Wolverley Campsite Part 2

 

The chief engineer of the Staffordshire and Worcestershire canal was James Brindley. It was completed in 1771 for a cost that exceeded the authorised capital, and opened to trade in 1772. It was a commercial success, with trade from the Staffordshire Potteries southwards to Gloucester and Bristol, and trade from the Black Country northwards to the Potteries via the junction with the Birmingham Canal at Aldersley.On the opposite side of the canal, on the way to the Queen's head, the road runs alongside the Mini Pro Golf Park and the River Stour. 

The view from the bridge over the River Stour shows the Golf Park and, beyond it, the canal and the Lock Inn. 

I'd forgotten how physical camping can be - whether in a 45ft narrowboat or a campervan less than half its size. By the end of Tuesday, I was very tired and sore. I'd used muscles I'd forgotten were there and my legs and knees had not had a good workout in the fresh air in over a year. As a result, Alf was neglected. He was anxious during the drive up to the campsite and, having slipped his lead on a nocturnal pee expedition on Monday night, I wasn't going to risk losing him to the tempting hunting grounds that surrounded us. He was very cross on Tuesday afternoon when I joined the group for afternoon tea. I'd put down his breakfast early in the day and he had ignored it. Now, it was left outside, in its bowl under the Skadu. When we returned later in the evening, it was to the sight of a huge Crow finishing the last few pieces of Kibble. 

A combination of lack of experience of camping in such a small space, too much physical work, and a long and physically demanding walk, meant that Alf never got the promised 'free running' on the playing fields beside the campsite.

He hated the campervan on this trip. I haven't taken him out in it since last October and he's decided it is a scary thing. Normally, he hunkers down on the back seat, in his seat belt safety harness, and goes to sleep. He spent most of the time, both on the journey to, and the journey home from, Wolverley, with his tail between his legs and panting. 

It's been a steep learning curve for both of us, not least the emotional fatigue that comes with spending time in the company of a group of people who know one another and with whom you are the Newbie. I'm sure it will get easier. I will learn from the mistakes and, on the whole, the pros far outweigh the cons.

Next Stop with the same group - St Neots Huntingdonshire.

Wolverley Campsite and environs, Part 1

The best thing about Wolverley, for me, is that the campsite is right next to the canal. I could sit in comfort at The Lock Inn watching the boats passing through. 

The first was the 62ft Narrowboat Zappa, locking up towards Cookley on the Staffordshire and Worcestershire Canal.

The dog making all the noise is Alf. He was bored and hungry. He could smell delicious hooman food and we had waited over 30 mins for our cheese burger to be delivered to our table. He was sure there would be better pickings on board and wanted to join the crew.

We waited over an hour in total, for our order to be fulfilled. The half of cider appeared about 20 mins after the order. After a further 15 minutes, the waitress asked if I had ordered food. I had - with the cider. She went away and checked. 

No food order had been received in the kitchen. The kitchen would 'cook it right away' and the cider was 'on the house'. After a further wait of 20 mins, the burger arrived, sans chees, but with a layer of charcoal on both sides. It was inedible, so Alf happily disposed of it for me. I ate the chips. By now I was so tired and hungry and there was no point in making a fuss. The Inn was not coping with post-lockdown Covid rules. It had hired a multitude of waiting staff but was obviously short-handed in the kitchen. My waitress referred to 'she', singular. I imagine that the indoor working conditions left the Inn without sufficient experienced kitchen staff.

Earlier, we had walked to the Queen's Head to join the Small Motorhome Forum members who had booked lunch there. We were to be served in groups of six, so I waited until I presumed the first group had been seated and served. We passed the remarkable St John the Baptist Church on our way up towards the pub.

There was no sign of the others at the tables outside the pub and the route to the rear was barred. I assumed the group had finished lunch and gone walking. I made my way back down towards the canal, past the nature reserve and over the bridge to the Lock Inn.

The route was challenging. It was a steep climb up to the Queen's Head and back down again. Once past the Lock Inn, there was another steep climb back to Levant II. That was when I made the wrong decision to stop and have lunch at the Inn before the final climb. I was tired, out-of-condition, and sore. On reflection, I should have gone to the Old Smithy Tea-room on the opposite side of the canal instead of the Inn. The entrance to the Tea-room was through the carpark's garden. After the disastrous burger, I headed there and picked up an enormous wedge of Victoria sponge to have at what was a fast-approaching afternoon tea back at camp.

The area around Wolverley is lovely and rolling, as one would expect of the Stour Valley in Worcestershire. Kingsford Country Park & Kinver Edge is made up of over 200 acres of natural woodland and sandstone cliffs.  The area has many walking trails that cross over between the two counties and each with its own surprises.  The views of the countryside and forest from the top of the sandstone cliffs are wonderful.  On the Lock Inn terrace there is ample evidence of the sandstone cliff behind it.

Behind the Queen's Head the entrances to man-made caves can be found. I'm miffed that I was deprived of a view of these remarkable edifices. Image  By, CC BY-SA 4.0, Link

Descend into the valley and you’ll discover caves that were once houses that had been carved into the rock. Just over the border in Kinver, Staffordshire, the National Trust have restored several rock houses that are very much worth a visit. Most of the formal houses were carved into the sandstone cliffs around or before 1770 and may have expanded on existing caves or earlier dwellings.  The Kinver edge rock Houses have often been suggested as the inspiration the Hobbit Holes in JRR Tolkien’s masterworks ‘the Hobbit’ and ‘Lord of the Rings’. 

Another trip is called for to explore  Wolverley and the surrounding countryside.

to be continued .......

Getting tired of waiting.

for the new normal. 

An excerpt from a book summed up the first half year of grief. It also pointed the way forward, through empathy with, and care for, others.

The

But survival is not enough.

Since the funeral, in December 2019, I have tried to maintain contact with the few social networks that remained during Eamonn's final months. It was hard, but I made the effort - I went to Ukulele sessions on Thursday afternoons; I walked the dog when weather permitted; I had friends round for tea and a chat. I even went to Southwold, as planned, for our 51st anniversary. I tried to keep busy.  I had counselling sessions at the Garden Hospice. I was beginning to go out more and socialise.

Then, lockdown arrived and isolation began and I had to stay at home.


Throughout the next 12 months, new projects began to emerge, including gardening, campervan, and   reaching out to others who felt the same.

It's a dog's life

 

An important part of my weekly routine is sending Alf out for the morning with The Dog Pack. He goes twice a week, in preparation for when I resume attendance at my groups. 

The Dog Pack offers a fantastic service; their aim is to ensure that every dog feels safe, is happy, and learns new skills with his furry friends.

With each month's invoice, the Dog Packs sends a link to the previous month's photos and videos. It's evident from these, that Alf is beginning to join in with the activities. There's even footage of him playing tug-the-stick with Angie. 

The Dog's Pack's Day Camp has been extended and developed recently. The environment offers a challenge to less adventurous dogs. Alf is in his element.

He's very comfortable with the other dogs and stays closer to the pack most of the time. 

In some videos, it's evident that Alf has shrugged off his harness in the van (his old one is a bit roomy) and he's galloping around 'naked'. 

I'm looking forward to the day I can visit in the campervan.

Walking the dog - Part 2

Half of me is missing - the half I used to bounce ideas off; the part who explored the world with me, relishing the new adventures; the part  on whom I relied in rough times.

As I was walking through Purwell Nature Reserve, I was very aware that it is just me, alone, with whom I will experience these things, me who will cope when things go wrong. I didn't feel alone, because I wasn't - Alf was with me. But there wasn't that other self, to whom I could turn and say 'Listen, isn't that wonderful'

There was no one to whom I could turn and ask 'Can you smell that?' as we passed another stretch of elderflower bushes in the humid confines of the woodland.

No one to join me in the joy I felt when I spotted a young elderflower bush that had been espaliered, beautifully, against the fence and hedge that separated the Reserve from Gypsy Lane.

The strange thing is that, at the time, I did not feel the absence of the other half of me. I listened, watched, and smelled all these things and was 'in the moment' each time.

I mentioned, in Part 1, that I wondered if the inner trail would go as far as Coot's corner, near the junction with the Wymondley Road. Well, it did. I spotted water through the trees on the right and, a little further along, the buildings that belong to the fisheries and cafe on that spot. Getting a picture was difficult but, just like the time I drew the comet I saw one night alone on the boat on the chalkboard, I needed to collect evidence that I wasn't dreaming.

It proved to be the end of the trail. A way marker pointed to the left, the trail became a flight of steps, up which Alf led me to the other end of Gypsy Lane.

The exit gate had a smaller sign from the one at the other end.

The route back to the car was along Gypsy Lane. I met several family groups out walking with dogs and children. None was aware of the wonderful adventure that lay waiting for them, just a short flight of steps away. My enthusiastic description of the trail met with blank stares from some (young couple with a small dog) but with interest and gratitude from those with young children, who were obviously bored with yet another walk along a tarmacked path bounded on both sides by boring trees.







So ended another adventure, taken alone; missing an important presence, but transforming in its own way. I'm listening to Lilac Lane.  It called to me because it was about a woman who turned to gardening on an allotment,  when her life felt completely broken. There is much I relate to in this novel - " The guilt was the worst thing; guilt for being alive, for carrying on without him. Everytime I laughed or lost myself in the moment, seconds later the memory returned and a knife twisted in my heart as a sharp reminder. ..... widow, bereaved, alone. And the flip side; guilt at not making the most of the life I had ..... "

Eamonn used to ask me 'well what did you learn from that, when I'd finished a novel. I tried to explain that, probably, nothing, but that novels often confirmed my experiences and my life-view.  Onwards and upwards. The only way is onward, carrying the memories with me. 

Walking the dog - Part 1

Walking was something Eamonn and I really enjoyed doing together., especially on the beach where beach-combing alternated with discussions setting the world to rights - until Eamonn could not manage beach walking and found country walking taxing as he struggled to keep up with me and Alf. Walking alone is not the same and I miss both the company and the conversations.  But sometimes a new discovery leads to a new experience.

The rules of social distancing and working from home have led to the local footpaths and bridleways becoming quite crowded. The farmers have done their best, creating wide set-asides to make social distancing easier. But, with the new paths come new rules. It is no longer possible to allow Alf off-lead on some paths. As Alf can become reactive when meeting other dogs on-lead, I decided to take a little-known route through the local nature reserve.

Purwell Ninesprings (There are nine chalk-land springs in the area) is maintained and managed with the help of volunteers. When it first opened its gates to visitors, there was not very much to explore because of the lack of a track through it.

I took Alf through the gate expecting about 100 metres of cleared woodland before we would have to turn back. I was wrong.

With Alf on a long lead, we had the trail to ourselves until it reached an exit gate almost 1km further on.

The entrance is close to the wetlands, home to a great variety of flora and fauna. The raptor population has grown thanks to the careful husbandry of the Trust. It was an overcast day and I didn't expect to see many butterflies, but my first find was this speckled wood butterfly that landed on some  bramble leaves and patiently waited with wings outstretched until I could get close enough to get a reasonable photo.

The only available leaflet, doesn't mention this inner track. I may be one of the few people to have discovered it if the conversations I had on the return route via Gypsy Lane are anything to go by. It is summer, and so far, the track is passable and not too badly overgrown with brambles and trees. I think most people are aware of the more open track, overlooking the open water at the top end of Kingswood Avenue. Alf thought we were taking that track as it skirts the playing fields alongside the single bar fence, that we have walked many times.

The next hour was spent discovering things I never knew about this sanctuary on my doorstep. Ever-changing vistas, from the narrow track overhung by trees and shrubs,

to views across the chalk wetlands with bronze tinged reeds swaying in hollows hidden from view.

There was so much to explore, with eyes, and ears, and nose, that Alf was content to stay on a long-lead and didn't once attempt a mad dash. He stayed on the track as if he knew he would not be welcome trampling around the unmarked areas.

As we walked, Alf sampled the vegetation. He's a great forager and has always enjoyed a fresh piece of dew-soaked greenery or fresh berries. I used to worry that he would eat something poisonous, but, so far, all is well - apart from the time I caught him helping himself to potting compost from the open bag. He was pooping fibrous strands of bark for days afterwards.

I was in the dark about where, or if, the path would end. There was evidence of clearance and management of the woodland, with the odd, unexpected splash of beauty lighting up the verge.













The track curved away from Gypsy lane, then back towards it again, and I began to wonder if it would skirt Coots Corner, or end long before it reached the Wymondley Road. There were more discoveries to be made, but that story is for the next journal entry.

Keeping a journal is important

to me. If I hadn't started keeping a journal shortly after the daughter was born, I wouldn't have all the resources that allow me to rediscover the memories of the past 45+ years.

Today, I mainly be writing to keep myself on an even keel during the dark days of grieving that have been exacerbated by the Covid 19 pandemic.

Although I'm trying to build a new normal, I'm also keen to salvage as much of the old normal as possible. A large part of this is to continue cooking fresh, tasty, nutritional, meals for myself.  Now that the conservatory is more of a 'sun-room', I have set up a table for one and use it for meals, instead of eating from a tray in front of the TV.

One thing I have changed, when it comes to meals, is the timing of the main meal of the day. I have always preferred eating it in the middle of the day. One of the reasons is that my energy levels flag in the afternoon and I often don't feel like cooking anything. The main meal at mid-day(ish) is now a firm fixture at weekends. It began with Sunday lunch at Easter. Ocado is delivering lovely Welsh lamb chops that I roast with potatoes and carrots, on a bed of rosemary, with olive oil and garlic.

Today is Whit Sunday, when a meal like this is a favourite (of mine and Eamonn's) but it calls out for a glass of wine. As I'm not coping too well with alcohol any more, I have substituted lime juice and tonic, or a non-alcoholic Hugo. These make refreshing summer accompaniments in the warmer weather.

I miss eating with my life-long companion, so I have started listening to Classic FM or one of my books on Audible as I eat. The garden view is lovely this summer, and the light in the room is wonderful. I am keeping everything crossed that the replacement of some of the glass with solid panels will make it easier to heat in the cold weather.







There are other 'activities' that require my companion, such as walking the dog. But that's a story for another day.

An atheist grieving

I’ve been thinking on and off about how people have approached me once they’ve learned I’ve lost such an important loved one in my life. For the most part, I’ve noticed people make assumptions about me; they speak to me as though what they would want to hear is what I would want to hear.

It’s a pattern of people presuming to understand what I’m going through, and perhaps even projecting their own beliefs onto me because they’re too uncomfortable with possibly facing the potential that I see death from a different perspective. Maybe inside themselves, they’re having doubts, and want me to attempt to believe in an afterlife along with them as a form of comfort for them. I think this kind of behavior is where people go very wrong, and how in many situations people end up losing friends and loved ones.

But through all these experiences, I have one main idea as to how to approach someone who’s grieving. Don’t approach them as though they are you. That’s where some people tend to get lost, though. They think, ‘Well, if I shouldn’t say to them what I think would comfort them, because it comforts me, then what is there to say?’

Maybe that’s the point: you don’t need to have something to say. Reciprocation just might be the better option when faced with the bereaved. Maybe approaching someone simply with a gift of listening to anything they have to say – really hearing them out and reciprocating those words – is the key. Because then it’s not about you and what you want to hear if you were in that person’s place and thinking, ‘I need to know all the right things to say so I’m just going to say what everyone else I know does.’ Stop yourself. Just listen. Listen and you very well might discover what that person wants to hear.

Truly listening to someone is the act of putting yourself second and that someone first. When many of us are faced with someone who is grieving, we’ll turn around and make ourselves our main priority. We start to become nervous about what WE need to say, about OUR discomfort, about how WE should deal with it all – and in that self-centered mindset we forget about the most important person in that situation. It’s not us. It’s that person who feels like they’re all alone in a world that’s crumbling around them because suddenly, they’re without that love they had for those precious moments it was alive.