As a child I could eat most things as long as it was covered in at least 1 inch of Tomato Ketchup… even pesky vegetables. Now all these years later,Hawklad has upped the ante. Seemingly everything on his plate is edible as long as it’s found submerged in a sea of the red stuff. But whereas I would be fine with the cheapest ketchup, Hawklad has to have Heinz…. And when I say a sea of the stuff, it’s at volume levels which create destructive pressure levels. The Swiss Hotel we would stay at on more than one occasion had to order more ketchup as someone had completely exhausted their stocks.
Spiez, a wonderful town which every so often has had its Ketchup stocks put under extreme pressure….
Driving along a certain road, a route I frequently venture down. It’s not a bad trip at all, nice country views, not too much traffic and memories. Just on the outskirts of the city, the road runs by a little road side cafe.
A smile. Always a smile.
Mum’s 70th.
That cold, frosty and beautifully clear morning, Mum had just landed in a farmer’s field….. A so called bumpy landing, ‘came in a bit hard’ …. A hot air balloon flight over the city and countryside. Mum now had a tale to tell, so the family gathered to listen in this small roadside cafe. Tea and Cream Scones, sat huddled on the wooden benches outside. Much laughter. All the funnier as mum revealed a secret, she was scared of heights… If we had known earlier she might well have had a birthday boat cruise down the river.
Over the proceeding years the cafe has physically not changed much, maybe the wooden benches are looking a little more creaky. But one change is that it’s increasingly become a bit of a biker pit stop haunt. Yamaha’s and Motörhead Jackets reside on the wooden benches alongside couples and families, cream teas still being consumed by all. Mum would find this amusing.
Feels like a timeless memory to me.
There is another road, often ventured as well. Nice road, very like the other road. This one had another memory.
But no smiles this time, they have slowly faded..
This road runs by a derelict pub, one that’s been up for sale for too many years. Sadly the years have not been kind to the old building. Windows broken, part of the roof have collapsed, weed filled car park. Surely it can’t be too long before the bulldozers move in and put it out of its misery. Yet this was still the site of a memory. For weeks we had kept our work romance quiet but finally it was time to come clean. A Christmas office quiz night and meal at an old country pub. Back then it was a place full of life and character, really well kept and stylish. The big reveal ended up probably not being a romantic one, rather that the seemingly clever bloke from Finance in the three piece suit was in fact a monumental idiot whose useable pub quiz knowledge was limited to football and football…. Plus wow, was he an embarrassing dancer. Little did they know that it took years of practice at the TopDeck in Redcar to get this bad….. WHAT on earth could she see in him…… What she did do that night was to convince me to go on holiday with her to Switzerland, our first trip. That old pub and that night proved to be our gateway to The Alps. And as we left, it started to snow, snow just a couple of days from Christmas.
That memory would bring a smile every time I passed this pub. But that was when it was a busy, working pub, when it had life. Watching it fade away started to change the feel of the memory as well. As the life slowly ebbed from the pub, the gloss and magic went from the memory. The memory became less vivid, less colourful, faded, transient. Now when I pass here, I struggle to see the memory anymore, I just see a sad old derelict building. When I do try to recall the memory it feels really ancient, from a different world, almost artificial. Compare that with Mum’s birthday memory which feels alive, vivid, as if it was yesterday. But heres the thing, both memories were born just a few months apart.
Memories are delicate, can’t be taken for granted. Yet is it also possible that some memories are intrinsically tied to something like a location, a sound, a smell. Things that stimulate a certain reaction from our senses that link to a memory. If that thing is damaged, the memory is also damaged. But surely it might also be possible that we can find memories that are more embedded, tied to things we pick up on which feel like that have more permanence. Let’s say locations that appear untainted by time, places where we can still talk about timeless personal memories.
Time for a little piece of Switzerland. So many memories flow from just looking at these photos. Memories that feel as fresh as ever.
I had a conversation with a friend a few weeks back on how his view on life had changed drastically with time. He talked about how for years he desperately wanted to see the world, home was just not enough. Home time often felt like wasted adventure time. Adventure, adventure, adventure. But over the last few years, increasingly, his home, his garden, the countryside immediately around him, was his world, it was more than enough. He felt like he had done enough travelling and adventuring now, experienced enough of that in person. Now he could relax and fully appreciate that LOCAL LIFE which had previously seemed way too claustrophobic and restrictive for him.
Why take his paintbrushes and sketchbooks thousands of miles, through countless stressed filled hours in concrete departure lounges…
Why damage the world in search of ever more exotic adventures when there was more than a lifetime of adventures and wonderful subjects to paint, just a few moments from his front door….
For years he only went into the garden to have a barbecue and reluctantly cut the grass. Now he sits for hours in his garden, happy, relaxed and content.
He was even thinking about if he could get rid of his car, did he need it now he had taken ROOT.
This got me thinking, could I do the same here, take root in this part of Yorkshire. Possibly, there are definitely worse places to become rooted. But I kept coming back to this one thought…
I could take root in Switzerland, I really could.I would right now if I could.
Going through some old photos for this post and a TV news item about the upcoming election sparks memories. The Swiss Hotel Owner would always want to hear updates about UK politics. After the update he would always say something like
‘In the UK people don’t seem to go into politics to help communities, it’s about helping themselves. They want the political power too much…’
Oh that is so true, and my mind wanders. Some folks do want political power way too much 😂😂. This post is going off on a tangent now.
Recently I went to vote in the local Mayoral election. A trip to a little used, tiny village hall. The Presiding Officer, clearly bored, was having a good giggle at not accepting my photo id, as to her it was not a true likeness. Apparently my beard shape was different to the photo and she wanted me to restyle it before I could vote.
Maybe more ZZTop, or maybe more Idris Elba…..
In front of the bored official, on the desk, apart from the voting forms and electoral register WAS a Stephen King Book, a food pack up, several Mars Bars and a flask of something.
Memory time. I had completely forgotten that years back, I had been a Presiding Officer, just as bored as this beard focusing prankster.
The Election Team could never get enough people to volunteer to run all the polling stations, so the day before the election, desperate officials would walk round the government building where I was working, trying to entice people to volunteer. AND I was one of the willing….. Why was I so willing….
Run this past me again, you want me tomorrow to not come into work, at this really busy time, to go to a deadly quiet village hall. Then instead of working my butt off, I can read a book, drink coffee, have a picnic, and I just have to hand out a few voting cards for 12 hours.I’m your man…..
But the secret was not to look too keen, make it look like a real chore, a real inconvenience. Eventually they would agree to pay your normal salary for the day rather than just volunteering.
And you are going to pay me to do nothing for the day…. Just GRAND. Now you can sign me up.
You would turn up at the voting centre and basically vegetate. In most of these remote polling stations your were lucky to get 10 voters turning up during the whole 12 hour shift. Normally a super relaxed shift. Yes, sometimes boring. One time I can remember trying to convince a voter that I could sort out a special voting bone for his dog, so the dog could vote as well. Yes I so understand her beard jokes….. But one year I had to do the voting centre gig with a trainee planner as an assistant. Way too keen. Have you done this, have you done that, is that wall poster on local conservation appropriate during voting. Never stopped. On top of everything, he then accidentally put his empty crisp packet into the vote ballot box rather than the bin. I forced him to fish it out with tongs I managed to find in the village hall kitchen. After about an hour it was too much for my sanity.
Ok, I’m going to make you Acting Presiding Officer.
Really, can you do that.
Yes, I will even get you a name badge to tell everyone about your new role. You can then run the process and I will just sit over there and de stress.
He was so happy, even happier when I stuck a postage note on his chest telling everyone of his new role. Then I sat in the corner and read while the new Acting Presiding Officer enthusiastically dealt with the handful of voters over the passing hours, only once did I have to intervene to stop some form of bureaucratic madness from him. Always thinking, when will he look at his name badge. He never did, at the end of the day, he threw it in the bin and went off a happy bunny, full of the new political power he had exerted. I kinda hoped that at least one of the voters had read his name badge.
No it didn’t read……
I’m the Acting Presiding Officer
Much more importantly it read….
I’m the Acting Prime Minister.
I’m sure that act of personal silliness broke several electoral laws and Revolutions have started over much less.
Each Day, Dad would pick up the local newspaper, briefly glance at the main headline and then it was straight to the same old page. He would turn to the Death Notices which bizarrely was on the same page as the previous day’s horse racing results…. I’m not sure what message the Editor was sending there.
Each Day, Dad would carefully scan the names to see who had died. I never understood Dad’s seeming obsession with that.
Now after all the years, I understand…..
Last night I had a series of bizarre dreams. Not bad dreams, just odd ones. One featured a friend from college, a long forgotten friend. Hadn’t seen her in decades, we met up a couple of times in London after college but then we just lost touch, we headed in different life directions. No idea why she suddenly popped up randomly last night but after that dream I wondered what happened to K. So I headed online to see if I could find any mention of her. After a bit of searching I think I maybe found one brief reference to K, right name, right age. If it’s K then she has become some form of Judge, I had heard years back she was training to be a solicitor. Hope this means it’s a good life scenario.
But here’s the thing, alongside hopes of finding news of K in a wonderful life setup, a big part of me was just hoping she was ok, still with us. I think Dad would understand that feeling.
For years I’ve tried to learn a second language. At school, French was the weapon of torture preferred by the teachers. They tried, I was very trying….. After about 15 years of more self imposed French torture, after so many different language learning systems, I realised that there we’re still rabbits and chickens who could ask for a sandwich in Paris better than I could.
Experiment abandoned…..
I switched to German. Since then I’ve tried, I’ve really tried. Slowly the second language developed past rabbit linguistic levels. Increasingly on the Swiss trips, I tried out my German, usually spectacularly badly. But then in 2015, on one particular train heading towards Bern, with one particular German speaking Train Guard, a Guard asking to see our tickets and asking where we were going, I nailed it. The perfect response in perfect German. I actually spoke German for maybe 20 seconds…..
I looked over at my partner and whispered ‘that was unusually competent German for me…’
Well I thought I nailed it.
The Guard looked coolly at me over his glasses and said in perfect English…
“you used all the right words but pronounced them in the wrong way and you got the word order completely wrong”…
He then proceeded to give me an impromptu lesson on how verbs are parachuted to the end of sentences when certain words like THEN or BECAUSE are used. But then there are other words for BECAUSE that don’t send the verb flying all over the place….. what on earth is that all about.
So fast forward to 2024 and I’m still trying. I think I’ve just about sussed out the verb going to the end thing. Sadly my pronunciation is still very Yorkshire mixed with Geordie, think Monty Python. What chance have I got with actual German speakers when my very own car satellite navigation can’t even understand my accent. That’s when I’m speaking English…… But one day, hopefully really soon I will get the chance to try German again in Amazing Switzerland.
Ich kann es kaum erwarten, es wieder zu besuchen, weil es sehr schon ist.
What an odd night with two very different DREAMS. One really nice dream, but I can only recall snippets. One really weird dream and I can recall it vividly. With me I think the key is how I wake. Wake slowly and the dream is hazy, fading quickly. Wake with a START and the dream is clear, has a permanence.
The first dream felt like such a lovely, safe place to be. Based on real places. I know it was about Lake Brienz in Switzerland. The rest is hazy, no idea about any details, just that I was happy. I’ve been truly blessed to spend a little bit of time here, wish it was way more, such a stunning place. I woke slowly and quietly.
And then we come to the SECOND dream. Just an hour or so after Lake Brienz.
Even now, everything from that dream is so vivid. It started off in another real place, at my parent’s old house. I was in the garden and it was a perfect copy of reality. Little long forgotten details brought back, the gap in the fence under the hedge where my tortoise would go exploring, the crooked apple tree, the missing pane in the greenhouse, the lavender smell. So many details. The dream kicked on. A young couple had moved in next door. I talked with them over the fence, but quickly the guy had to go inside to feed the pets. He liked it here, she hated the new house. She hated the area, the people, the weather, her new home, everything. She even hated the plants in her garden. She bitterly talked about wanting to be anywhere but here, it was her husband’s bad idea. I felt really uncomfortable. As soon as she could get out, she would. She was even going to burn those two ugly Japanese shrubs in the pots, I asked if I could give them a new home. She shrugged and stormed off. So I headed inside to see Mum, to tell her that I had met her new neighbours and that she might get those two nice plants that she likes. The reality was actually my mum left that house nearly 30 years ago and although the garden in the dream was perfect, the other bits of the story had much fiction. That couple never existed, the inside of mum’s house wasn’t quite right, the neighbouring garden looked odd, but I do remember those two Japanese plants, they were definitely real, although I’m not sure mum ever noticed them.
Here’s where the dream slammed in a sudden handbrake turn…..
As I went inside I heard mum’s voice scolding my older brother. He was apparently sleeping his life away and his breakfast was still on the table….. now there was some reality to part. I can remember my older bro liking to party at the weekend and as a result he would stay in bed till nearly midday, that didn’t please mum…..
Back to the dream, my brother’s bedroom door opened and out came my bro. As he walked passed me on the way to the kitchen, he patted me on the back and said in am AMERICAN ACCENT ‘Hi Bro….’.
But that’s not my brother, he’s not American and hold your horses ….that’s Jack Black……
That jolted me out of my dream, and I’m sure I woke shouting ‘Jack Black ain’t my brother’.
Figure that dream out, not been back to that house in decades, haven’t spoke to my brother in months and no I have not seen any Jack Black movies recently.
Really odd and just a bit frustrating….. So many unanswered dream questions and really frustratingly, why can’t I remember all the good details from the nice dream.
It’s funny how those long hidden memories suddenly decide to reawaken.
We were on our way to Switzerland by train, a day after an incident on a train from Amsterdam to Paris. Armed police were swarming everywhere. Usually a wonderful, restful trip from London to Paris, then Paris to Strasbourg, then Strasbourg across the border to Switzerland. This time it was distinctly edgy.
Just out of Paris, a young mother got really spooked by soldiers patrolling up and down the train with a machine guns. This upset her young son. Step forward a French passenger who was clearly a cartoonist. Out of his bag came sketch books and pens. For the next three hours he drew wonderful cartoons and drawings for the child. Whatever the child asked for, he drew amazingly. The young mum smiled, the young child laughed, so did everyone around them.
That proved to be our last trip to Switzerland as a family of 3 and amongst the emotions around that, I completely forgot this wonderful cartoonist. Now thankfully I can see it all clearly again.
This week I’ve got round to something which has been nearly EIGHT years in the making.
A few years back was the start of the world changing for us. Since then Hawklad has experienced losing his mum, two grannies, an uncle and a niece. Not to mention several pets. Hard enough for a grizzled, well weathered muppet like me, unimaginably tough for a child who was only 8 when the world started changing.
I’ve always tried to find the right words for Hawklad, being open to whatever he needs to get through this but being brutally honest, I’ve tended to skim over some really important areas when it comes to how I’m getting through this. Definitely putting off making sense of what death and loss truly mean, I don’t think I was ready for that. Now it kinda feels like it’s been put off long enough.
The hotel we stayed at in Switzerland had a beautiful reading room, filled with books in German, French, Italian and English. In the English section I noticed on our last trip a fine collection of CS Lewis books. Plenty of the expected magical adventures but amongst those was a clearly well thumbed little book. This was his diary on GRIEF, talking about what he was thinking and struggling with during the weeks after he had lost his wife. Even back then, I could quickly tell that it wasn’t an easy read and that was before our world changing. I remember carefully putting the book back, thinking ‘thankfully not yet…”. It soon would be….. yet I always put off visiting those pages.
Now in 2024, it’s time to read that book as it has a huge relevance to me, AND now I feel I’m ready to open some of those closed doors.
Images from that last Switzerland adventure when that book was still not required….
Switzerland has so many wonderful adventures to offer. Such a small country offering so much.
Yet there is one thing that Yorkshire has over that LANDLOCKED Alpine Paradise.
SEASIDE
If your thing is bleak, windswept sprawling beaches and a frigid North Sea, followed by Fish, Chips and Mushy Peas, then it’s the Yorkshire Coast for you. Case in point…..
On a typically tropical Easter Day, donned in a million woolly layers, we bravely ventured to just North of Whitby. To Sandsend Beach.
A Dad trying to cope with the loss of his Partner and becoming a single parent. 