English as she is spoke (and writ)


Question:  “How are you?”

Answer:  “I’m good.  I’m really good”

This Q and A is often heard, but as a pedantic grammarian, it sets my teeth on edge.  I invariably want to respond, “Oh, you’re not bad or naughty then? … but are you well?”  because to me, the word ‘good’ has an entirely separate meaning to the word well’, or even to ‘fine’, which is an acceptable idiom that is our common response.

In fact, even ‘fine’ carries its own mildly amusing acronym, standing for ‘Flippin’ Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional’.

Answering that you are ‘good’ is a bland response that does not invite any further investigation.  When I am asked how I am, I generally assume that I am being asked a blanket question, in other words, how is my state of health and what is my state of mind?  “I’m well, thank you” does not feel to me to be such a closed reply as “I’m good”.

The answer to the “How are you?” question is a minefield in bereavement and grief terms.

In the early days, you will just about be able to trot out an “I’m doing ok, thanks”, when you are asked but generally, people tend to avoid asking you how you are because they are fearful of your response.

 When I speak or write about bereavement, I say, “Don’t ask someone how they are, unless you are prepared to listen to the answer”.  This may sound patronising but, just as the bereaved get accustomed to hiding their responses so as not to upset those who are questioning them, so those supporting the bereaved should be prepared for honest answers.  These truthful replies are better than anodyne rejoinders.

It’s worth bearing in mind that the bereaved quickly learn to don a daily mask of self protection.  When you ask how a bereaved person is doing they will gauge how ready you are for a truthful, possibly negative answer, and decide whether it is better to be honest, or not. Letting the mask slip once in a while to admit that you are struggling, is a hard thing to do but ultimately it can be helpful.  When you are the recipient of a heartfelt, honest response, even if it is upsetting, try to see it as a compliment to the regard in which you are held.  The responder trusts you with his or her true expression of feeling.

It is little wonder that grieving is tiring, as you necessarily become accustomed to seeing every conversation as a potential minefield, and you constantly assess not only your response, but that of others.  This can lead you to feel quite resentful and defensive, resulting in stilted, uncomfortable conversations.

I know now that in the early days after James died in 2005, some people found me aloof and unapproachable.  I am thinking particularly of the workplace, where well-meaning colleagues were anxious about upsetting me and therefore backed off rather than opening dialogue with me.  It has taken me a long time to appreciate and understand the many nuances of expression that exist in mourning.  I apologise retrospectively for being difficult to be around.  It was often the case that I was only just holding myself together, let alone being able to manage intelligent discourse with anyone. I was walking unknown terrain as a bereaved parent, just as those around me were unsure how best to support me.

The bereaved are great at finding ways to detach, to distract themselves from focusing on the difficulties of loss. All the time I am obsessing about grammar and the order and symmetry it represents in my life  (yes I know that sounds a bit extreme!) then I am not having to delve into the emotional depths of my loss.  It is more comfortable for me to hone in on the demise of the apostrophe … or what I perceive as the mis-use of our glorious language.

It irritates me to read, particularly on social media, comments such as “so glad your feeling better” with no hint of either an apostrophe or an ‘e’.  Also, I frequently see the misappropriation of the apostrophe into plural words; I have seen it in ‘room’s’, ‘place’s’, ‘choice’s’, MOT’s.  I heard about an anonymous apostrophe vigilante who was going round under cover of darkness in his home town replacing or removing apostrophes to correct the laxity of grammar on local signs. He used a device called the ‘apostrophiser’ (is that even a word?)   – home-made apparatus relying largely on a broom handle and sponges with which he applied vinyl apostrophes or blanked them out.  I can’t help but wonder if he was trying to deflect some awfulness in his life through this particular behaviour, although in interviews he revealed only that he was a stickler for correct grammar and pronunciation.

Our language has evolved rapidly in recent years, in particular with the steady march of new verbs associated with the internet, such as googling, texting, tweeting, and even sexting.  I accept that I am a traditionalist when it comes to the written word, but am I really alone in deploring the reduction of our grammatical standards to accepting the mis-spellings which are now common place? One of my pet hates is ‘definitely’ spelled ‘definately’ which some spellcheckers denigrate even further by turning it into defiantly, which is a different word altogether!

Please do not finish a sentence with “So that is it, end of”.

Or, if you are suggesting I go to work something out, I would prefer it if you didn’t ask me to “Go figure”.

I deplore the often heard malapropisms, “I was sat at the table”, or “I was stood at the side of the road”.   You were sitting, or standing.

Equally, people do not lay down in bed, they lie down.

People lie and hens lay.

So-called text speak using abbreviations and acronyms is gradually becoming an acceptable way of communication; I know I am showing my age here, but at least I don’t think LOL stands for Lots of Love!

Sometimes words and expressions are replaced by clever emoticons, which manage to express a great deal without the need for words.

The Wikipedia definition of emoticon is: etymologically a portmanteau of emotion and icon, is a metacommunicative pictorial representation of a facial expression that, serves to draw a receiver’s attention to the tenor or temper of a sender’s nominal non-verbal communication, changing and improving its interpretation.   Gosh, all that for a smiley face!

Do you see what I mean?  All the time my mind is occupied with this trivia, I am not in a sad place … anyway, must ‘crack on’ … and hope that I am easier to have a conversation with these days, despite my aversion to lax grammar!



Moving Forward with Purpose


When I was a very small girl at my first school, I remember being in a class called Transition.  It was never fully explained why this class was so named, nor did I have any idea of what I was in transit from, or indeed to.  I think the class was probably a bridge from nursery to junior school.

But it occurs to me now, that much of adult life is spent in transition of one kind or another.

For instance, when you become a parent, you must adapt and adjust to a completely new way of life.   Probably excited, anxious and sleep deprived in equal measure, you are expected to slot into an entirely new way of living with the additional responsibility for a small, demanding human being whom is entirely dependent upon you for all his or her needs.  Casting my mind back, I remember the sense of panic I felt during the early weeks and months of transition from being a wife to becoming a mother, too.  There was no time to analyse my feelings then, it was a case of having to get on with it.  Suddenly, I had to be a fully paid up member of the adult community, and it was not the smoothest of transitions.  The transition to maturity is a long, slow process.

The loss of a child instantly throws you into a new, unwanted transition that co-exists with a sense of suspended animation.

James died in July 2005.

I was thinking about the early days of loss recently and revisited what I wrote then in Into the Mourning Light

“In the early days, weeks and months following loss, time took on a strange quality. 

The days – and nights – dragged that summer, yet suddenly we were in late September and I had no real sense of how time had passed.

One Saturday, Shaun and I went to the RHS gardens at Wisley.  This has long been a favourite place that we visit through the seasons.  I had last been there shortly before James’s death.

We followed our usual route, which took in the main avenue of summer borders – twin, large borders either side of a grassy pathway, which are always splendid in summer.

“Oh no!” I exclaimed, dismayed. “How did that happen? All the flowers have gone over.”

I was so upset to see that the buds, which I had seen shortly before James’s death, were now gone, spent and brown, dried and desiccated on their stems with the onset of early autumn. I felt cheated, deprived of my customary sense of the progression of the seasons.

“Is this how it is going to be, then?” I demanded of Shaun, “Not noticing what is around us because of what has happened to us personally?  It is awful, dreadful, unbearable…”                                    

I remember this as one of the lowest moments I experienced and it emphasised how different life would be for us now”.

Being in a state of transition can be negative, but it was also protective for me at that time.  The profound shock of the early grief state necessitates the donning of armour against the outside world.  My oblivion to the changing seasons was hardly surprising. Every day events did not impinge on my consciousness because my mind was entirely taken up with coping with grief.

If change is a wall to get over, then transition can be seen as a gate in that wall.

In grief terms, you might think to yourself, “What will it take for me to get over this?” but it is not a case of getting over; rather it is a case of passing through the gate, to the path of transition.  In tandem with this is recognition that it is time to let go of what is holding you back. It takes a while to learn that letting go of the past does not negate its existence, rather that doing so can help you along on your transitory journey.

In my case, it took me a long time to understand that constantly asking the question “Why?” brought me no nearer to the answers to my losses. Leaving behind the question, whilst it always remains unanswered, gradually brings a measure of peace.

You may think you are going through a transitory state alone, but you will be guided, supported and helped by whatever you reach out to, whether it is spiritual, emotional or physical.  Much can happen to you that is inexplicable or seemingly random, but you may learn to accept rather than question change, as you move in transition from one stage to the next.

In particular, the sorrow of grief is unique.  It forces transition when you cannot bear to stand in that darkest of dark places any longer.  You need to move forward in hope of finding an easier, lighter place to be.

Fortunately, transition is more often than not a constructive state.  Transition is not exactly transformation or metamorphosis.  It’s not the caterpillar or the butterfly; it is the chrysalis, experiencing a lengthy and lonely transit time to attain its wings. 

Transition is progression rather than regression, advancement rather than impediment.  Transition is a reorientation to the self that you already know and an orientation to the added dimensions of the self you are becoming.

Successfully completing transition means accepting a need for change, and acting upon it.

But transition’s progress can be impeded by the side swipes in life that catch you out, such as sudden loss and fast-altering circumstances.

The past year has seen great adjustment for me in my personal and professional life.  I have nominally retired from work; that is to say, I am no longer in paid employment, but I do not feel ready to say I have fully retired.

Shaun and I moved from Surrey to Devon at the end of June last year and we feel we are still undergoing a process of transition.  This is undoubtedly positive, reflecting as it does our acclimatisation to a less hectic pace of life in more scenic surroundings.  The differences in our new life are significant.  Everything is novel and altered; and settling into our new location is a transition that is gradually becoming more established.

The desired end result from transition arrives on that happy day when you can look back and say that you have moved comfortably into your new state and place. 

That day may be a while coming.


Coffee and Candles

IMG_4707 (Edited)

During the past week I’ve managed to break two objects that I have had for a long time.

In themselves they weren’t especially valuable, but I was upset that I broke them as they had safely accompanied me through various house moves and always had their own place in my home.  They each represented different memories.

The first item was a glass ‘coffee press’ coffee maker. I am not a great caffeine drinker but the coffee maker had seen plenty of dinner party service over the years.  The day I broke it, I fancied some real coffee, but as I took the jug from the cupboard, it slipped out of my hand and the glass shattered on the tiled kitchen floor.  Fortunately, the Bodum Bistro coffee press  is an iconic design, and I was pleased that later on that day I was able to buy a similar replacement, and even better, the price was reduced in the sale.  The filter is a little more sophisticated, but otherwise the design remains the same.

I’m sure that a large part of my sadness at the demise of the coffee maker relates to the fact that my late mum had one and it was a permanent fixture on her kitchen worktop.  Hers was a small capacity version, and she invariably had some black coffee on tap, “The caffeine perks me up, dear”, she used to say.

The second mishap was entirely my own fault.  Many years ago on a visit to Copenhagen, I bought a small, round, glass tea light holder.  It was bang on trend at the time, being made from thick glass in an irregular pattern that was meant to resemble a snowball. Indeed it looked suitably ice-like and reflected the light very well when it held a lit candle.

This was  my ‘go to’ holder for lighting candles, sometimes to lift a dark corner or scent a room, but mostly I viewed it as my ‘in memoriam’ votive candle holder, often placing it in front of a photo of James or having a candle lit in remembrance on significant dates.

So … on the day it happened, I intended to change the spent tea light for a new one, but a little wax had melted onto the glass at the bottom of the holder.  I thought, “I know, I will run some hot water over it”. This was in an attempt to soften the wax and make the candle easier to remove. But I realised this wasn’t my greatest idea when I heard a distinct popping sound and saw that the glass had cracked all the way round.  I guess that the hot water being directed onto the cold glass caused it to expand too quickly and it couldn’t withstand the pressure.

I have other tea light holders; in particular I often light one that has a butterfly design.  It was not so much the loss of the Danish holder that upset me as the significance of what it represented over the years.

Inadvertently destroying two objects from the same era in the space of a week felt quite strange and I set out to find a message …

My emotional response was disproportionate to the monetary value of the items, but not to my sentimental attachment to them.

More positively, I learnt that mere items can generally be replaced. 

 Memories remain whether or not the associated items still exist.

 Losing items relating to a time that is now in the past allows opportunities to move forward and embrace something different for the future. 

I now have a chance to find a new favourite tea light holder without displacing the old one.

 Creating new memories is as important as holding old ones.  The trick is to let go what is not necessary any more and replace it with something different, which may turn out to be even better than the original.

How often I have said, “I wish that hadn’t happened …” weighed down by ‘stuff’ I am carrying with me from the past.  Of course, when it comes to major losses and traumas, these cannot be simply discarded like the broken coffee maker and candle holder, but their ongoing effect and presence can be managed in a healthy, forward looking way. Simplistically, looking forward rather than backward is a learned skill and it is definitely easier said than done.

Someone said to me recently, “Throughout your life you gather stuff that clings to you.  If you could see it you would look like a snowball getting larger and larger.  What you need to do is to control your roll down the hill”. I like the imagery of this and also favour the thought of brushing off some of that snow so it is not so heavy and cumbersome.

My new coffee maker saw good use over Christmas and I am resolved to try different coffees to ensure it is utilised more regularly.

And I am looking forward to finding a tea light holder that reflects who I am now, rather than who I was when I bought the old one.

IMG_4711 (2)

Grief, loss and stepping into a New Year


As 2017 closes and the New Year approaches, it is a time of mixed feelings for many of us. What lies ahead in 2018?  The year will arrive as a fresh, empty page, ready to be filled with a potpourri of joys, achievements, happiness and sorrow, over the next twelve months.

This time last year, Shaun and I were contemplating a move to the West Country, with an equal mix of excitement and trepidation.  A year on, and our move has happened; we are settling into a different, countryside life in Devon, our time filled with the prospect of new adventures.  We are very fortunate and the turn of the year is a good time to take stock and feel gratitude for what we have, never forgetting the links we have left behind us.

But having lost my brother to cancer this year, I know that turning the corner from 2017 to 2018 will have its difficulties too.

Looking back over 2017, Peter was here; looking forward into 2018 … he is not.

The memories I have of him are mixed as we had periods of estrangement, but I find it easy to focus on the better times we shared, particularly over the past few years.  I know too, that as time passes and the loss becomes less raw, I will be able to share and enjoy some more family memories with my nephew, Ben.  Peter’s spirit lives on in his son, which is immensely comforting.

Losing James 12 years ago has taught me many lessons about living with grief and loss, and the turn of the year feels like a good time to reiterate some of them, to help those who are grieving the loss of someone dear …

 “How can I face a new year without him/her in it?”

Try not to resist the New Year.  There is comfort in living in the past, that’s true, but endeavour to see the opportunities that may present in the year to come, and embrace them in memory of, and on behalf of, the person you have lost.  Know that he or she will be proud of you. Don’t be afraid to draw strength from those who offer it … sometimes you have to accept that you need that input.

“How can I dilute the pain of my loss?”

Writing or talking about different aspects of what has happened may help.  As time passes you will find that you don’t need to go into so much detail.  Soon after James died, I wanted to tell everyone I encountered that I had lost my son, but I gradually became more selective.  Every telling and re-telling of your story can help to reduce the impact.  Eventually you will be able to do it without tears.

“What will help me to feel positive about the coming year?”

Each challenge that comes your way, whether it is simple like grocery shopping or major such as a job change, has to be faced differently without your loved one.  I can remember the early days of loss when I would tell James out loud, as I was driving home, how well I had coped at work that day (probably this would be a day I managed to get through without weeping).  The cumulative effect of constantly trying to achieve milestones, big or small, helped me to feel better.  And indeed, this still works.  If you can visualise your loved one(s) at your shoulder, encouraging your efforts, this can really help.  I always try to ‘see’ James walking in my shadow, and I often sense my mum around me … intangible and difficult to explain, but helpful support nonetheless.

“Where do I find the practical tools that will help me through grief?”

There are many different options for self-care and self-help.  If you tend to think negatively, making positive affirmations can help.  Soothe yourself with music or treat yourself to something that uplifts you, such as a beauty or complementary therapy.  Boost your endorphins by walking or working out in the gym.  Spend time in nature.  Buy yourself some flowers.  Make a spiritual connection through meditation or prayer.  Light an incense stick.  Draw a picture.  Write a letter. Bake a cake.  Really, anything goes! The only rule is that whatever you do must comfort you and take you off the grinding treadmill of grief for a while.

“How do I trust in the unknown that the New Year represents?”

You need to have faith and hope to move forward when you are grieving.  Faith that it will get better.  Hope for the future.  Hope also for the gift of a future that does not contain your loved one, yet is enriched by his or her lifetime and what they brought to their own life, and yours.

Somehow you will come to know what it takes to have the courage to live for the future by working through one day at a time and living in the present.

It may help too, to consider the best characteristics of the person who died, and try to emulate them.  For instance, James possessed a wealth of compassion in his persona and I believe I hold deeper compassion for those who suffer since he died.  I feel that I have acquired this quality from his being and I owe it to him to carry it forward on his behalf.  When someone dies, it behoves those who are left to carry the baton for them, and this is particularly true when you lose a child and know that you are living the future that has been denied to him or her.

You may feel guilty that you are here, and they are not.  Don’t be afraid to kick guilt out … smile, laugh and look forward to tomorrow with as much joy as you can.  You are doing it for your family, friends and those who are still living, as well as those who are not.

“How can I bring my loved one into the New Year with me?”

One of the hardest things about the turn of the year, and particularly the first New Year after loss, is the knowledge that your loved ones are not coming with you, at least physically.  You might need to mark their presence in a tangible way.  Lighting a candle and proposing a toast are simple options.  Talking about the person can be helpful, too.

If you are with someone who is bereaved, never, and I really mean never, be afraid to say his or her name.  You will not make someone feel worse by mentioning the person who died.  You are not ‘reminding’ them, rather you are showing empathy, and that will be appreciated.  Trust me!

In closing, I remember those whom I have lost and also hold dear those who remain, my cherished and loved family and friends

I wish everyone a peaceful, happy and healthy 2018.




The Compassionate Friends    https://www.tcf.org.uk/

CRUSE Bereavement Care        https://www.cruse.org.uk/



Observations on Advent


Sometimes I wake in the night feeling thirsty.  It’s pitch dark and I carefully sit up in bed so as not to disturb my husband Shaun.  I reach out for the glass of water on my bedside table, and although I cannot see it, my hand unerringly closes easily around the glass. I quench my thirst, and then I use my other hand to locate the edge of the table so that I put the drink down safely.

This small event may seem insignificant; but it carries an important message.

Though I cannot see the glass, I know that it is there and what is more, I can trustingly reach out and grasp it whenever I want, even when I am only half awake and bleary-eyed.  What a brilliant example of faith! – in fact it’s blind faith in the true sense of the word.

I’m exposed daily to minor miracles which I take for granted.  For instance, it may be easy to explain the practicalities of the process, but I am always amazed by everything that happens in the few seconds it takes to start my car.  All elements have to be correctly aligned before that spark of energy fires the engine, and yet they come together every time.

I am sure I am not alone in trusting in many things I can neither see nor understand.

At this time of year, when the days are short and the darkness can seem impenetrable, literally and figuratively, I am grateful for the time of Advent.  The spiritual aspect of the weeks leading to the festive celebrations is a good antidote to the frenetic preparation, shopping and cooking for Christmas get-togethers and precious family time.

Advent is in itself a period of reflection and anticipation.

Advent provides opportunities for stillness and serenity with an added air of expectation.

Advent promises the light after the darkness.

Advent offers the culmination of something special time after time.

Advent is a season that understands the emptiness of grief; it is a time that can begin to provide the filling of that emptiness and the repair of that which has been broken.              For those who are grieving, the simple act of lighting a candle in remembrance offers the comfort of light to help in dispersing the darkness of loss.

The true essence of Christmas lies in the fulfillment of the promise of Advent, culminating in the telling and retelling of the story of the arrival of the much celebrated baby boy.  Jesus was born all those years ago in Bethlehem and his birth may perhaps take the prize for ‘most renowned in history’.

We cannot see those long ago people now.  We cannot hear their voices exclaiming,      “How wonderful!” as they must have said when they gazed into the crib.                               We cannot feel their awed emotion, or taste their food, or drink their water.                         But what we can do is rejoice with our own faith that what they saw, felt, ate and drank laid many of the foundations for how we feel, eat and drink today.

Christmas is not just about the presents, it is also about the presence – the demonstration of belief and trust that happens year on year. 

For relatively new Christians like me, the discovery of the anticipatory joy of Advent brings with it the excitement of learning the biblical background and understanding its messages. Advent and the arrival of the light of Christmas allow for a sense of renewal, restoration and replenishment of the spirit, ready for the turn of the year that is soon to follow.

Stringing the lights, wrapping the gifts, singing the carols and adorning the tree all carry the messages of light, joy and hope that are there for all to enjoy, however you choose to celebrate.  If the enforced, collective jollity that is engendered by the run up to Christmas is not for you, then you can embrace your own ways of getting through the season.  It’s a personal choice.

Perhaps you too will reach out for your own glass of water in the night and recognise how this reflects your personal view of faith and trust.  It is all too easy to take the basics of life for granted. But they are underpinned by something truly ancient, immensely special and universally generous.

I wish everyone a happy, healthy and peaceful Christmas!


An Excellent Visit to Exmouth


An Excellent Visit to Exmouth


The title of this post gives you the clue as to where I took the photo above … This particular engine, looking like a cross between a design by Wallace and Gromit and Heath Robinson, serves a very special and unique purpose.

The engine belongs to the tractor that drives the Shannon class RNLI Lifeboat at Exmouth Lifeboat station, where Shaun and I were invited to visit.  The state of the art lifeboat, the R & J Welburn, is the first of its kind in the South West.  It is described by the RNLI as “the latest class of all-weather lifeboat to join the RNLI fleet and the first to be propelled by waterjets instead of traditional propellers, making it our most agile and manoeuvrable all-weather lifeboat yet”.


The invitation followed my recent talk at the RNLI College at Poole during which event I met Sarah Beresford, a Youth Education Manager for the RNLI.  This very personable and enthusiastic member of the team asked if we would like a tour of the station, particularly as we have recently moved to Devon and thus it is fairly local.  We accepted with alacrity and last Wednesday 23 August saw us arriving in Exmouth, a place neither of us has visited before. We enjoyed a stroll along the seafront, even a turn on the big wheel to enjoy the views and lunch at a local café, before heading off to the lifeboat station.

We were made very welcome on arrival and were introduced to Steve Hocking-Thompson, who in his voluntary RNLI capacity is a Coxswain at the Station. He was our very informative guide for a personal tour of the Shannon boat.

Entering the cabin of the Shannon is something akin (I imagine) to stepping inside a space ship.  Each seat has its own computer screen in front of it, and the technology is at the highest level of specification.  The very air inside the cabin has an electric, futuristic feel.   It smells of leather and sea and adrenalin, if you can imagine a scent for adrenalin!

Steve took us through many of the more basic functions on the screens such as the nautical equivalent of satnav, and before long our minds were reeling with the variety and scope of what is available on the boat to the Coxswain and crew when they are out at sea, whether inside the cabin or outside on the deck.

However, I found one of the most interesting aspects was when Steve said,

“When we are out on a service, I always remind the crew that despite their ability to track practically everything on their screens there is still no substitute for using their eyes to look out of the window”.  This was a salutary reminder of how, historically, life boatmen used to go out on perilous rescue missions with so little to guide them, and yet they still effected many brave rescues.  However, of course it is obvious that the sophisticated communications and technology are far more effective and fit for purpose.

After the fascinating tour of the Shannon and the equally interesting statistics relating to the way in which the new boat is propelled by the water, we duly admired the amazing engine and tractor that ensure the Shannon can be safely launched after crossing the sand banks along the Exmouth shoreline.

We were then introduced to Andy , a crew member and mechanic who has been with the RNLI for 21 years and who is another person who exudes enthusiasm and a vocational commitment to what he does for the organisation.

He showed us the inshore D Class lifeboat, the type of which is familiar to us from our visit to Teddington. The Exmouth boat is named George Pearman II in memory of the donor’s grandfather and Andy described it as the workhorse of the station.

The Exmouth lifeboat station itself is only five years old and we were told by the operations manager, Kevin, that it is a “vast improvement on the old Portakabins at the other end of the  beach in Exmouth”.  Certainly the facilities are impressive, and ethically sound, the lifeboats being washed down with recycled rainwater after exercises and service.   The building is heated by a modern cost effective solar powered heat pump system.

IMG_3564 (2)

Finally we were pleased to catch up with Sarah again who had been helping on a (fortunately successful) search for a missing child on the beach.  As always with the RNLI, we met with nothing but courtesy, a warm welcome and a willingness to share information with us.

We felt very privileged to have a personal and in depth tour of the facility and the lifeboats and it is perhaps understandable that we didn’t think much about the reason we were there in the first place.

But later on as I was thinking about the visit, I realised that once again it was emphasised to me that, unfortunately, no amount of personal intervention or technology could have prevented James’s accident at the time it happened.

Sadly, his scenario is not uncommon and is another good reason for promoting increased awareness of personal safety around water.  More and more this is shared by the committed work of all the organisations  who reinforce the messages of drowning prevention and increase the level of education to all.

This reinforces to me the crucially important but simple message to everyone to always Respect the Water.  It matters not whether you are near lake, swimming pool, reservoir, quarry, river, or ocean, the message is still the same; enjoy yourself, but remember to … Respect the Water at all times.


(Above image taken from RNLI Exmouth Facebook page)




Of Samaritans and Sacher-torte

IMG_3386 (2)

It’s been a while since I posted on the blog, due to our move from Surrey to Devon and the associated busyness related to finding our way round.  We are gradually settling in and getting to know our new home and area. This all amounts to a work in progress!

I wanted to share a rather unique and wonderful Good Samaritan experience that came our way last week.

We were on our way back from shopping in Tiverton and as we rounded a bend on the A396 road to Bampton, we saw a man and a woman standing near to a car.  The man had his thumb out, hitching a lift.

“Shall we stop?” I asked Shaun, who was driving.

“I think we should”, he replied, pulling over into the passing place.

The man and woman approached.  They were wearing hiking gear and didn’t look particularly concerned, so we weren’t sure quite what to expect.

They greeted us cheerfully enough and we immediately gathered they were not English (the red classic Renault with foreign plates should have given us a clue).

It turned out that they were Austrian. “Can you help us, please?” asked the woman.      “We need a lift to Exebridge, where our boat is moored”.

It turned out that they had driven from Exebridge to where we had stopped, a few miles outside Bampton, with the intention of walking back to board their boat, and ride it down the river to where the car was parked, a distance of some five miles in total.  But they had come unstuck …

“The road, it is so busy!” they exclaimed.  “No pavements and it is too hazardous to walk”, they added.  We agreed.  Although not an especially busy road, it is an A road and is thus not ideal walking territory.

“It’s fine”, said Shaun.  “Get in the car and I will drop my wife off at home with the shopping and then take you on to Exebridge”,

They got into the car gratefully.  I was racking my brains for anything to do with Austria to converse about, and eventually rather lamely came up with,

“I don’t know anything much about Austria, but I have eaten Sacher-torte” which seemed to please them.  It was the only common ground we could find and I was amused at the thought of sitting in the car talking about chocolate cake with two Viennese strangers!

Shaun dropped me home and amid much nodding and smiling goodbye from the couple, he set off again to Exebridge, and soon returned having dropped them off.

We thought no more about it, except to congratulate ourselves on having the warm fuzzy feeling of playing Good Samaritans for the couple.

We hoped they would enjoy the rest of their stay and take back to Austria with them an impression that the English can be helpful and friendly, too.

Early that evening, there was a ring on the doorbell. I opened the door to see the Renault outside, and I was presented with a bottle of red wine; the Austrian woman stood there, effusively thanking us for our kindness. There was much waving and smiling before the couple drove off again.

We were amazed and touched that the pair had gone to the trouble of coming back with a gift for us; how very kind!

I had to laugh when I read what was written on the wine bottle label:

“Instead of Sacher-cake, wine from Vienna.                                                                             Thank you for the ride!                                                                                                          Greetings, Claudia and Christian”.

Somehow, this incident makes us feel more settled in this lovely region to which we have moved.  We didn’t present to the Austrian couple as new strangers in town.  As far as they were concerned, we were the locals, they were the visitors.  This instils a new level of confidence that comes from feeling as though we are relaxing day by day into our new environment.  Shaun and I agree that Devon is already offering some unexpected bonuses.

It is markedly unusual for my blog posts not to include something about grief and loss, but it does not have a place in this piece.  Suffice to say that the enormous distractions of leaving work and relocating here have combined to put me into a place where, apart from around the anniversary of James’s passing, I have not had time to think about the ramifications of the changes.

There is something quite refreshing in the shift of focus and I am hopeful that it will give me inspiration in my writing and colour my words in a new way.  Time will tell!