COMFORT AND JOY – AMIDST THE CONFUSION OF 2019

2019, as we reach the last day, seems to have been a year of political, national and global confusion. I won’t linger on any of these aspects, which are far too gloomy. Instead I’d like to share with you some of my own highlights.

First of all: the BEST THREE BOOKS of 2019. I read every day, and managed to get through 70 books this year – a few less than in 2018, but remember that during the earlier part of the year, my eyesight wasn’t really up to ‘binge reads’.  I am almost addicted to crime novels and thrillers, so the three I have chosen will not be a surprise! I've provided links to the books on Goodreads, so that anyone interested can investigate further.

My favourite read was ‘Natural Causes’ by James Oswald.

Here is my review:

‘Some people are put off reading crime novels when an element of the supernatural is introduced – but I am not one of them. Quite the opposite, especially when the ‘dark side’ is not overwhelming but written in such a way as to be credible – which in this book is beautifully carried off. ‘Natural Causes’ is James Oswald’s first novel in a series featuring the eminently engaging Inspector Mclean, and I can’t believe I’ve taken this long to discover such an excellent author. The narrative is careful, almost casually well crafted, with the reader sliding effortlessly into Mclean’s Edinburgh-based world – a softer, and more tolerable background than that featured in Ian Rankin’s books.

I loved this book. It’s a gritty story, leaving little to the imagination, yet skillfully manipulating the reader through the worst of the crime scenes and back into Mclean’s day-to-day world, where humour and some instantly likeable colleagues make this such a compelling read.’

Next up was 'The Stranger Diaries' by Elly Griffiths.

This was an unusual and compelling read, a ‘Gothic/suspense/crime novel’ which I would not hesitate to recommend.

And finally: 'The Comforts of Home' by Susan Hill. This is the ninth in an excellent series of beautifully written crime novels by the author better known for ‘The Woman in Black’.

FAVOURITE PHOTOS taken in 2019 are far more difficult to select, and readers of this blog will be familiar with my garden photos. Therefore, I’ve chosen a couple from wonderful places we visited this year.

This view of part of the Rock of Gibraltar (taken from the other end) looking out towards Spain is one which lingers in my memory. My third trip to the Rock in September proved even more enjoyable than the others, and it's a place where I could quite happily live, were it not for the traffic which has increased beyond belief. Every Gibraltarian taxi driver complained about it! The Rock is just another example of a place where the infrastructure is not keeping up with increasing population demands. But for a peaceful and restful holiday all this can be avoided by climbing or riding to the top and walking. The views are quite breathtaking.

Closer to home, Brentor is one of my favourite places on Dartmoor - as those of you who have read 'Stopping Time' will already know. We climbed to the top in July on a glorious breezy day, totally unlike the windswept rain-drenched visit of my book.

Finally, I cannot wish you all a 'HAPPY NEW YEAR' without a flower photo to lift the gloom of December. From a warm day in May, here is one of my roses...

CALENDARS

I know I’m getting older, but… when did Advent Calendars stop being for children and morph into expensive and sometimes ridiculously extravagant self-gifts for adults? As my cousin wrote this morning: ‘What is with these hundred-pound-plus beauty advent calendars? Have we gone completely crazy?’

It's a stretch to go back to my childhood these days, but I vividly remember the excitement generated in our home by my parents handing out Advent Calendars. Each had a Christmassy picture printed on to a foolscap (sorry… A4-ish) sheet of card, with the usual little doors cut into the scene and numbered. Every day the opening of a door revealed a little picture, and I can still feel the delight, and hear the loud proclamations from my younger brother that his was the best. Sometimes the numbers were hard to find, hidden in the detail of the Calendar. The pictures were very simple: robins, holly, lights, a church… but the best was always the last on Christmas Eve: a Nativity scene hidden behind a larger, or perhaps even double doors.

At some point Advent Calendars became more complicated and chocolates replaced the pictures hidden behind the doors. I suppose this heralded their transformation into adulthood. I’m not yearning for the past, but my nostalgia for a simpler, less self-indulgent lifestyle can’t be swept away by today’s richer offerings.

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A year ago, as I was recovering from my first cataract operation, choosing and sending Christmas cards and gifts was a struggle. This year sees a new ‘normal’ and I threw myself into the task with renewed enthusiasm. And this year everyone in the family is getting a personalised calendar! I started with a ‘Family History’ version for M, which led to a ‘Cars and Old Family Photos’ one for my brother. I sorted through hundreds of old photos to arrive at suitable choices for each month of the year 2020. I spent several days wading through childhood scenes, prompting memories and even dreams of our childhood, before reaching December. Even my computer seems to have been taken with the idea, for some inexplicable reason seizing upon this old photo of C, (which incidentally my transfer from a slide has mirror-imaged) and making it the start-up photo when I log into Windows!

The rest of the family will receive smaller calendars with ‘Garden Scenes’ taken from my huge collection, some of which are visible on my website (here: https://www.prfordauthor.com/gallery). Once these were complete and saved to a ‘basket’, the printing company was keen for me to purchase a variety of other gifts, all sporting my photos. Soon, little magnet calendars, cards and a mouse mat were also in the ‘basket’. I’m a sucker for this kind of thing, and was easily drawn into such temptation! However, the results have been well worth the effort, and I can only hope that the members of my family will appreciate their calendars as much as I have enjoyed making them.

Roll on the next round of tasks: the Christmas cards. Oh, and I almost forgot to tell you: I'm also knitting everyone a scarf... 

STAMMERING

Listening to the author David Mitchell on the radio this morning, I pricked up my ears when he began to describe his ‘speech defect’. I would never have known that this articulate man, from whom words poured so easily, has a stammer. He described some of the problems he suffered at school: dreading being asked a question in class, or to read aloud. Even the social situation of being asked whether he would like tea or coffee became a challenge, because coffee was his preference, but tea was easier to say without stammering.

At school the smallest difference becomes a focal point for other children to seize upon. Not only did I have red hair and an unusual name, but I wore glasses from the age of five. Easily identified, not only was I the butt of jokes, but was forever being singled out by teachers. I was lucky, because I could answer their questions easily, and I didn’t mind reading aloud. Heaven help me though, if I was caught doing something wrong. Sometimes I felt guilty, even when I wasn’t!

The character Daniel Kettlewell stepped into my latest book ‘Stopping Time’ quite unexpectedly. I’ve worked with stammerers in the past, and the memory of one particular man – who had risen to a senior position despite a very bad stammer indeed - gave me the confidence to include such a person in the book. Not that I had much choice - my characters tend to insist on their inclusion, haunting my thoughts until I begin to define them.

Daniel is definitely one of my favourite characters. He doesn’t play a leading role, but he’s a solid, reliable young man, whose stammer has given him patience and understanding.

‘Helen recognised him at once as Daniel, another accountant she’d come across when attending work-related seminars. He spoke with a bad stammer, but they sometimes conversed over coffee, as fellow social misfits.’

It was important too for Daniel’s interaction with other characters to be as true to life as possible.

‘Julia considered how difficult it might be for him to describe what had occurred. ‘No,’ she corrected herself, feeling a little guilty at the thought, ‘it’s no problem for him - just so painful to listen to.’ '

Stammering is one of those afflictions which tend to be most noticeable - and most keenly felt - in childhood. There are methods of relaxing to ease the frequency of the stammer, and I believe singing can be of benefit. If you are affected by a speech defect, or know someone who is struggling, there is a good deal of useful information on the internet as well as this link to an article by David Mitchell, to whom I referred at the beginning of my blog: https://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/magazine/david-mitchell-stammering-kings-speech

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Here we are in November already, with a waterlogged lawn that needs a final mow, the central heating turned on and an election looming. Gloomy stuff indeed, but on the odd sunny day the air is fresh and the smell of wood smoke nostalgic. And I almost forgot to mention the trees... not quite as good as last year, so my photo is of a glorious scene along the road into Okehampton a year ago.

LOSING FRIENDSHIP

For some time now my blog posts have been intermittent and peppered with more photos than words. Two eye (cataract) operations have been responsible for this, and whilst I have emerged from those procedures with exciting new vision, the delay between them (seven months) and something intangible has caused a permanent severe dry eye condition. This is manageable, but it results in blurring and watering of my right eye which are exacerbated by too much time spent on my computer. Hence a drop in all forms of writing! But now it’s time to try and remedy the blog situation, and I begin with writing about a subject which has been hovering on my mind for some time: friendship.

Friendships are formed throughout our lives, beginning in early childhood. They can blossom out of random events and pure chance.From sitting next to a fellow pupil in school to participating in mutually enjoyed games and hobbies, they begin easily for children – and can end equally quickly when loyalties are tested or distances imposed. As we mature, at some point we become more discriminatory about friends. We recognise qualities in ourselves which we enjoy finding in others – and sometimes turn our backs on possible friendships with those who we unconsciously deem to be outside that perception. Perhaps, in so doing, we lose out – but such decisions can be life-changing.

So, at what point does a friendship cease to exist? Distance is no longer the impediment it used to be, thanks to the internet and new, easy methods of communication. These have assisted in the creation of thousands of new friendships worldwide which would not have been remotely possible even thirty years ago. I have several really good friends who I have never physically met, and the same can probably be said for many of you reading this. No, I’m talking about the point where you start to realise that the relationship can no longer be called ‘friendship’. The moment when you think: ‘Why am I pursuing this? What do I – any longer - have in common with this person?’ The time you decide to call it a day, because people have changed.

I hesitate to introduce a personal illustration here, but I feel I must. So here it is, and the reason I can describe it in this blog is because the ‘friend’ will never read it, and this saddens me because she has been a staunch supporter of my writing throughout the production of my books. This person, let’s call her Sheila, has been in my life since 1974 – which is a really long time for a friendship to last. We met when both of us were studying to become Chartered Accountants, at a ‘crammer’ type institution in North Wales. I would need to write another book about Sheila and her misadventures, for you to gain some insight into her character, but we were drawn together by circumstances and chance, and a fondness grew between us which time failed to quench. Godchildren were born and shared, and both fate and careers took us in different directions and locations.

So, what happened, you may ask? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s more a case of what didn’t happen. We were never alike, and our lives took very different paths. Ten years ago, she celebrated a landmark birthday with a large party which I and my husband and son (her godson) were ‘commanded’ to attend. Such things are logistically difficult when a distance of one hundred and fifty miles of awful roads intervenes, but we managed it despite the cost, staying overnight in a Travelodge. Was it worth it? Not really. We didn’t know the majority of the guests, and we felt like outsiders. It was lovely to see her children after a long gap in their lives, and to meet young grandchildren. Sheila herself seemed in a daze, and where before she and I would have jumped straight into old and familiar conversations, our exchanges were stilted; so much history between us seemed to have died.

Ten years later, and another party invitation was issued last month. I mulled it over. During that time we had seen Sheila once, and she virtually ignored my husband for the duration of the visit. This did not go down well at all, and he declared his complete unwillingness to see her again. Ever. Should I go alone, brave the journey and turn up for old times’ sake, one eye watering from its dry condition rather than tears of emotional reunion? Would she even recognise me this time? NO. (Bizarrely, when I typed the word just now, it capitalised itself.) This friendship hasn’t died, so much as lapsed from lack of use. It’s still there, waiting to be used for Christmas cards. Instead of going I sent a small silver brooch as a birthday present signifying the connection between us of times shared.

A true friend, my husband assures me, is someone in whom you can confide, trust, share laughter and – at times – sorrow. You feel sadness when you say goodbye, and joy at reunion. When these qualities have gone, disappeared over time and change, what is left? Perhaps only memories, but if they are happy ones of smiles and laughter, giggling over stupid and long-forgotten fun, then life has been enriched...

RAIN IN OUR GARDEN

Some much needed rain began yesterday and this morning many plants, flowers and our tail-less blackbird appeared to be drenched! I love the deep, bright colours which emerge in such conditions, and whilst my camera cannot always record them faithfully I hope my pictures will also reflect the sense of peace and tranquility in our garden today.

This is simply a micro-garden-update! Enjoy your day, wherever you are and whether it's raining or not...

SECOND SIGHT

Doorway at Buckland Abbey

More than two weeks have passed since my second cataract operation, and each day brings new surprises as I move – quite literally - into the second sight of my life. Did I mention having to wear glasses since the age of five? Well this is no longer the case. Thanks to living in the 21st Century I feel overwhelmingly privileged to have undergone these two life-changing operations. Admittedly I have experienced a few more problems with the second eye, one of which is a ‘floater’ which drifts across my vision like an annoying fly or – as so well described by a cousin, a tea leaf! There is more blurring too, but beyond lies my perfect sight, revealing everything in a panorama of gloriously sharp colour which can be quite overwhelming at times.

I couldn’t wait to get back to my camera, but I was forced to admit that I needed to adapt to new circumstances, one of which is that I no longer see through the lens in the same way! This adaptation applies to many other tasks, and I now read with a pair of £4.99 magnifying specs instead of my hideously expensive varifocal glasses. This is my first piece of writing on the computer, and I’m still getting used to a different way of sitting in front of the screen without leaning forward and peering at it.

Here then are some glimpses from my ‘new’ eyes. As my friend told me: ‘slowly, slowly,’ and I’ll heed her advice and keep this article short. All for now!

Wisteria at Buckland Abbey

First Poppy

Dartmoor near Okehampton, Devon

HONESTY

We seem to be surrounded by an atmosphere of distrust here in Britain at the moment, with the media screaming out headlines such as: ‘Lies… Dishonesty… Deceit… Duplicity!’

In complete contrast, I can walk out into the garden and my eye is immediately caught by the bright purple clumps of Honesty flowering for the first time since I sowed the seeds last year. Their pure simplicity is enough to cheer up anyone.

April in the garden is a month of hope, as green shoots start to appear. In the greenhouse even the Dahlias have begun to push their way out of what resembled complete lifelessness a few weeks ago. It’s a bit touch and go, mind you, as some still look dead, so I will wait for at least another month before condemning them to the compost heap.

The Pulsatillas in my galvanised wash tub have blossomed into their best year yet, seemingly egged on by the adjacent Windflowers and dwarf Phlox.

Tulips abound, and I dread a week – or even a few days – of strong cold winds, as they will be wrecked.

News on the eye front: I have a date – at last – for my second cataract operation, in early May. ‘Hurrah!’ I shouted to an empty house when I opened the letter from the hospital. I can’t wait, and it’s not often that one’s anticipation of surgery is so optimistic.

The most bizarre feature about May is the coincidence of my birthday falling on the date of the European elections. Not a day goes by without the date being mentioned at some point in the News, and every time I start in recognition. Never before has my birthday seemed so important!

And on this happy note, I leave you with a picture of our first Azalea to flower this year, an exotic burst of colour to brighten the darkest of days. Honesty is one of my life's philosophies. It has caught me out from time to time, in its difficulty, but has never let me down - in the end. Enjoy the flowers - there is no dishonesty in such simple pleasure.

VAGUELY MARCH

I am struggling with my 'in between cataract operations eyes' this month, hence the delay in writing my regular report about the garden. Imagine, if you can, waking up to find one eye smeared with Vaseline - which you cannot remove. Every day is like this at the moment. As I've mentioned before - and I apologise for so many reiterations, it's more than tedious - and very, very tiring. Enough said, and on to the garden...

My greenhouse is an ongoing source of joy. Today held a surprise: one of my new 'Angelique' tulips has become the first to bloom - and it's stunning! A double flower with creamy outer petals, the centre is rose-like, but the claim to be fragrant has not yet found its way to my nose. Perhaps this will come later?

For some unknown reason, wherever I live and however many I plant, my daffodils flower late. But when they bloom they are a riot of dancing colour, and I must show you two which caught my eye this afternoon. The first is a dwarf daffodil, a perfect miniature of its larger cousins. The other a double which I planted under our fir tree and forgot about - until now.

March birthdays are like a rash in our family. Last weekend we were invited over to our son's house where he and his partner went to a lot of trouble to entertain us royally with a wonderful lunch followed by tea and home-made sponge. We were celebrating M's birthday - he doesn't really want a fuss made, but we all insist - and since he's also undergone a minor operation this week, we felt a little indulgence to be appropriate. Little details such as the cake decorations, chocolates with our coffee and mini marshmallows sprinkled on the gorgeous dessert - are small gem-like memories to treasure.


I've acquired a slide scanner, and my brother heaped upon me two boxes full of old family slides dating back to the 1960s and beyond. I felt quite daunted by the thought of even attempting to operate the machine with my distorted vision, but it turned out to be easy to use and the results are engrossing. The forgotten country of the past suddenly finds its way onto my computer screen in bright colours, and it's mesmerising! So I leave you with a photo of my late uncle's garden. All of my father's family were passionate gardeners, and he took enormous pride in creating this one when he lived just outside Oxford. I love the curving edges to the borders and the neatly mown lawn. The photo was taken in August, 1978 on a beautiful Summer's day. And with Spring most definitely with us now, we can look forward - I hope - to just such a Summer.

RADIANT

There are days when not even the brightest of February sunlight or the prettiest of daffodils can lift the spirits. Distraction can be one solution to the brain’s chemical whims, and I experienced just such an event at the hairdresser’s yesterday.

Two or three of us sat on comfortable black chairs in front of mirrors, idly watching our hair being teased into submission by talented, long-suffering young women. Mine was being cut, and I was trying to avoid my fuzzy, unflattering reflection whilst listening to Linda chattering, when the door opened and in swept an angel.

She isn’t an angel, of course, but in that moment she might have been. Kerry, on her day off, couldn’t wait to share with her place of work the wonderful news of her engagement and how it came about over the weekend. As she stood with her back to the shop window, her face and hair – indeed everything about her – glowed with happiness. Who could not have responded to that widest of smiles, the flashing of little diamonds on her outstretched finger and the radiance of her mood? It was contagious. All of us shared the grins and the laughter which ensued.

Today, as I sort through photos of roses, I’m reminded of the joy of sensory things. This rose, 'Spirit of Freedom' is one I grew in my old garden in Mid-Devon. The fragrance was beautifully sweet and the shape of the flowers with their tightly-packed petals is - for a day or so - perfect.

A slightly paler pink is tinting our view of the garden this week as the ornamental Japanese Cherry gently glides into flower. It's been hinting at doing so for a couple of weeks, but today the show begins and I must share a couple of photos. I couldn't resist adding some 'blurring' to one photo, to highlight my own experience of it this year through these muddled eyes. In many ways the sight is quite interesting, although I hope by next year to have regained focus to both eyes... We'll see (quite literally... sorry!).

If you are afflicted by depression or simply feeling a little low, I recommend calling in at your local hairdresser's - you'll always find something to smile about.

I wish you a happy day, wherever you are, and especially all at Rachel's of Tavistock! (Names of the girls have been changed...)

NOT THE END OF THE STORY

The sunsetting of the platform Google+ where I have spent the last few years making many friends and contacts from around the world, is now imminent. Every day has brought little moments of joy viewing a myriad of beautiful photographs and reading posts both serious, humorous and sometimes sad. Strong friendships have blossomed, and will I hope continue but less easily than before. Life moves on, of course, but not without regret.

Turning to my own half-focussed vision, I have been slow to update you on the progress towards my second cataract operation because of a disappointing delay in obtaining a date.

A visit to the ophthalmologist at the hospital was both uplifting and depressing. This kind young man expressed a total understanding of my dilemma - one now-perfect eye, one distinctly poor short-sighted astignatic eye (did you spot the oxymoron there?) and brain overload! His appreciation of my slowed day-to-day skills was like a soothing balm. He then explained that an eighteen-week waiting list would be more difficult for me than others, but was the standard delay for a second cataract operation. It is assumed, wrongly in my case, that the first operation has made life so wonderful that there is no rush for the next. Well, life is always wonderful, but eighteen weeks, followed by another six-week recovery period, is a little daunting.

"Don't book your holiday," he told me, and "please don't drive!" I obey, glumly.

Snow has arrived in the garden, and all over Devon. Here, right under the corner of Dartmoor, we have been given a little protection from the worst snowfalls. It's achingly cold though, and harder to do things - especially in the garden. So instead I've been doing the things I can - a bizarre and short list: knitting, reading (large text), cooking and listening to the radio are immensely comforting asides to the undramatic slow pattern of my day-to-day run-of-the-mill chores. Reading the posts on Google+ will soon no longer be on that list. A new chapter opens, a new month begins and we all move closer to Spring.

ASTIGMATIC OBSERVATIONS: A RARE MOON

I was awake at 'stupid o'clock' this morning, snatched the camera and snapped away on various settings. They are by no means perfect, but here is a selection of my results. I was SO lucky to see it at all! The conditions were almost perfect: clear, cold skies; brilliant stars and hanging - strangely at odds with its companions, - this extraordinary rust-coloured globe.

I photographed what I could see for about one hour, and the last one was taken through the closed window as I was feeling the chill, hence the 'echo' effect. The sky was also beginning to mist over with streaks of cloud.

If you didn't manage to see this marvellous event, I hope you will enjoy my brief glimpses.

PASSING BRENTOR IN JANUARY

We took a different route to visit my brother earlier in the week, and it's one I love because it passes Brentor. Even in January the little church perched on the tor looks solid and reassuring, especially through the skeletal patterns created by the bare and lovely trees below. Brentor plays a cameo part in my writing, on a much more inclement day than this, and here is a little teaser: 

‘Earlier she had pulled up the hood of her coat, but rain was now dripping down off it on to her face and when she looked at Titus he was soaked, his hair plastered on to his scalp and his eyes screwed up against the newly-awakened wind. The fog was beginning to clear, but sheets of rain were creating a similar obscurity.

The mound of grass and granite rose up quite steeply, the walls of the church high above and beyond them disappearing into the grey mist. Without speaking they concentrated on their footsteps, walking and occasionally scrambling their way up the climbing path which wound around and back on itself. Eventually they stepped through an iron gateway into the churchyard area which surrounded the building. They staggered across to the church door, which was where fate held another little trick in store for them: the huge old wooden door, built to withstand centuries of exposure to the elements, was locked.’ Extract from ‘Stopping Time’ by P R Ford ©2018

The photo above shows a darker view from last March, as we returned from Okehampton in late afternoon. The church is recognisable from miles away.

Finally, a view of the moor beyond Brentor looking East. The glimpse of blue sky did not last, unfortunately, and our return journey saw a far gloomier Dartmoor. Wherever you are, enjoy your day!

A CHANGE FROM GREY

My garden in January changes from day to day. There are almost monochrome mornings, blanketed in gloom, and then there are brief bursts of low sun which change everything. Here are some glimpses of colour to brighten your day:

   

The succulents are overwintering in the greenhouse, as are the gorgeous multicoloured pelargonium and the little viola. Outside the 'mop' heads of hydrangeas have dried to crisp Winter displays, still holding their own against the weather. I will cut them down once Spring arrives and the new shoots are safe from frost.

The sight of primroses is always heartwarming, and these have suddenly appeared - I'd forgotten they were tucked into this corner by the steps. 

  

My Hebe is still flowering despite some very cold nights, and its pretty pink colour shines out from the faded green leaves. The few roses I did not dead-head have rewarded both me and the birds with fat, juicy hips which glow in the sunlight. Finally, a surprise in the hanging baskets which I planted up very quickly in the Autumn for some colour - these plants are still flowering!

On the Home Front, I'm waiting for an examination of my 'new' eye this week, when I hope to hear how much longer I will have to wait for the second cataract operation. Meanwhile, I muddle on! I hope the photos will bring you some pleasure.