New arrivals

Meet Jack.

No, this photo isn't upside down; he was hiding behind a chair, and I was hanging over the back of it trying to take a picture without alarming him further. The accursed Blogger won't allow me to post the rotated version. Hang upside down yourselves to see how cute he is.

He was inspected by the others, and found sadly wanting. Rude things were growled and spat at him. Jack then fled to a little gap behind the television where he stayed until a friend brought a cage round, in which he is now safely tucked up until he gets used to a new environment where snooty cats come to stare and to hiss rudely at him.

He used to live with Millie's sister, and she was so nice to him - Millie hasn't been at all nice so far.

Shortly after he arrived, this large box was delivered.

The Box Inspector stopped hissing at Jack and came to do her favourite job.

Inspection was thorough.

The Assistant Inspector was called.

The Plastic Webbing Tester did his bit too.

The fascinating thing about plastic webbing is that when you apply the Bite and Scratch test...

...the other end moves! Plastic Webbing Testers love this part of their job, watching their webbing wriggle as if it had a life of its own.

I had unpacked the box, laid its contents out in an orderly fashion, and (being female) had read the instructions. I was now ready to assemble the Monstrosity. The Box Inspector was moved to offer assistance.

Between us, it didn't take long to put the Monstrosity together.

The Box Inspector made herself useful yet again. 

The Assistant Inspector came too. She's always very interested in acquiring new skills, and enjoyed the platform testing. Her lovely ocelot tummy was on display.

Scooter preferred to stay on the lower deck. He's not confident with heights yet, but he made a good job of inspecting the sisal rope on the scratching posts.

The top platform offered a wonderful view of a small ginger cat hiding behind the television. The Box Inspector sent the sort of looks that could kill, until she got bored with the lack of response. That ginger kitten seems to be a softie, won't put up any sort of a fight. 

The Inspectors were satisfied. If they could write, they would have filled in the paperwork, but as they couldn't, they scratched their initials in one of the posts. Passed. 

They may or may not visit the Monstrosity again some time. They're not sure. They're cats - why would they remain interested in such a thing for more than a day? The Monstrosity might be another One Day Wonder. Perhaps it could be used to stand mugs of tea on. Or maybe have some fairy lights round it over Christmas?

Meantime, secure in his basket-in-a-cage, little Jack (who only had his boy-operation three days ago) is wondering if he's going to fit in with such a tough, confident, work-oriented bunch. They look as they have never been small and scared in their lives...

I told you he could be coarse

The Lovely Son sent me this:

'Mad. Lady. Wee. Cat. Of. Smells. Rearrange to make a well known saying or phrase.'

Comings and goings

It's been a busy year, so far as cat-collecting goes.

To recap.... in December 2008, almost a year ago to this day, I adopted Lottie from the animal charity that had been caring for her and devotedly feeding her up for a month. All I had to go on was this photo taken by the foster carer, but I knew as soon as she was carried in, still painfully, pitifully thin, and desperately over-friendly, that I was going to love her. She became lively and playful, and it became clear that dear ancient Kevin, who had been so lonely after losing his companions one by one over the years, wasn't going to be the companion that she needed - another young cat might be right for her. The same fostercarer had a houseful of kittens, and two months later, Millie arrived.

Lottie was outraged for a few days, employing the Death Stare to no avail, but suddenly found herself unable to resist becoming Millie's substitute mother and professional washer. Millie was, and remains, greatly attached to her. Kevin was old and doddery, but he enjoyed having the two youngsters around, and stopped being so clingy and anxious with me.

Later, after Kevin had died, Scooter made his way into the family through the false door cunningly marked Fostercare, and attached himself devotedly, if unreciprocatedly, to Millie. Scooter is now about 6 months old, and tomorrow he will have a new potential playmate, who arrives at 11 a.m.

I'm told that the little newcomer still spends a lot of time by choice in his cage. I can't imagine that he'll continue to do that for long with this bouncy, curious, adventurous crew! If they don't terrorise him, eat him alive, or frighten him up the chimney, he'll be persuaded out of that cage within a day or two by the allure of continuous, rumbustious fun, galloping up and down stairs, careering over the furniture (the climbing frame hasn't arrived yet!), wrestling, discovering a plethora of toys and by the sheer determination of three young cats to live life to the full. I'm bracing myself now.

Excitable, me?

Noooooooo...... I'm not the slightest bit tremulous and impatient about the arrival of another small timid cat later this week (exact date not yet known). I bought the monstrosity pictured above, and another radiator cradle, quite calmly and collectedly, simply to save the furniture from further wreckage, not primarily to increase the thrills and spills that take place on a daily basis round my home and are much more entertaining than telly.

And all those little treats that are being stockpiled? The fancy little tins of sardine and mackerel for cats, the packets of catnip drops, the crunchy snacks with strange cheesy fillings? Just good housekeeping measures, that's all. The camera batteries fully charged? Just sensible. I'm not becoming overwrought in the least at the prospect of another little chap, ginger this time, with white socks and bib, joining the team. I'm not worrying one jot about how the girls will react, or if Scooter will hate him. Or if - awful thought planted by the Lovely Son, who can be coarse - there will be territorial behaviour of the urine-spraying kind.

No, no; in fact, I'm hardly thinking about it at all.

I just wish he was here now. Right NOW.

Never go to bed grumpy....

What a sourpuss I sounded in that last post! And what a sourpuss I was - kept awake again last night by carousing students over the back lane. So, to remind myself that there are nicer things around in my very small life, here are a few recent examples:

1. A little poppy in the front garden, resolutely ignoring the fact that it's December.

2. Lottie staking her claim to the empty basket intended for my knitting. She's a bit excited about it too - you can tell by her pink nose, which is usually very pale.

3. Millie delighted with her find in the back lane, a pop-up laundry bin thrown out by a neighbour. She sat in it for a long time, thinking serious thoughts. I think.

4. A successful eBay bid tonight for some Rowan yarn in a very pretty pink and at an amazing price - £18.50 for 500g! Way under half the RRP! The Demon Bidder strikes again. A strange talent, this; hope my knitting improves to match.

5. And a delicious tip for buttercream icing - make as usual (butter, icing sugar, beat beat beat, adding a good splash of the remaining wonderful elderflower cordial your friend gave you in early summer. Beat beat beat. Sample at intervals. Makes for a much more grown-up taste when topping almond cupcakes.

That's better. I can go to bed feeling less vinegary.

Supermarkets and Sunday parenting

It was hell out there today in the temples of Sunday shopping. It was Dad's turn to do the shopping, and to have the children with him to help. As a rule, I really, really like small children and greatly enjoy their company. They're funny, interesting, versatile, endearing, and they love noise, and larking about, and the use of funny voices. They can be great fun to go out with, and if kept interested, can co-operate reasonably well with the peculiar expectations of adults. They can even do supermarket shopping if this is kept brisk and organised, with a promise of sweets and we'll-be-out-in-a-few-minutes.

But today I found myself becoming horribly child-intolerant, coming out of Sainsbury's muttering to myself about the urgent need to ban children from such stores on Sundays, or at least when in the sole charge of their fathers. The combination of father, children and trolleys is the stuff of which nightmares are made, and today there were hordes of such combined mother-free groups. The dads were out in force, and they didn't appear used to it.

These hapless men, peering at lists and bumbling about unable to steer their trolleys because of all their bawling, shrieking, squealing, demanding offspring hanging off them, seemed to have no control at all as their toddlers - Eddie, Reuben, George or Cassandra - veered off to another aisle to stop dead in the path of an oncoming trolley or to pull all the cards off the displays. They just shouted after them, at top volume: "Eddie! Eddie! ED! Not that way! This way! Eddie! No!' and the toddler paid no attention. At all. As is the way of toddlers on a mission. Every adult within earshot paid attention all right.

Then, several minutes too late, the dads would abandon their trolleys to go toddler-hunting, giving the remaining children a chance to fill it with more exciting (sugary) stuff that wasn't on the list, or to escape, screaming shrilly, to the aisle with the toys. Then the dads shouted for those children too, while the toddler threw a tantrum. Once all loosely gathered up, there followed some scolding, hugely ineffective, in what I think of as that unconvincing 'public parenting' voice, intended more for the general audience than for the child itself. The children fidgeted, plotting their next bid for freedom, which they took within moments. Sweets, daddy! Cars! Cola! Harry Potter DVDS! Let's go! Daddy began to look sweaty and anxious; the unaccomplished list was growing damp and the toddler could wriggle like an octopus; this was becoming stressful.

Women with their own trolleys smiled sympathetically at first, perhaps even murmured something about "You've got your hands full!", helpfully retrieving a pilfering tot or preventing the collapse of a wobbling stack of musical reindeer, but the noisy, shambling caravan of chaos, with its list-reciting, name-shouting, child-squabbling, haranguing soundtrack set to Extra Loud, lumbered remorselessly round every unfamiliar aisle. It went back and forth, round and round, a Spaghetti Junction of repeatedly-missed signs and unnoticed produce displays, to search for the eggs, or the bran flakes, and where would the baby wipes be? and the same trolleys met again and again.

Gradually the women shoppers grew tight-lipped and steely-eyed; the father-accompanied children grew wilder as they evaded dad again and managed to reach the soft drinks aisle undetected. Large, heavy bottles of carbonated drinks were hauled about and dropped, fizzing up ominously as they rolled. Strong women clenched their jaws and gave up their methodical tour to hasten to the checkouts; two little girls who had been on their best behaviour beside their mother were spoken to unnecessarily sternly, clearly on the receiving end of frayed nerves and vicarious scolding. They drooped, their thoughts of "Not fair!" showing on their obedient faces.

I escaped too, feeling unusually frazzled, and hoped that the absent mothers who had given themselves a break from shopping, children, and earnest-but-clueless partner, were making the most of their hour of freedom and peace. Maybe, blissfully unaware of the impact of their loved ones on the mental health of other shoppers, they were having a peaceful little lie down in a darkened room; I know I needed to do that too this Sunday morning.

A bloody tale

An unusual start to my day this morning. Lying in bed idly thinking about getting up, noticing that the cats' trampolining routine was rather energetic today, and that it probably meant I'd overslept, I heard the doorbell ring. Up and out of bed in a flash - could be a parcel! Years of boarding school have left me with an over-excited response to parcels, even if I know that they are just the things I'd ordered from Amazon for someone else's birthday.

But no, it wasn't the grumpy postman, arch-enemy of the dog, irritated because he had a parcel too large to shred by forcing through the letterbox with all his might. It was Professor Tim (good Samaritan neighbour from the alarm incident), looking grey and strained, clutching a large wad of bloody and dripping tissues that were barely coping with his deeply-cut finger.

I brought him in and sat him down in the kitchen, ordering him not to bleed all over the Christmas presents on the table waiting to be wrapped. Obediently, he sat and bled onto the floor instead. The story of the injury emerged in episodes, mingling with how he would miss his 9.30 train to Leeds, the lunch appointment, the conference, all because of his habit of washing up the breakfast dishes and last night's wine glasses before leaving the house. He had broken a glass in the sink and almost sliced off the tip of his finger. I could have told him that household tidiness doesn't pay.

I had a look - not squeamish, me, so long as it doesn't involve toenails - and saw that some of of his finger tip was a nasty shade of white, and that the bleeding showed little sign of easing off. My well-honed mother-of-a-boy skills at making butterfly stitches and applying a tubigauze finger bandage wouldn't do for this, I thought. We would have to go to the nearest walk-in centre where stitches might be administered. I was ready in moments - Nursie to the rescue! Hair half-brushed, teeth ditto, but properly dressed and in matching shoes.

The dog, unable to hold on any longer waiting for me to remember that she hadn't had her first-thing visit outside, made a puddle on the floor, and hid in shame. The cats agitated for their breakfast; no shame there. I forgot to lock the back door. Tim went home to collect his coat, I passed the dog and breakfast duties on to Sandra, best neighbour in the world, and off we went, bloody but unbowed, drip-drip-dripping into the car.

To cheer Tim up en route, I told him gruesome stories of other hand injuries, of Sir Ranulph Fiennes cutting off his own frostbitten fingers in the garden shed (on purpose!) - well, you do, don't you; they just fall out of your mouth, these awful tales, and you can't seem to stop yourself - and Tim actually joined in, telling me blood-soaked childhood tales of garden forks through feet, and dramatic scalpings, and then suddenly we were in the walk-in centre.

How full it was! How sick everybody looked! All except the young boys, who all seemed fit and well, alternately bored and excited. There were terrifying leaflets and posters everywhere. Posters about flu, about chlamydia, about measles, about washing your hands. I could feel myself beginning to sink under the weight of all those well-publicised microbes, viruses and hidden dirt. The need for a cup of tea became intense.

Tim was called after 15 minutes, during which time we chatted, he apologetically, me thinking it was a pleasant opportunity to catch up with him and hear scandalous stories of university politics, vile betrayals and back-stabbings. Just like Westminster, then. The fit young boys were called, and invariably emerged with one arm in a sling, and a triumphant expression of "No games for a week!" on their faces.

Tim emerged within a few minutes with a proper dressing, but sadly, no sling. He wasn't done, but had to wait till the doctor arrived. We waited for a long time, his finger gently seeping into his new dressing. He was called again, then - somewhat to my surprise - so was I. Did they think I was his mum? His hair is greyer than mine! Was I going to be told to take him home and make sure he didn't play with glass any more? I could do that; we mothers are always pleased to be backed up by medics in telling foolhardy children or mild-mannered professors to stop doing something dangerous.

No; he had to go to 'Plastics' who were waiting for him at the hospital in town; nobody liked the look of that cut. I began to regret talking about Sir Ranulph and the electric saw. Tim was given a tetanus shot, and sent off to hospital in a taxi: it's just quicker that way, in the land of no-car lanes, than with me driving in the anti-motorist hell that is the city centre. I went home promising to email the man he wouldn't be meeting for lunch, and to collect Tim on discharge.

I got in my car, sneezing violently several times, and knowing for certain that I had contracted some dreadful airborne disease from all those whey-faced people in the clinic. Tim finally came home in the early afternoon, his fingertip held on with 12 stitches, his reputation for bravery in the face of extremely youthful doctors made.

And later on, he and Roger called round and presented me with this quite-unnecessary but appreciated thank you gift:

That should fettle those germs very nicely.

Book group

What's this? I need to bite the corner see. Sorry about that.

She's been to Oxfam and bought us a book. Looks like rubbish to me. I might not be able to read yet, but I can judge a book by its cover. I'll consult Lottie.

Looks like nonsense to me too. Even the cat on the cover is signalling that it's a load of tosh. However, I'll ask Millie what she thinks.

Millie's shaking her head. Humans are beyond belief at times. We want prawns, not books!

Millie says it's rubbish*, all right. Whispering to cats, I ask you! 

Wasted your money there, I'm afraid. We could have told you everything that's in this, and more. Next time, try to get a copy of The Cat Feeder instead. And prawns.


Note from Human: *And they were right. The author reckons her favourite cat name is Zaphod Beeblebrox. Sigh.

Seven things

As tagged by Smitonius and Sonata (thankyouverymuch), here are the seven ever so important and fascinating things you didn't know about me:

1. I really, really like the sound of bagpipes. I do! Must have been the early imprinting effect of life in a Scottish regiment. Also most instruments with a drone. (But not people with same.) Massed pipe bands = heaven.

2. My sister and I once found a dead frog in the cellar, and, aged about 6 and 3, heavily (mis)guided by cartoons, put it through the mangle, expecting it to come out nicely flat. We both learned that we laugh hysterically, uncontrollably, when thoroughly scared by our own bad behaviour. Big, big trouble ensued.

3. I spoke with a residual French accent till I was ridiculed out of it at a truly horrible primary school in Lanark. I was about 8, and remember thinking "I must learn to speak like them". I didn't tell my mother, and later got into trouble with her for adopting a sing-song west of Scotland accent.

4. I'm really rather scared of daddy-long-legs(es). It's the spindly legs and the erratic flying that does it. Embarrassing. I'm not built for speed, and screeching while flapping arms wildly doesn't help.

5. I'm not particularly keen on chocolate on a regular basis, but I'd kill for a nursery-style pudding of chocolate sponge with chocolate sauce. It doesn't have to be celebrity-chef posh, made with super-expensive chocolate, or have a runny middle. But it needs to be a generous portion!

6. If I have fizzy drinks (which is almost never) I get hiccups. For ages. Some of us will never be sophisticated...

7. I secretly wish I could afford to have seven cats again. Maybe you did know that already....


Now I'm supposed to do this:


1. Copy and paste the pretty picture which you see above onto your own blog. (Done)


2. Thank the person who gave you the award and post a link to their blog. (Done)

3. Write 7 things about yourself we do not know. (Done)

But then.... (here comes the civil disobedience):

4. Choose 7 other bloggers to award.

5. Link to those 7 other bloggers.

6. Notify your 7 bloggers.


But I shan't. I know it will drive some of you mad, others will ignore it, and some who weren't listed will be dying to try it. So choose yourselves if you'd like to do this self-revealing bit of fun, and don't worry if you don't.


PS The cats were busy sleeping, and could only come up with one thing, although they suspected that you'd probably know this already: She doesn't give us enough tuna.

er... thank you, I think... twice

You can tell the season for giving is upon us. I was given an award by Penny a short while ago, and have only now worked out how to get it onto my blog. This new Mac remains mysterious and unfathomable at times of its own choosing, but I think I've cracked this one, at least.

Ta-daaaa! Thanks, Penny. I needed a new hobby involving a mouse, expanding my repertoire of bad language, and some serious soul-searching about why I thought I should have a new computer.

But of course there's no such thing as a free lunch blog award; you always have to work for it. I worked hard for bloomin' ages to get this picture onto the page, and then there were these rules to follow:

1. Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.
2. Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author and the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.
3. Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to This Post, which explains The Award.
4. Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we’ll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honour!
5. Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.
6. You must not run or whistle in the corridors.
7. You must not turn over the waistband of your school skirt to shorten it above the knee - oh, sorry, flashback to third form there....

Now I have to say I'm reluctant to use the phrase 'most-deserving'. I'm not a Daily Mail reader, after all. I'd prefer to pick those bloggers who make me laugh, or cry, (not too much though - not a flattering look, being all puffy-eyed, and snuffily dripping tears onto one's keyboard), or who lead me into new and wonderful territory through words and pictures. And there are dozens of you out there who fit those criteria. (I know, I know, I sound soppy and insincere all at the same time. It's still true though.....)


So, here's my first-out-of-the-hat five, and I hope those of you who aren't on the list will know that I really, really wanted you to be. And if you didn't want the award, or its Rules, no worries. Ignore at will. But unroll that waistband and cover those knees!


Smitonius and Sonata. Because their comments are so sharp and witty, and a mother-daughter blog with no (visible) nagging or pouting is such a good idea.


Susan at 29 Black Street. Because she loves cats, lives in the most beautiful little place, and has just discovered LURVE in the most soppily, romantically, extravagantly gorgeous way that it's impossible not to stand on the sidelines, damp-eyed, cheering her on.


Lauren at My Aunt June. Because I suspect that she's really a very sensible, hardworking and organised woman, but she writes in a lively, ditsy, self-deprecating way that always makes me laugh. And she has the most beautiful tabby cat.


Elizabethm at Welsh Hills Again. Because her writing is just beautiful; simple, pure, full of feeling, and impossible not to be moved by.


Lizzie at My Overall Story. Because she's tackling the almost-impossible almost single handedly, renovating an old house after a massive, emotionally challenging move, and staying positive about it; she makes my plans to move seem like luxury travel with servants and bandboxes.


Oh, and so many more.... blogland is full of lovely writers/photographers/creative people who are a joy to find. Superior Scribblers all, with added gold stars for cat photos and a special posy of flowers for those who write to me. 


And then I received this award from Smitonius and Sonata - after I drafted the above, honestly - exhorting me to reveal a heap of stuff you didn't know about me. The first and only thing that came up was how quickly my feeble mind goes blank when challenged in any way..... I'll come back to this one later, I think. Pretty colours. Or Kolours. 

Anyway, thank you for my awards. I may ask friends for some things you didn't know about me, and test myself if I dare to post them. Or I might consult the cats. I know they have views on the subject.

Muggins here

I need to confess something. I know you'll roll your eyes, tut, point, laugh jeeringly, but I shall tell you anyway. With a face that reads: Stupid but Defiant.


When Scooter was still just the fostered-until-rehomeable kitten, there had been another scrap of a wild kitten caged in the same foster-carer's outhouse, a sweet little ginger called Evan. I hardened my heart when I spotted him, and took the black kitten only, as my first-ever foster case. You know the rest. Evan was quickly re-homed, and is thriving, happy, and tame. The black kitten stayed with me, morphed into Scooter, and is thriving, happy, and thinks humans must be avoided at all costs unless they are offering food or under the duvet wriggling their toes for him to pounce on.


Two weeks later, Evan's ginger brother was also captured in the woods, and since then has been living with Karen the foster carer. Those two additional weeks of living wild have made him much harder to socialise, jeopardising his chances of successful rehoming. He has remained very fearful of physical contact, and puts up a violent struggle when handled, but seems happy living in a house full of cats and dogs. 


Today Karen rang me, somewhat overwrought and tearful, asking if I could help. She has recently been inundated with rescued neglected cats - a mother and her two youngsters, with another brood imminent. There has been little time to spend with the young ginger, and she wondered if I would take over his care and socialisation till he was ready for re-homing. 


And I said yes.


Of course I did.


I'm saying nothing either about fostering or keeping-for-ever; I know I'm not to be trusted in such matters. I know I said I wouldn't want another feral kitten, because they were just too much work. I know I said three cats were enough. 


He'll be moving in after his boy-operation on December 7th, and we'll see how things go.  At best, he'll be a playmate for Scooter, and free Millie up from this often-unwelcome task. At worst, I tell myself, I'll have two silly little cats who flee under the furniture and avoid physical contact with humans... 


(Actually, the Lovely Son says it could be a lot worse than that, and reminds me about the old easily-washed calico curtains that were all I could use in the house during my years of having seven cats; territorial spraying was endemic then. And the stair carpet was clawed into tatters. Somehow, I'd forgotten all that.)


There will be pictures; there will be updates. It will be nice to have a ginger cat in the house again. I miss my old Kevin and the way his fur could light up a room:

But I'm starting a new mantra: 


Four Is Enough.... 


Four Is Enough... 


Four Is Enough...

So what now?

Having come home to a warm welcome from all (or at least from humans and the dog - the cats are always a bit tepid, because, well, they're cats, aren't they, and too cool to let you see they're pleased to have you home), and after enjoying a sound night's sleep in my own bed (with added cats) and a decently-powered shower, I have time to assimilate what these past few days have added up to. 


And these are some of the preliminary thoughts that have emerged.

1. Short of a financial miracle occurring, first-choice Sidmouth is probably too expensive for me
2. Seaside is going to cost more than countryside
3. Countryside is beautiful too. The animals would love it
4. There is an awful lot of Devon and Dorset still to discover
5. I remain confident that this is the right kind of area for me 
6. I have time
7. I'm optimistic! 

2010 will certainly bring more visits, but in the meantime, online research will keep the flame burning.

Watch this space...

Day 3: so much to see! Such tired tourists!

We had a very busy day. Through Dark Lane into open countryside, always a nice start to our travels.

We'd spotted a sign the day before that read 'Branscombe Picturesque Village' and thought we should have a look, so we mapped out a circular route. Branscombe was indeed picturesque, strung out along a narrow, winding lane with lovely views, taking forever to reach the sea.

I bought some stamps in the tiny post office, and the postmistress and I chatted, exchanging gruesome stories of having lost a thumbnail at some point in our lives. So surprising what information you'll willingly share with strangers!

The narrow ribbon of road went up and down

But the sea hove into view at last, There was the telltale mega-carpark that warns of hordes of visitors in the summer, but we only spotted 3 or 4 people. 

Perhaps the number of bathing huts was a sign too.

The pub had a green growth of grass or moss on its thatched roof.

The beach was empty...

...although this hadn't been the case two years ago, when a container ship ran aground. Huge crowds swooped down to salvage what they could from the floating wreckage and damaged cargo, and the council has not been slow to turn the remains of the incident into a tourist attraction.

We moved on, passing some attractive homes on our way. Could I live here? No. Summer must be torment for residents because of the traffic and congested lanes.

And on to Beer.

Beer was empty too, although its car park and pub showed that this wasn't always the case.

We decided to walk up to the viewpoint.

Up...

...and up...

...and up

The cliffs here are white

This is smugglers' territory

So beautiful. There's more to Beer than meets the eye: Phil Curtis reports from his home village that: Rock samples from the cliffs were onboard  an unmanned spacecraft launched by the European Space Agency  from Baikonur in Kazakhstan. The samples contain photosynthetic organisms and are attached to the heat shield. The craft is due to return on September 26th, 2009 when the samples will then be taken for analysis. They are part of an experiment to determine whether microscopic life can be transported through space in rocks.


Then inland, to Axminster, famed for its carpets. An old market town, somewhat marred by the traffic that winds through it, but having a comfortable, well-established feel to it. Would a bypass save it, or would the town die in isolation?


There was a parish church that seemed to have a large chicken as a weather vane - not that I could see it properly or indeed, take a decent photo of it, but it whiled away the ten minutes it took for Rose to guide some poor woman out of a very tight spot where her car had been boxed in by another, in a tiny cramped space bounded by stone walls, next to the chicken church. A 54-point turn with much revving of the engine did the trick, but we noticed that her car was covered in scrapes and dints, suggesting that perhaps this wasn't the first time she had been in this pickle, and that perhaps she had boxed herself in.

We hadn't realised that Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's River Cottage shop and cafe (the Canteen - I ask you!) was here, but as it was, we stopped for a cup of tea and the best sausage sandwich I have had in ages - nicely browned organic chipolatas in a big floury bun, with a choice of 'brown or red sauce' that tasted very home made. Shame about the blaring radio that interfered with customers' chatting. Rose bought some freshly-made boudin noir for David, and we could have bought other delights, had it not been for the stingy weight restrictions on our flights home.


Thus fortified, we talked to two different estate agents, a very cheering and positive experience, and armed with brochures, pootled off to Membury, a little village some four miles away to investigate two properties - just peeking from outside, of course, not a proper viewing. Interesting; affordable.

 And with lovely views. 

And some curious residents wanting to know why we were there.


Lastly, another visit to Sidmouth. I needed to see it again, and to talk to some estate agents. Was Sidmouth a realistic choice for me?

We walked about, looked at the Cultural Centre and its camellia in full bloom...

...peeped down a very pretty Regency terrace. One house had a Sold sign on it: the very cheery, encouraging young woman in the estate agent's office later told us it had sold for £400k. Ouch!

We wandered through the little streets. These dwellings were built in 1929

But the pub was slightly older - built in 1350.

We had afternoon tea, and we shopped. I can't tell you anything about my shopping, because of the Christmas presents secret, but I can show you my mad, jolly, new felt slippers with their appliqued flowers. Impossible to be a serious or a miserable person in slippers like these!


After a while, I noticed that Rose was plodding silently behind me. Poor love, she had been such a conscientious companion, cooking, organising, driving, managing the sat-nav, which last night she had finally quelled into sonar silence. In addition, she had kept in close contact with her family, ever willing to support and assist them, even at a distance, and she was worn out.


It was time to go back to the barn, have dinner, pack, and test those sofas for some serious lolling. The next day there would only be time to return the car, check in, and fly home. It had been a long and full day. We had covered a lot of ground, collected a heap of property details, spoken to estate agents and to sheep, walked on beaches and up hills, and gained a great deal for me to think about.

Day 2: very very old indeed

The next day, we went to Honiton. We were definitely in Jane Austen country now. 

Honiton is an ancient town, famed for lace and antiques. It was a dreary wet day, and perhaps we saw the town at its worst, with a sad little market, a great number of charity shops, and a general down-at-heel air. 

We also went into an estate agent, staffed by a young woman whose ample bosom was falling out of her frock in a most 18th Century manner, to register for any suitable properties coming up in the future. But this too was such a dismal and discouraging experience, due to the young woman's inability to grasp that I wasn't interested in newly built estates, or to try too hard to listen, that we decided to move on, sharply, after picking up some property brochures from a second, slightly more encouraging agent, but still feeling slightly downcast.

But before we left Honiton, we found a cafe whose name I forget, but it was old and large, with a long garden to the rear. We found we had enthusiasm enough for a pot of tea and a most delicious slab of orange and almond cake. And as Rose loves antique shops, we browsed a few before we left. In one, protected by perspex, was an exposed section of wall, showing the original wattle and daub construction. 

I suspect that circumstances and weather were against this little town today, and that we may have judged it too harshly; sorry, Honiton - we did like your cake though. 

We made a detour to look at one thatched house, mostly to find out why, despite its beauty, it was on sale for such an attractive price. And we did: what was described as "tucked away" meant that emerging from the concealed driveway would lead both motorist and pedestrian straight into thundering traffic on a main route to Exeter, or possibly straight into a fatal road traffic accident. Not ideal for one such as I, with cats that she would like to keep.

Next, the seaside. I love the sea in winter. So off we went to Lyme Regis. Yes, you do know it: you saw it in films of John Fowles'  'The French Lieutenant's Woman" with Meryl Streep in a truly dreadful wig, and of Jane Austen's 'Persuasion'. Louisa Musgrove fell off The Cobb at Lyme Regis. Silly girl; however, the incident did advance the plot.

What a delightful visit! Despite the weather, this was probably a good time to see this lovely little place, as it is packed out with visitors in summer. Today it was empty, wet, fiercely windy, and very atmospheric. I loved it.

It was so blustery that I had to hook my arms through railings to take photographs, clutching the camera in both hands, for fear that we might be blown out to sea, and only when home did I notice that the street lamps have decorative features in the shape of ammonites. This is fossil country.

And fossil shop country too. Fascinating, even mind-blowing, and astonishing to think that anyone can walk along the beach and find something perfectly recognisable that could be 180 million years old.

The Cobb looked wonderful in the deepening dusk, as we set off for home. I might not want to live in Lyme Regis, but I would certainly want to come again.

Day 1: Dive, dive! dive! in Devon

Well, here we go. What I Did On My Mini-Holidays. Such a meaningful little trip, that has left me with my head whirling with thoughts and images, and oh, such a confusion of feelings, so I shall just start at the beginning and walk through the (edited) highlights. Sit back and be prepared to voice your opinions.

It didn't start well. I had set my alarm clock, double-checked it to make sure, gave myself a generous amount of time to get up and ready, and the next morning found that I'd set it for 6.30, not 5.30, and had exactly 30 minutes to get the early morning essentials done and drive over to Rose's house for us to be taken by her husband David to the airport. The animals looked on in horror as a flying demon whirled through the house hurling their breakfasts into dishes, cursing her own stupidity, rushing out with the dog and exhorting her to relieve herself at high speed, and running for the car without a backward glance at the poor abandoned creatures. Thankfully, the street aunties would be in later to take over and shamelessly spoil them all in my absence.

But we made it. No one cared about the size or weight of our hand luggage. No one noticed that my passport was 7 months out of date. I still haven't told Rose about that.

After a brief and bumpy flight from Newcastle to Exeter, we got into our hired car and drove straight to Sidmouth, the little town that had been my first possibility when seeking somewhere new to live.

Rose had brought her sat-nav device (my first experience of one), to find that it had been programmed by her brother, who liked every sound effect possible, to give an alert to every edifice, service, hazard and natural feature it is possible to pass on the average British road. The alert took the form of an ear-splitting "Woop! Woop! Woop!" as though we were submariners preparing to dive.

It took Rose until day 3 to remove them all, so for a time, we were alerted at full volume to: tree at side of road; traffic sign; church; telephone kiosk; council building ahead; small scrap of litter in hedgerow; imaginary friend in distance. And so many more... so many! At first we laughed, then we puzzled, and then Rose began to speak irritably to the device. She would sort it out later, she said - although she was to find that the sat-nav had other ideas about that. It was frightening to see how quickly a small plastic box was invested with a life and will of its own, a character and a personality, and deliberate intent to drive us mad.

But lovely Sidmouth didn't disappoint. The weather was changeable, but mild; the sharp, bracing (skin-exfoliating) sensation we are so used to up here when we step out into north-eastern sea air doesn't seem to happen in the south.

We had rain.

We had sun.

We had a walk through the town, stopping for tea and toasted teacakes, hot and generously buttered (as a scone maker myself, I don't go for cream teas, as a rule). We watched the crashing waves, and I fell in love with the place. Every other person was a well-wrapped-up old lady with at least one dog; there seemed to be hardly any men around. I would fit right in, I thought.

After strolling, admiring, counting the mobility scooters that Rose had warned me would be out in droves, we set off for where we were going to stay for the next three nights. We were delighted to find a Waitrose en route, and stocked up on the things we'd need for Rose to cook lovely homely dinners for the dark quiet evenings ahead.

The sat-nav directed us along the aptly-named Dark Lane

To an old converted barn overlooking fields

It had a whopping great door key (too big to accidentally take home with you in your pocket)

And a whopping great porch light

And it belonged to this beautiful old house (C.1600) and its welcoming owners

It had something of interest to see from every window

A tiny thatched cottage tucked mysteriously between house and barn

A busy little wren in the creeper, too quick for me to photograph

Lots of space inside, two comfortable, simple bedrooms with bathrooms

And two sofas to loll about on after dinner


And Budleigh Salterton, with its famous Pebble Beds, just down the road

It was quiet; very quiet

And very pretty in the late afternoon sunshine

With the usual chi-chi little shops. We looked in, of course. We may even have made a small purchase

This is where John Everett Millais painted 'The Boyhood of Raleigh'

It has a thatched museum. Imagine being able to state "I'm a Master Thatcher" when someone asks what you do for a living

Time to go home, to cook lamb and vegetables, and to plan for the next day.

Coming soon....

Sea, sun and sightseeing by sat-nav. Two middle-aged ladies find that they fit in very well in Devon.

But first they need an early night. Ni-night!

Comments and comfort

So I'm not alone.... lovely amusing and encouraging comments from people who sound rather like me! I'm pretty much ready now, although I did have to go to a large Tesco about 5 miles away this morning for black printer ink before I could print out our boarding passes - there didn't seem to be an option, which I usually go for in such circumstances, to just print them out in colour, say bright pink or poison green.

I have my ipod charged, elizabethm, loaded with old favourite audiobooks - 'Persuasion' is just the thing to listen to in the night if you can't sleep - but I'm intrigued now as to how you can use it as a spirit level. I can barely work mine as a basic ipod....

Rose is away, but will ring tonight, and I can tell her cheerfully that we're all sorted, and it will be true.

You think I'm making a lot of fuss, bother and melodrama for a 4-day jaunt? Remember my trip to Australia? This is nothing. It's really the animals who create all the work involved in going away, not the travel itself. The dog (a miniature Yorkshire Terrier, Susan, inherited from my mother) will have her bath after her last muddy walk of the day; she can't go into foster care smelling as she does. The cats have been treated to rather posh sachets of whatever horrible slurry passes as cat food, to be used if and when desperate by Lesley, who is sleeping here while I'm away. Lesley hasn't yet faced the morning cacophony of "Yow! Yow! Breakfast NOW!" from cats who like to present themselves as starving, despite their bowl of expensive biscuits being always available. She will witness the incredible high-speed hoovering technique favoured by Scooter, whose food disappears in a trice, while Lottie and Millie are still sniffing disdainfully at theirs.

The weather forecast for our destination seems fairly reasonable, cloudy with showers - well, we can cope with that, we're British. And in warm vests. Galoshes, no - Lizzie, have you seen galoshes? Hideous!!

Adieu, adieu, I'll be back on Thursday, all going well with the passport issue, of course. I'll have lots of photos and opinions, and look forward to your opinions in response. Or I might be back at my desk tomorrow morning to fulminate about airport security telling me one thing and doing another. No news is good news.

Doesn't bode well

My mother was rather a last-minute person, able, admittedly, to get a lot done in a short space of time if she put her mind to it, but it could be nerve-wracking for those worrying types around her. I vividly recall watching in mounting anxiety the sewing-on of name tapes to new school clothing late into the evening the day before I was due to fly for the first time from Germany to boarding school in England. In the next few years, I twice missed a plane because we - werent - quite - ready - yet - just - sit - on - this - suitcase to - close - it - while - I - find....

As a result, I have become an anxious packer. I like to have everything organised for days before I need to travel, thinking of everything, taking all necessities so that if I or anyone around me requires a triangular bandage, a baby wipe, a hairgrip, a biscuit, a length of string, a safety pin, a warm vest, a universal bath plug or a device for pulling bee stings out of their necks, I'm probably your person. I Go Prepared.

Except twice. I once arranged to meet the Lovely Son in London when he was free from work; a friend and I had been to some exhibitions (FYO, Jacques Henri Lartigue, and Edward Hopper, both very good) and afterwards, as we hung about in the heat outside, the LS texted me from across the river to find out where we were.

Before I could respond, my uncharged phone died. Worse, I didn't have his number written down anywhere; it was stored inside my dead phone. Result: major horror and self-recrimination at my own stupidity, and a huge, justifiable telling-off from the LS later that evening.

Then today. This little trip to Devon has been a doddle so far; travelling light (10 kg of hand luggage only!) so minimal packing, assuming that they do have shops in Devon should anything essential actually be required, like universal bath plugs and lengths of string, and everything arranged online, cat and dog carers sorted. The to-do list has steadily dwindled; camera and phone charged, dog's bath and her bedding laundered planned for tomorrow. Passport (for airport security) in handbag, said passport being the only item of photographic ID that I possess, other than my bus pass, which makes me look like one of those moon jellyfish in the aquarium, and which, according to the extremely unpleasant woman in the local Post Office, Won't Do as ID when collecting parcels.

Except, except... my passport, which I've checked for years and knew in my heart would expire next year, turns out to have expired last May. Seven months ago! I only found this out this afternoon. "Rose will kill me!" was my first thought, the prospect of explaining that I couldn't fly with her, when her sole purpose in flying at all was to fly with me, making my stomach churn. The second thought was that I'm becoming the sort of person I dread travelling with, forgetful, disorganised, ill-prepared, never able to find a length of string when one is needed.

Another friend, who I rang to bleat at in high-pitched tones of anxiety, advised ringing the airport and the airline for advice, to ask if a bus pass with a photo of a moon jellyfish on it might get me through security. After all, I was only taking an internal flight. I was only semi-reassured; this is the much-travelled friend who is a fount of horror stories of the meanness of airport security personnel. I started with the airport, and was passed to the so-nice people who manage check-in. And guess what? You can travel internally on an expired passport for up to a year. Did you know that? Isn't that a useful thing to know? I'll test it out on Monday morning and report back. I shan't tell Rose.

But I shall also be wearing: a triangular bandage safety-pinned inside my warm vest, a length of string round my waist, hair grips in my hair, and round my neck a universal bath plug on a little chain, worn as avant-garde costume jewellery. Bee stings and biscuit emergencies will have to be dealt with in Devon.

Time travel

My friend Annie came back from Bruges last weekend, bringing me some of my childhood-favourite milk chocolate, Cote d'Or.

And opening it tonight, I was taken back immediately to those years during the 1950's and '60's when my beloved grandmother, Bonma, would come from her home in Ghent, to stay with us for a month or so. She only came if we lived somewhere accessible, i.e. Europe or Britain, and looking back, I can see that such lengthy visits might have been a trial to my mother, but to me, she could never stay too long. I loved her intensely, and longed for her to stay with us for ever.

Her suitcases, like her handbags, were always filled to bursting, and were crammed with items of interest and delight. We revelled in watching her unpack, knowing that in due course, treats and presents would emerge. Her crisp dresses, always in a small dark print, had the most wonderful clean scent, and one that I associated as unique to her. Until adulthood, that is, when one day, standing in a fabric shop, I suddenly recognised it for what it was, new glazed cotton. Of course! she always had new dresses for her special holidays amongst the grandchildren.... The smell of new cotton can evoke Bonma as vividly as her photograph.

In addition to her busy, lively, opinionated person and my somewhat put-upon young adopted aunt, Tante Agnes, she always brought us a whole salami from the Ardennes, and several bars of Cote d'Or chocolate, to be eked out amongst us for the duration of her visit as the utterly delectable treats they were.

I can't remember the last time I cut into a whole salami, but the occasional bar of Cote d'Or is more readily come by, especially if kind friends remember my nostalgia for it. In its lovely old cream wrapper, it sends me back to special times in childhood as though they were yesterday. Thank you, Annie, for your thoughtful gift and the memories it conjures up with it.

Bad news for some

The dog is spending about 70% of her non-sleeping/snoozing/lazing time on all four legs. Neil the vet saw her today, examining her injured leg thoroughly without eliciting a bite, or, indeed, anything more than a bit of eye-rolling at me (from the dog, that is, not the vet) and says she's coming on nicely.

Daily painkillers must continue for now; Scooter will be relieved, as he queues up each morning with the dog for that bit of pate, yowling loudly at me if I'm being too slow. Then he seizes his little lump of cheap supermarket delight, devours it greedily, washes my fingers for me, and returns seamlessly to treating me like the mad axe-woman who kills young cats. He reckons that I must be fled from at all times that don't involve treats from the fridge. Scooter can flee like no other cat I've ever owned. He thinks I'm dangerous; I think he's a dimwit.

The bad news (though not for me, sick of being restricted to short toddles round the block) is that the dog's exercise regime can be extended. We can go for longer walks, and in this weather, that's not a happy thought for a certain princessy little dog who hates the rain, the damp, the wind, the winter, the idea of doing anything outdoors for longer than two minutes.

The cats hate it too. Millie is considering hibernation, and is looking for a suitable cave.