There's been such a 'bright golden haze' of blessings on the meadow of my week that I thought I ought to make them the subject of this blog before I forget them all. They began on Sunday morning when I went as usual to ring bells after the early service. On Saturday I'd turned up as planned to ring for St George's Day and found that, unexpectedly, I was in charge. It's some while since I've held the reins, so to speak, and I wasn't prepared for the responsibility. To say that it was a shambles is only a little overstated, but I certainly didn't feel I'd done the occasion justice.
On Sunday, the usual person was once more on parade, and the ringing was a dream. The week was off to a good start. This was maintained when I later learned that the lady I had suggested as the most suitable potential candidate had accepted nomination as our new churchwarden. This will be ratified in a couple of weeks or so, and I'm looking forward to her being one of my 'bosses' in my health-and-safety role. This role came to the fore on Monday, as I followed up someone's enquiry about our wheelchairs, and whether or not they met with all the legal requirements. There was a certain amount of 'job satisfaction' in carrying that investigation to a positive conclusion.
On Tuesday the post brought me a parcel of socks kindly knitted for me by my daughter, who has decided that my feet shall be both warmly comfortable and sartorially elegant ... thank you so very much, Sally! And I also had confirmation of an interview next week with regard to a voluntary undertaking in which I expressed interest a few weeks ago, so that heralds an interesting day out to come.
Last week's brief tour of Lincolnshire brought an unfortunate encounter with a traffic warden ... in my absence, I'm glad to say. I had parked the motorhome neatly in two spaces of a car park where there wasn't a weight limit (I'd found several earlier in the week at another town that were limited to about 1.5 tonnes, far too low for the motorhome), and had bought a ticket for the value of two spaces for the time I intended to stay. Unfortunately, this sum should have bought two separate tickets, and for this minor administrative misdemeanour I received a Penalty Charge Notice.
Of course I challenged this when I got home although, having checked with the notice on the car park at the time, I realised that, in strict terms, I was caught 'bang to rights'. On Wednesday I received a delightfully precise letter from the local District Council, saying that I should have made sure that there were two tickets on my windscreen as directed before leaving the vehicle ... but, on this occasion only, they would accept my challenge and cancel the Charge Notice. The final paragraph cautioned me against doing the same thing on another occasion ....!
There was further good news of a personal nature on Thursday, about something I had been anxious about for several weeks, and the week was rounded off by a very comforting and strengthening day of prayer and fasting at the church yesterday and, as the good weather continued - apparently unlike much of the country - I managed to get the car washed this morning in bright sunshine. This is such a rare event now I have to do it myself, whereas I used to take the van through the car wash on average every other week, that it deserves a mention!
After such a week, how will the next one compete, I wonder? Watch this space!
Saturday 30 April 2016
Saturday 23 April 2016
Musical Memories
A song came to mind this morning that brought back memories of long ago, prompted thoughts of many episodes of life down the years, and also echoed some of this week's events, too. So, what was this powerful melody? Written by Joni Mitchell in 1967, it was called 'Both Sides, Now'. The lyrics, as I've just discovered, are easily available on the internet; Mr. Google knows where. I won't dwell on thoughts of the distant past, save to underscore the all-embracing lines,
This week has seen my first trip of the year in the motorhome. I've tried out a scheme I discovered during the winter months called Brit Stops, by means of which the motorhomer can park overnight in certain locations free of charge, on the understanding - implied, but not enforced - that there will be social and/or financial interaction with the providers of these locations. Since many of them are public houses, this presents a convenience rather than a problem, and the whole deal boils down to swapping self-catering on a paid-for site for the enjoyment of a pub meal.
Obtaining a mobile Wi-Fi hub last year, along with getting a powerful laptop, has all but driven away one of those clouds I referred to, that of maintaining communication. However, until I get that solar panel on the roof (unlikely any time soon!), I still need electricity - even if only intermittently - to keep it all running, and that's something that isn't available on the average pub car park! I was lucky on Monday night to be on a meadow next to a rural pub at a crossroads, where four conventional electric hook-up points have been installed, so my situation was little different from a campsite.
Some of these pubs like you to phone up during the day; either they have only one space, so once it's filled you know you must look elsewhere, or perhaps it just makes their planning a little easier. Monday's Red Lion at Revesby was one of these. Tuesday was different. No notice was required at a second Red Lion, this time at Epworth; they have a large car park but, of course, no electricity. I had planned with this in mind and intended to be on a campsite on Wednesday to re-charge all my equipment there.
The plan so far had met with success. I had fitted in all I wanted to see, including Gainsborough Old Hall, and the Old Rectory at Epworth, childhood home of John and Charles Wesley and their many siblings. Wednesday found me in the most northerly bits of Lincolnshire as I went to look at Normanby Hall. My planning hadn't fully recognised the different opening times of various parts of the estate - gates at 9.0, cafe and gift shop at 10.30 and the house at 1.0 - so I turned up at 9.30 and found myself faced with a three-and-a-half hour wait! This was an unacceptable delay, so I re-planned the rest of my week, and moved on to Market Rasen.
Nearby was the site I chose to stay for the night, Walesby Woodland. It wasn't the one I'd planned, it was simply in what was now the right place. It was expensive and, after correcting a misunderstanding about the electricity, even more so, but it provided what I needed, and the sunshine was brilliant! My departure was recalled by another line from that song:
This week and its planning have provided an example of a new kind of motorhoming. Last year, sites were planned months in advance, This time nothing was planned; there was the freedom to come and go as I pleased, and to re-jig the outline when appropriate. The same freedom came into play the next day too. My re-location had reduced the distance I had to drive on Thursday morning, and by the afternoon, plans - such as they were - were completed, and I debated the value of staying another night at a pub with nobeer electrc hook-up. (Wrong song remembered there!) I was not only free to go somewhere else, but free to go home if I should choose. I did so choose, and was home by twilight, about eighteen hours earlier than planned.
It meant that I had a whole day yesterday to restore things to normality and today can ring bells for St George's Day. This evening I shall be attending a concert in honour of the Queen's 90th birthday with a friend from my schooldays. Another verse from that song is (partly) relevant:
I'm sure it will be an evening to remember.
"So many things I would have done,
But clouds got in my way."
Clouds can take many forms in teenage, from the comforts of home, to the comparative safety of adventures in one's home town, to the problems of maintaining communication when travelling and, in many cases, simply a shortage of money. Some of these clouds throw shadows a long way into adulthood, too.This week has seen my first trip of the year in the motorhome. I've tried out a scheme I discovered during the winter months called Brit Stops, by means of which the motorhomer can park overnight in certain locations free of charge, on the understanding - implied, but not enforced - that there will be social and/or financial interaction with the providers of these locations. Since many of them are public houses, this presents a convenience rather than a problem, and the whole deal boils down to swapping self-catering on a paid-for site for the enjoyment of a pub meal.
Obtaining a mobile Wi-Fi hub last year, along with getting a powerful laptop, has all but driven away one of those clouds I referred to, that of maintaining communication. However, until I get that solar panel on the roof (unlikely any time soon!), I still need electricity - even if only intermittently - to keep it all running, and that's something that isn't available on the average pub car park! I was lucky on Monday night to be on a meadow next to a rural pub at a crossroads, where four conventional electric hook-up points have been installed, so my situation was little different from a campsite.
Some of these pubs like you to phone up during the day; either they have only one space, so once it's filled you know you must look elsewhere, or perhaps it just makes their planning a little easier. Monday's Red Lion at Revesby was one of these. Tuesday was different. No notice was required at a second Red Lion, this time at Epworth; they have a large car park but, of course, no electricity. I had planned with this in mind and intended to be on a campsite on Wednesday to re-charge all my equipment there.
 |
| Gainsborough Old Hall |
 |
| The River Rase at Market Rasen |
Nearby was the site I chose to stay for the night, Walesby Woodland. It wasn't the one I'd planned, it was simply in what was now the right place. It was expensive and, after correcting a misunderstanding about the electricity, even more so, but it provided what I needed, and the sunshine was brilliant! My departure was recalled by another line from that song:
"You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know,
Don't give yourself away."
As I drove through the barrier and out onto the road, a smile played upon my lips. I was free to go wherever I pleased; many of those on the site had clearly established themselves there for the long haul ... one even had potted shrubs standing at the corners of his caravan! It's all a matter of taste, I suppose.This week and its planning have provided an example of a new kind of motorhoming. Last year, sites were planned months in advance, This time nothing was planned; there was the freedom to come and go as I pleased, and to re-jig the outline when appropriate. The same freedom came into play the next day too. My re-location had reduced the distance I had to drive on Thursday morning, and by the afternoon, plans - such as they were - were completed, and I debated the value of staying another night at a pub with no
It meant that I had a whole day yesterday to restore things to normality and today can ring bells for St George's Day. This evening I shall be attending a concert in honour of the Queen's 90th birthday with a friend from my schooldays. Another verse from that song is (partly) relevant:
"But now old friends, they're acting strange,
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost but something's gained
In living every day."
We've both changed a lot since those days; both have borne the ups and downs of life ... and love ... and have come through it all stronger than we began. I'm sure it will be an evening to remember.
Friday 15 April 2016
It's Never too Late ...
... to learn, and also for another 'first' in my life.
The highlight of this week was my third visit to the metropolis in four months. The first was in January for the 'Tell them of us' event at the National Archives, when I had intended to park at Burnt Oak and take the underground. But I didn't realise that, it being a Friday, there would be nowhere to park so had to drive all the way there.
Then in March, I made my first visit to the Society of Genealogists for some while, to attend a couple of talks. This time, I thought I'd learn from the experience, and booked a railway ticket online. This seemed expensive so, thinking I might well be making more such trips, into London or elsewhere, I invested in a Senior Railcard, although it was too late for that trip, of course. My other mistake was to book to Finsbury Park, so had to make the remainder of the trip via the underground using my Oyster Card.
This week I travelled again to the National Archives, for the lecture on the war in Mesopotamia, which I mentioned here a few weeks ago. When I'd booked my place for this, I also booked my rail ticket, using the new Railcard. Unfortunately, I didn't book through the same website and had to pay an additional postage charge and service fee, which soaked up a fair proportion of the saving I'd made with the card. I did, however, get one ticket for the whole journey from home to Kew.
And so to the journey itself. It began with a walk to the station in Letchworth. I arrived just as a train for Moorgate was pulling into the station. I had planned to hop off a King's Cross train at Finsbury Park and go two stops down the Victoria Line to get onto the London Overground at Highbury & Islington. When I spotted that this last was one of the stops on the way to Moorgate, I made a quick comparison. I decided that it might be quicker to go straight to H&I and a single change than having to negotiate two tight changes, not to mention surviving a crowded train as well.
Having checked my ticket - the only route restriction was that I go via Camden Town, in other words by the overground line - I hopped aboard, and enjoyed a carriage that was very sparsely occupied until the very end of my journey, where the Moorgate line is to all appearances like the underground. In the event, the saving of an earlier departure coupled with the direct journey was offset by the fact that the train had stopped at all stations, including a ten-minute wait at Hertford. I negotiated the staircase and corridors at H&I and emerged into the open air to find I had to wait only a minute for the Richmond-bound train to arrive.
This was my first ever journey by London Overground. I believe this is a comparatively recent re-branding of a group of lines that, under British Railways, were loosely referred to as 'London Suburban Services'. No scruffy national rail surroundings here, though. The carriages were bright and airy; a five-car set so clear of internal obstruction that you could see from one end to the other if the bends permitted it. And the ride was smooth as well, If it weren't for the bright sunshine outside, and the goods train passing on the opposite track, I could have been on the underground (which is itself much smarter now than when I last used it about five years ago!). I overheard a fellow passenger remark 'I love the overground, it's so much more pleasant than the tube', and I had to agree.
I've now booked another trip to London, and I think I've employed all that the last three months have taught me. I used the right website so there were no extra charges; I used the railcard so got a discounted fare and I've booked a single journey to my destination so there'll be no additional fares once I get to London. When I find what I've forgotten this time, I'll let you know!
The highlight of this week was my third visit to the metropolis in four months. The first was in January for the 'Tell them of us' event at the National Archives, when I had intended to park at Burnt Oak and take the underground. But I didn't realise that, it being a Friday, there would be nowhere to park so had to drive all the way there.
Then in March, I made my first visit to the Society of Genealogists for some while, to attend a couple of talks. This time, I thought I'd learn from the experience, and booked a railway ticket online. This seemed expensive so, thinking I might well be making more such trips, into London or elsewhere, I invested in a Senior Railcard, although it was too late for that trip, of course. My other mistake was to book to Finsbury Park, so had to make the remainder of the trip via the underground using my Oyster Card.
This week I travelled again to the National Archives, for the lecture on the war in Mesopotamia, which I mentioned here a few weeks ago. When I'd booked my place for this, I also booked my rail ticket, using the new Railcard. Unfortunately, I didn't book through the same website and had to pay an additional postage charge and service fee, which soaked up a fair proportion of the saving I'd made with the card. I did, however, get one ticket for the whole journey from home to Kew.
And so to the journey itself. It began with a walk to the station in Letchworth. I arrived just as a train for Moorgate was pulling into the station. I had planned to hop off a King's Cross train at Finsbury Park and go two stops down the Victoria Line to get onto the London Overground at Highbury & Islington. When I spotted that this last was one of the stops on the way to Moorgate, I made a quick comparison. I decided that it might be quicker to go straight to H&I and a single change than having to negotiate two tight changes, not to mention surviving a crowded train as well.
Having checked my ticket - the only route restriction was that I go via Camden Town, in other words by the overground line - I hopped aboard, and enjoyed a carriage that was very sparsely occupied until the very end of my journey, where the Moorgate line is to all appearances like the underground. In the event, the saving of an earlier departure coupled with the direct journey was offset by the fact that the train had stopped at all stations, including a ten-minute wait at Hertford. I negotiated the staircase and corridors at H&I and emerged into the open air to find I had to wait only a minute for the Richmond-bound train to arrive.
This was my first ever journey by London Overground. I believe this is a comparatively recent re-branding of a group of lines that, under British Railways, were loosely referred to as 'London Suburban Services'. No scruffy national rail surroundings here, though. The carriages were bright and airy; a five-car set so clear of internal obstruction that you could see from one end to the other if the bends permitted it. And the ride was smooth as well, If it weren't for the bright sunshine outside, and the goods train passing on the opposite track, I could have been on the underground (which is itself much smarter now than when I last used it about five years ago!). I overheard a fellow passenger remark 'I love the overground, it's so much more pleasant than the tube', and I had to agree.
I've now booked another trip to London, and I think I've employed all that the last three months have taught me. I used the right website so there were no extra charges; I used the railcard so got a discounted fare and I've booked a single journey to my destination so there'll be no additional fares once I get to London. When I find what I've forgotten this time, I'll let you know!
Saturday 9 April 2016
Inside and Out
The key-word this week has been 'Ouch!' ... or, put another way, 'OUCH ... Idiot!' With the warmer weather here, I decided to fight with the contents of my wardrobe, put away the heavy coat I usually wear in winter and withdraw a lighter-weight one for the 'summer'. This was at about 6.0 on Monday morning and, as usual, I hadn't put the bedroom light on. It soon became obvious to my feet that my withdrawal had been more than a coat.
As I squatted down to investigate a squad of sweaters that had made a burst for freedom, I felt a crunch. I stood up in pain, realising just too late that this hadn't been a wise move so soon after rising from my bed. Sciatica had returned. At least I recognised it this time around, so I knew what to expect and the limitations both to my early movements and to any effective remedies. I've suddenly become very preparation conscious before going to bed. Breakfast things are laid out, fresh water is in the kettle, and paracetamol on the table! One thing hasn't needed to change, and that is the half-hour or more sitting in my armchair with Bible and prayer notes. After that, things move a little easier and by mid-morning the crisis of the day has passed.
This blog tends to focus on what's going on inside my flat and my life, and I'll return to that presently. But the lovely sunshine (albeit sandwiched between the dull, the damp and the downright miserable) has reminded me that summer is on its way, and there's only another week before this year's first planned outing with Mary the motorhome. Last Friday and Saturday I gave her a clean up and, with windows brightly shining beneath a sparkling <he boasts> over-cab, she's now looking ready for the road. Inside systems have been checked out and plans made. In Tuesday morning's brightness, I took her for a warm-up run through 23 miles of Hertfordshire countryside and townscape and I was amazed how relaxed I felt afterwards.
Things inside haven't been quite as relaxed as I had expected last week. After ordering the upgrade to my family history software, I had expected that other things would take centre stage while I wait for a new CD to cross the Atlantic. Not so. I succumbed to the temptation to follow up my visit to Matlock last week and dig 'just a little' into the fascinating family of my Derbyshire aunt. One thing led - as it always does - to another, of course, and I now have about fifty more people to add to the database when it's up and running, with open avenues to others just begging for my attention! I now seem to be more aware of the villages of the Derby-Stafford borderlands than the transcribers of the censuses, given the number that are easily recognisable and which they've totally ignored!
One day I must go and explore the territory on the ground ... but, for now, I'll content myself preparing for a few days in Lincolnshire.
As I squatted down to investigate a squad of sweaters that had made a burst for freedom, I felt a crunch. I stood up in pain, realising just too late that this hadn't been a wise move so soon after rising from my bed. Sciatica had returned. At least I recognised it this time around, so I knew what to expect and the limitations both to my early movements and to any effective remedies. I've suddenly become very preparation conscious before going to bed. Breakfast things are laid out, fresh water is in the kettle, and paracetamol on the table! One thing hasn't needed to change, and that is the half-hour or more sitting in my armchair with Bible and prayer notes. After that, things move a little easier and by mid-morning the crisis of the day has passed.
This blog tends to focus on what's going on inside my flat and my life, and I'll return to that presently. But the lovely sunshine (albeit sandwiched between the dull, the damp and the downright miserable) has reminded me that summer is on its way, and there's only another week before this year's first planned outing with Mary the motorhome. Last Friday and Saturday I gave her a clean up and, with windows brightly shining beneath a sparkling <he boasts> over-cab, she's now looking ready for the road. Inside systems have been checked out and plans made. In Tuesday morning's brightness, I took her for a warm-up run through 23 miles of Hertfordshire countryside and townscape and I was amazed how relaxed I felt afterwards.
Things inside haven't been quite as relaxed as I had expected last week. After ordering the upgrade to my family history software, I had expected that other things would take centre stage while I wait for a new CD to cross the Atlantic. Not so. I succumbed to the temptation to follow up my visit to Matlock last week and dig 'just a little' into the fascinating family of my Derbyshire aunt. One thing led - as it always does - to another, of course, and I now have about fifty more people to add to the database when it's up and running, with open avenues to others just begging for my attention! I now seem to be more aware of the villages of the Derby-Stafford borderlands than the transcribers of the censuses, given the number that are easily recognisable and which they've totally ignored!
One day I must go and explore the territory on the ground ... but, for now, I'll content myself preparing for a few days in Lincolnshire.
Friday 1 April 2016
Out of Kilter
It started with Easter Day ... only it didn't; it was actually still mid-evening on Saturday when the first Easter celebration hit my diary. The church where we ring bells had decided to have what was described to the ringers as 'a short service at seven, and we have been asked to ring the bells afterwards.' When I turned up expecting to ring at about 7.30, as requested, I found that we were all joining in from the balcony with a full Easter Eve liturgy. The last time I took part in this service must have been about 40 years ago!
We then lost an hour's sleep as British Summer Time kicked in ... and I don't remember anyone celebrating that this is the centenary of its introduction! All too soon, it seemed, we were back at the ropes as we rang for the usual early morning service; the normal Sunday sequence had begun.
As has become my custom recently, I departed on Monday for my cousin's home, where I enjoyed a relaxing time with the family. I use that phrase deliberately for, although her family wasn't there, just her and her husband, I took time out on Tuesday to drive over to Matlock to call at the Derbyshire Record Office to research the family of my eldest uncle, who lived in the south of the county for much of his adult life.
All too soon it was time to drive home again, and now, without a work pattern to guide me, I'm all confused. Did I have a bank holiday? Is this now Thursday, Friday or Saturday? There are times when I'm very glad of modern technology and the fact that my computer screen has a little date-and-time icon in the corner. I then match the first part of the date with the calendar that hangs on the wall in front of my desk to see what day of the week it is. In Meerkat-speak, 'Simples!' ... or it would be if I'd remembered to turn over the calendar to the new month!
It's all getting too much for me, with the clocks changing, Easter and the month-end coming so close together. Someone told me last week that it will be another 141 years before the Feast of the Annunciation falls on Good Friday; I think I'm content for that one to fall off the edge of my radar.
Talking of radar, screens, and the like ... it's been a very trying time in that direction too. As I told my singing colleague on Sunday, my family history database seems to have caught a cold. In the last couple of weeks, it has crashed twice. The first time I restored what I thought to be a safe back-up a few days old, but the second time, to be sure - as I thought - that I'd got around the problem, I wiped out the program, re-installed it and brought back an older set of data from the beginning of the month.
As I cautiously re-re-input data that is now so familiar I almost feel I'm shaking hands with these cousins who are a century old and more, I began to feel a new sense of confidence. All was going well ... until this morning. The error messages came back again as I ran the back-up on closing down for lunch. I opened the program again, ran a quality check, and closed it, taking another back-up. No error messages! Fed up with playing ducks and drakes with it, I resorted to professional help ... I e-mailed my son. His advice made perfect sense; the upgrade to the newest version of the software is now on its way. As well as offering me a whole new range of bells and whistles, it is allegedly impervious to the devious ways of Windows 10.
Meanwhile, the sunshine has returned, so I can go out for pleasant afternoon walks again. What was that about rain being forecast for next week?
We then lost an hour's sleep as British Summer Time kicked in ... and I don't remember anyone celebrating that this is the centenary of its introduction! All too soon, it seemed, we were back at the ropes as we rang for the usual early morning service; the normal Sunday sequence had begun.
As has become my custom recently, I departed on Monday for my cousin's home, where I enjoyed a relaxing time with the family. I use that phrase deliberately for, although her family wasn't there, just her and her husband, I took time out on Tuesday to drive over to Matlock to call at the Derbyshire Record Office to research the family of my eldest uncle, who lived in the south of the county for much of his adult life.
All too soon it was time to drive home again, and now, without a work pattern to guide me, I'm all confused. Did I have a bank holiday? Is this now Thursday, Friday or Saturday? There are times when I'm very glad of modern technology and the fact that my computer screen has a little date-and-time icon in the corner. I then match the first part of the date with the calendar that hangs on the wall in front of my desk to see what day of the week it is. In Meerkat-speak, 'Simples!' ... or it would be if I'd remembered to turn over the calendar to the new month!
It's all getting too much for me, with the clocks changing, Easter and the month-end coming so close together. Someone told me last week that it will be another 141 years before the Feast of the Annunciation falls on Good Friday; I think I'm content for that one to fall off the edge of my radar.
Talking of radar, screens, and the like ... it's been a very trying time in that direction too. As I told my singing colleague on Sunday, my family history database seems to have caught a cold. In the last couple of weeks, it has crashed twice. The first time I restored what I thought to be a safe back-up a few days old, but the second time, to be sure - as I thought - that I'd got around the problem, I wiped out the program, re-installed it and brought back an older set of data from the beginning of the month.
As I cautiously re-re-input data that is now so familiar I almost feel I'm shaking hands with these cousins who are a century old and more, I began to feel a new sense of confidence. All was going well ... until this morning. The error messages came back again as I ran the back-up on closing down for lunch. I opened the program again, ran a quality check, and closed it, taking another back-up. No error messages! Fed up with playing ducks and drakes with it, I resorted to professional help ... I e-mailed my son. His advice made perfect sense; the upgrade to the newest version of the software is now on its way. As well as offering me a whole new range of bells and whistles, it is allegedly impervious to the devious ways of Windows 10.
Meanwhile, the sunshine has returned, so I can go out for pleasant afternoon walks again. What was that about rain being forecast for next week?
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