anything attacking anything else, but felt it was imminent.

Sanibel was devastated by a hurricane a couple of years ago, and some parts were still broken. Our favourite cafe (The Sanibel Cafe) had reopened, so we ate lunch there. It’s very nice. I ate a fish burger. Then we drove to Sanibel Moorings, where we have stayed a few times, and it was being rebuilt, though some apartments were already open. Walked along the beach, and saw scary looking puffer fish that had washed up in the tide and were drying on the beach, their spiky backs waiting to catch bare feet. I chose a pretty shell to keep. The weather was warmer, and it was fun to have the roof down. Sanibel is so pretty. It’s a bit false (really it should be covered in sand or swamp I suspect) but full of plants and flowers rather than plastic false, so I like it.

We drove north to Punta Gorda. Husband used his initiative a few times, which makes map reading more of a challenge, but we arrived eventually, I was really tired. We had an early dinner in the hotel. (Staying at the Four Points by Sheraton, Harbourside,) Nice meal, friendly staff. After dinner we walked along the dock. Saw a boat that had been wrecked by the hurricane, lifted from the water and smashed into the dock. Didn’t see any crocodiles or mosquitoes, but I’m guessing they were there somewhere. Lurking out of sight, waiting to bite us.

Went back to the room. Nice day.
I hope you have a nice day too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

The Journey

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Usually I hate travelling abroad—the rush, stressy people, irritable security staff with too many passengers and not enough time, the stale air, grimy seats, over-crowded, germ-laden, rule-induced tension of the whole experience. But this was different. This was a treat for Husband’s big birthday. This was a splurge of years of accumulated air-miles. This was Virgin Upper Class.

Our taxi drove through barriers, up a separate ramp and swept into an empty bay. Suited men appeared to carry our luggage and we followed them to the security desk. A smiling woman dressed in red checked our documents and we were guided to a conveyor belt. No need to remove electronics or separate liquids, everything stayed in the bags while we walked through the scanner. (I always hate these, I assume it’s an x-ray with accompanying cancer risk, but there’s no way to avoid them if you travel.) Then into the main terminal, with too many people and not enough air, along crowded walkways with shiny shops and too much perfume, up a spiral staircase, into the lounge.

Aaahhh, the lounge. We sat at a table and ordered food and drink. Husband went to the washroom so I selected a newspaper and sipped coffee until he returned. Life was comfy. I ordered a grapefruit (nice and sweet, didn’t need the small pot of Demerara sugar). The Eggs Florentine  (a single muffin half, which is perfect for me, with thick salmon, a poached egg blanketed in low-cholesterol-diet-busting hollandaise sauce). I finished with a ‘croffle’ which turned out to be a croissant pastry cooked in a waffle iron—which only half worked (very tasty but a bit too chewy) topped with fruit compote and coconut yogurt. Not a bad start to the day.

After our meal we chose something to read and settled into an easy chair. I chose Vogue magazine, which I read at my 6-monthly trip to the hairdresser. It’s heavy, over-priced, and mainly full of pretty adverts for expensive items aimed at beautiful people. Good for a mindless hour. I noticed that the photos of the various famous people (I didn’t recognise many, but they were all beautiful and even the old ones didn’t look old) included a description of their clothes. This was detailed—a long list of everything they wore, including belts and shoes. (Not underwear of course, that would be weird.) I wondered why, and whether most people (that undefined group of the masses which seems to move as a unit) are actually interested in such things. I assume the editor of Vogue wouldn’t bother with the details if no-one cared. I must be in the minority. I don’t always notice what I am wearing, never mind the rest of the world. I remarked on this to Husband (who dresses even more badly than me) and we agreed that for this reason alone, we must never become famous. We must save the world from the details: ‘He wore vintage Marks & Spencers from a decade ago teamed with slightly shrunk jeans from the tumble dryer.’ (It would be unkind to suggest it wasn’t the jeans that have changed size.) ‘She wore her husband’s old shirt under her favourite green sweater, with a matching but threadbare very comfy men’s cardigan, black jeans with a muddy paw-print on one leg, and black boots with a broken zip’ As I said, best if we never become famous.

Another nice feature is the washrooms. They have small cloth towels, and hand lotion. My only criticism is the mirror wall, which completely confused me when I first entered, so I apologised, thinking I had entered an occupied washroom, and then realised I was talking to myself! It was also unnecessary, I felt. Who needs to watch themselves peeing? Maybe they need to check all their clothes are straight before someone takes their photo for Vogue. It also meant you could see the back of your head, which I always hate because I hear my mother’s voice telling me to comb the back of my hair. I am sixty, sixty! and my mother still tells me to comb my hair. Perhaps she also notices what I am wearing. I will have to ask her. She would enjoy Vogue.

After enjoying the lounge, we were invited onto the plane. Now, a plane is a plane, wherever you are sitting. It’s a metal tube with recycled air and plastic food and it smells of toilet cleaner. But they do their best. I was given a whole pod to myself, with cupboards (more mirrors—they were going to be depressing towards the end of a nine-hour flight!) Lots of plug sockets, and a bag of bedding that rolled out during take-off and disobeyed the ‘keep the footwell clear’ rule, so I had to hold it, which would be substandard if I needed to leave in a hurry. The steward came to introduce himself and gave me a tour of the mirrors, sockets, hidden table and light switches. Which kept us occupied until take-off. 

The flight is too long, but it’s easier if you’re at the front. It was possible to get up without disturbing lots of other people, and there are fewer people using the washrooms. The chair could be made completely flat for sleeping, though as it stretched forwards into the hollow of the seat in front, it felt a lot like sleeping in a coffin. Not for the claustrophobic. The food was nicer, and we could help ourselves to snacks and ice-cream between meals, which was a nice treat.

Is it worth the price tag? No. Is it a fun treat if you have enough air-miles? Absolutely.

We landed at midnight UK time, which I found very tough. The arrivals hall was slow, it took nearly an hour to get through passport control, and I find US security to be one of the rudest in the world. Occasionally you find an official who is polite, very occasionally they are friendly, but mostly they are incredibly rude. The officious young man in Miami told us to stand in front of the camera, then glanced up and said ‘Glasses!’ (I was tempted to reply yes, yes they are glasses. Or, do you mean “please remove your glasses?” But I didn’t. Wrong time to be snarky.)

We were staying at the Sheraton at the airport, which I then discovered did not mean actually at the airport, it meant a bus ride. Which meant pushing our bags along a busy pavement, and waiting for the bus. It wasn’t a long wait, but I was so tired. The day was too long. I always (unreasonably) blame Husband in these situations and feel extremely cross with him. Managed to not say anything.

Eventually arrived in our room. Very noisy broken ice machine right outside our door. Lumpy mattress.  Slept badly. Woke early. I plan to adjust my clock one hour per day. Anything more and I will have a migraine. Difficult time complete. Now to enjoy our holiday.

Thanks for reading. I will let you know how the holiday goes—we’re driving round Florida, so hoping to see alligators. Then we go to Jamaica (which I am very excited about!)

Take care.

Love, Anne x

Who Has Got Your Back?

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As part of my research, I have gone back to Genesis, exploring the text for new insight. It never ceases to surprise me how often reading a passage that I ‘know’ extremely well, offers something new. A new teaching, or way of looking at life, something helpful for life ‘beyond theology.’ (Afterall, the biblical texts would be pretty useless if they were only good for academic debate.) I’ll share my recent discovery with you.

I am looking at the story about the garden of Eden, which begins near the start of Genesis (after the narrative about the 7 days of creation). There are different ways of understanding these stories. Some people view them as historically accurate—these describe actual events about actual people. Others understand them as myths or parables—stories to explain something important, but the things in them didn’t actually happen.[1] To be honest, I’m not sure it matters really, as long as you are reading openly, listening for God to speak to you (the main fault, in my opinion, is to read them as a weapon, to ‘prove’ your own belief or show someone else that they are wrong.) Anyway, for this nugget of wisdom, it doesn’t matter what your viewpoint is. Personally, I sit in the ‘parable’ camp, but to properly understand the texts I think we have to enter the world of the story, leave behind our scientific knowledge for a moment, and try to understand what is being taught.

It helps if you can read them in Hebrew, but I’ll write this in English (just be aware that the words are not exactly as written). The story begins (Gen.2:4) with the earth being bare and barren—because, we are told, there is no human to work the ground and God hasn’t sent any rain yet. God creates the man, forming him from the dust of the earth (so he’s literally an earthling!) God plants a garden in a place called Eden and places the man there. God causes trees to grow, so the man has food. (In the middle was the tree of knowledge of good and evil—but that’s not relevant for this bit of the story.) God made rivers, to water the garden, and then we are told (again) that God put the man into the garden (and this is important) לְעָבְדָהּ וּלְשָׁמְרָֽהּ to work it and to guard it. Remember that bit—especially the ‘guarding’ bit. These were the roles given to people: to work the ground, and to guard.[2]

There is lots of speculation (academics prefer the word ‘deduction’ but really it cannot be more than educated guesses) about what, exactly, the man was guarding the garden from. Some say it has an ecological meaning—showing that humans were meant to care for the world (we’ve certainly made a mess of that!) Others say it’s evidence that there were other people, outside the garden, and the man was to guard against them.[3] God then commands the man to eat from every tree, but warns that if he eats from the tree of knowledge of good and bad, then he will die that very day.

We’re going to skip through the next bit. The man needs a companion, and God makes a woman to help him. (The word עֵזֶר helper is the same word used when God helps people—just in case you were wondering if there was a hierarchy here.) Then a snake appears (described as עָרוּם prudent/shrewd which is a clever little pun, because it’s pronounced ‘aroom’ and the people are עֲרוּמִּים  naked which is pronounced ‘aroomim’.) The people eat from the forbidden tree, they and the snake are punished and the people are banished from the garden. They still have to ‘work’ the ground, but now it’s harder. There is no mention here of guarding anything.

Then we skip ahead, to when the couple have two sons, Cain and Abel. Both sons make an offering to God, and Cain’s is rejected. I wrote an earlier blog on how this wasn’t fair.

Right, we’re nearly at the bit I want to talk about.

Cain takes his brother into a field (presumably because there were other people around—and he didn’t want to be seen). Cain kills Abel. God asks Cain, where is your brother? Cain replies (this is important): לֹא יָדַעְתִּי הֲשֹׁמֵר אָחִי אָנֹֽכִי  ‘I don’t know, am I my brother’s keeper/guard?’ We have that word again, שָׁמַר to keep or guard. Remember, the word at the beginning, when the man was told to work and guard the ground.

So, this is my understanding. People were given two tasks: to work the ground (care for nature) and to guard. At first, they had to keep/guard the garden. Then, when there were other people, they were supposed to guard each other. When Cain asked, ‘Am I my brother’s guard?’ our reply is: Yes! Yes, you are supposed to look after your brother. You are supposed to watch out for each other. That is what people are supposed to do.

This seems to me to be true today, it is how things are meant to be. When someone is having a rough time, when they have a health issue or a problem or something difficult, does anything help like having someone watch their back? It’s what parents do—they guard their children. It’s what siblings do—they support each other. It’s what friends do—they make it known that they are there, supporting, keeping, guarding. Let’s try to do this in the next week, let’s look for people who need to be ‘guarded.’ People who we can help as they cope with the muddle that is life as we know it.

Thanks for reading. I hope you have someone to watch your back.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

[1] Joseph Fitzpatrick, The Fall and the Ascent of Man (2012).

[2] Kristin M. Swenson, ‘Earth Tells the Lesson of Cain,’ in Exploring Ecological Hermeneutics, ed. Norman C. Habel (2008).

[3] Ziony Zevit, What Really Happened in the Garden of Eden? (2013).

Being Mortal: Thinking About Being Elderly

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Atul Gawande, Being Mortal (London: Profile Books, 2015)

I was lent the book by a medical friend, and after reading half I bought my own copy. It’s the sort of book you want to keep so you can refer back to it. As my PhD will finish by exploring the assisted dying  issue, I need to start learning about the issues that surround dying. This book helped to inform my own thinking, and introduced some new concepts. It also informed my thinking about ageing, and how people might want to live in the final stages of their lives. This has little to do with my studies, and a lot to do with real life. Whether we are old, or helping elderly parents, this book has practical advice and confronts some difficult issues.

Gawande is a doctor, and he spends some time explaining how in old age, it is very important to keep your feet healthy. People are not able to live independently if they cannot walk. A fall in an older person is dangerous—brittle bones break more easily, and the space inside the skull where the brain has shrunk means it gets a nasty jolt in a fall, which can cause all sorts of problems. Therefore, balance is important, and good balance relies on good feet. If someone is unable to properly care for their feet, they are likely to develop problems with balance. [Note to future self: Do some simple balance exercises every day, and keep lifting feet to where I can touch them. ‘Use it or lose it.’]

The first half of the book deals with the ageing process, and how western societies treat their old and infirm. Gawande is American, with Indian heritage, and his comparison of the two cultures was very interesting. Whilst the ‘traditional Indian’ setting of an elderly person living with the extended family, being helped through their old age by younger members sounds idyllic, Gawande is honest about the problems this can entail. Different problems to our western traditions, but still problems. He then discusses the situation in the US.

One topic he discusses are nursing homes. He doesn’t rate them very highly, and compares them to prisons! (p.73) He explains how nursing homes grew from the need in 1954 to provide hospital beds for the elderly when hospitals were too full—so their medical care was transferred to a purpose-designed home. (p.71.) They were all about medical needs, keeping the patients physically safe, and were run to be clean, efficient and safe. Then, in the 1980s, Keren Wilson tried to build a better model, and built an ‘assisted living’ community—where the aim was to allow elderly people to live independently, with the physical help that they needed. They had locks on their doors, privacy, and autonomy. If they wanted to wear pyjamas all day, or eat food that was bad for them, they could.

This led to the assisted living homes we have today, which tend to be a compromise between the two models. He makes the point that homes for the elderly advertise that they are safe and clean—not that the residents can make their own choices. This is because the homes tend to be chosen by the children, not the elderly—and children want their parents to be safe and clean. He writes that this is because ‘it’s often precisely the parents’ cantankerousness and obstinacy about the choices they make that drive children to bring them on the tour to begin with.’ (p.106) He also remarks that this is partly the fault of the parents, ‘because they disperse the decision making to their children . . . It’s sort of like, “Well you’re in charge now.”’(p.106.) [Note to future self: Don’t dump decisions on my children if I am capable of making them myself.]

He does also describe some excellent care homes, some of which introduce things like plants, or animals, or combine with a school so the residents can help the children. He discusses the motivation for living, and that in the end, being ‘safe’ is not enough. People need a role, something beyond themselves, a purpose. Otherwise it seems they disappear inside of themselves and lose the enthusiasm for life. He writes that ‘death rates can be traced to the fundamental human need for a reason to live.’ (p.123.) He discusses Maslow’s hierarchy of needs (the idea that physiological needs—food and water—are more important that safety, which is more important than love/friendship, which is more important than self-esteem, which is more important than self-actualisation.) Gawande considers that above ‘self-actualisation’ is the need for transcendence—the need to go beyond ourselves and help other living creatures. [Note to future self: Find someone/thing to care for.]

Gawande states that the problem, as he sees it, is that we have put issues of life and death with the medics—and they are not necessarily equipped for this. He describes ‘a still unresolved argument about what the function of medicine really is’. (p.187.)[This is my own view too—I think death should be left to philosophers and theologians, not medical professionals.]

Another modern problem—which affects the States more than the UK is the availability of treatments and the way that insurance works. Therefore medics no longer have to question whether a treatment is ‘worth it,’ either financially or in terms of benefit to the patient. If it’s available, and a patient wants it, then they check the insurance company will pay for it and the patient undergoes the treatment. This has a parallel in the UK with pet medical insurance. If our pets are insured, and if the vet suggests a treatment, it is very hard to step back from this, to take a holistic view and decide whether the treatment is actually in the best interests of the pet. We love our pets, we don’t want to lose them—but sometimes I think they suffer more due to invasive treatments than if we just made them comfortable and helped them to die peacefully. Gawande questions whether most of the money spent in the last months of life actually benefits anyone. He suggests this is particularly true at the very end, when patients are hooked up to expensive machines, their lives prolonged by a few days but with no ability to ‘die a good death.’ (My expression.) Unable to say goodbye, or come to terms with what is happening to them, their last moments are reduced to being a patient. He says that people who are dying have priorities other than living for an extra day or two, and ‘technological medical care has utterly failed to meet these needs’ and the financial cost is massive. (p.155.) He suggests that by putting our faith in modern medicine so completely, we have forgotten ‘how to die.’ (p.158.) [Note to future self: Decide what is important to me in the present.]

Gawande is a great believer in palliative care—help to live your final days as well as you can, rather than suffering intrusive uncomfortable treatments trying to extend life by a few more months. He discusses this in the setting of his own father’s death, which makes the discussion both personal and honest. It’s much easier to have a theory about death when it doesn’t touch you. He also lists some questions—difficult to ask ones—which enable families to help their relatives to die how they want to die. This involves asking the person what they fear most about their diagnosis, and what they want the most. (It might be to continue being able to eat, rather than to have the longest possible life!) He also suggests asking what the person would like in an emergency—do they want to have their heart restarted? Do they want aggressive treatments (such as being on a ventilator)? If the answers are known before the emergency happens, then people are able to make the right choices in a crisis situation. He talks about what the aim should be for a terminally ill person, saying it is not about ‘a good death, but a good life to the very end.’ (p. 245.) For Gawande, this means that assisted dying would be a rarity, not the norm—because so much can be done to help a person optimise their last few days, and very few conditions cannot be managed with drugs. [Note to future self: Communicate my wishes to my children, don’t make them have to guess.]

I am still unsure of my own view about assisted dying, so it’s helpful to hear what others think. I found Gawandes book to be a helpful resource, and I value his insight into the issues surrounding old age and the end of life. Now, don’t forget to take care of your feet!
Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Meg’s Diary, Life with the Cat

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11/1/2025

Trying to force Meg and the cat to be friends is not, I think, going well. The cages are now pushed next to each other, and on the positive side, they are able to both sleep in them—so for many hours there is peace. But the cat’s cage makes a corridor into the utility room, and the cat knows that when Meg goes in and out, she can reach through the bars and scratch Meg. Meg also knows this, so is very wary of walking past the cage, which results in a lot of barking and bouncing (because that is what a nervous Meg does). I blame the cat for this.

There is also chaos when the cat uses her dirt tray. I don’t know why, but as soon as the cat goes onto the tray, Meg starts to bark and bounce and bang against the cat’s cage. Maybe she doesn’t like the smell (though she emits such awful smells herself, I don’t think this can be the reason).

On the positive side, they have their bowls of food next to each other—either side of the bars—and they notice what the other is eating and don’t try to interfere. Lots of the time life is peaceful, even though they are in close proximity. The cat seems to be the boss, and is the main instigator of trouble—though as Meg is much bigger and has the potential to damage the cat, I really need them to co-exist peacefully, without a constant battle even if the cat starts it. The cat will have to be confined for another two weeks, until her snapped ligament has fully healed. Then we will see what happens. I’m not sure that anything has changed at all, and their relationship will continue to be one of Meg chasing the cat whenever she can, and the cat hissing at Meg from high vantage points. Which is exactly what it was before I started this exercise.

The woods are beautiful this week. The snow is clinging to the trees and the temperature has dipped below freezing, so it has stayed for a few days. Breathtakingly pretty. The ice means that walking is a bit dodgy, and the snow is packed hard from all the dog-walkers, and incredibly slippery. Everyone walks on the edges, where it’s less compacted, which means gradually the footpaths are widening.

The tree men are back, with their great machines of destruction, chopping down trees and churning up the mud. At least now its frozen the wheels will do less damage, but before Christmas was very wet, and they have ruined swathes of woodland by making trenches of mud and destroying the undergrowth. I hope they know what they are doing, and it’s necessary for the health of the woodland, but it looks to me like they are just blokes enjoying big machinery. Yesterday they started work in an area of mainly pines—which is where ‘my’ tree is. There is one tree (I think a beech) which has a very black trunk and a beautiful shape, and it’s very stark against all the surrounding pines. I have noticed it on my walks since 2001; twenty-four years ago when I used to walk my Labrador there. I even wrote a story about it. I do hope it survives the men and their machines.

Meg, as ever in the woods, is very good near the workers—she basically ignores them. Yesterday we needed to walk very close to where they were working, so I collected a few sticks, told her to walk on my right, and we kept our distance, throwing sticks into the woods every few minutes so Meg was on full-alert, waiting for the next one to chase. She ignored the noise of the machines, the moving lorries, the falling trees, the men shouting to each other and the whine of saws. The only thing in Meg’s world was the next stick, and when it would be thrown. (It made her appear very well-trained. But she’s not. She simply has a compulsive desire to chase sticks.)


15/1/2025

Meg has favourite places to lie now (like a proper dog!) She has discovered the radiator on the landing and will lie there for hours, soaking up the heat and waiting for me to come out of my room. She also (weirdly) likes her crate, and will sometimes put herself to bed in there. She also prefers it to the utility room, so if she starts fussing when we eat, I go to the utility room, open the door, call her. Meg stops and looks at me. She understands she is about to be shut away, and she walks, very deliberately, into her crate and sits down. It’s very funny!

Thanks for reading, and have a great week.
Take care.
Love, Anne x