Old photo’s can be powerful things, can’t they? Expect you know what I’m talking about, dear reader. Expect you can visualise the scene. For some reason you stumble across an old photo of yourself, taken all the way back in time when mobile phones weren’t a thing and suddenly, boom. You are transported in your head, back to those good old days when you were young. With all your life spread out before you. Whereas now, well, now you are old and tired. Your life has been and gone in the blink of an eye. To put it another way, if life was a slap up supper, that old photo was taken as you walked into the restaurant. Whereas now, the starter and main course have both been and gone. Along with the dessert. Hope you enjoyed them. Hope they slid down a treat and satisfied the soul.

Because now all that is left, is the coffee and cigars. If cigars are your thing. They used to be mine way back when, but not any more, sigh. So, speaking selfishly, the only thing left is the coffee. And paying the bill, of course. Mind, if you’re very lucky, they might offer you a wafer thin chocolate mint afterwards. So, it’s not all bad.

Either way, all of the above is why I tend to shy away from old photos. However with this particular photo, I didn’t get the chance to look away before it was thrust into my consciousness. Online. If you’re feeling in the mood for a story, I shall explain.

It started a while back when one of the terrestrial TV channels dedicated an evening to the musical stylings of that rather talented chappy, Mr Paul Heaton. I didn’t realise this was happening until late on the night itself, when I was channel surfing and stumbled across a film that Paul and I made many years ago when we were in a band together. There were four of us in The Housemartins and this film captured us all mucking around, having a fine old time, just as things were starting to get interesting in our careers. Of course, we were all very young way back then. Early twenties. The age when you think you’re a grown up, but proper grown ups think you are not.

Long story short, I sat there, watched the film and disappeared into a wistful mist of memories. A haze of nostalgia, a fog of fancies. Call it what you will, the fact remains, seeing us all back then, young, free and foolish, with our lives ahead of us, well, it was most odd. Especially as I was sitting there watching with so much of my life behind me. Decades had flown between then and now. Not going to lie, it got me all tangled up in blue jeans, thinking about the years gone by, the shortness of life left and low to zero possibility of such weird and wacky adventures ever coming this my again.

Whilst musing on all this a few days later the old photo I mentioned earlier popped up on my phone. (The one at the head of this piece.) It was a picture taken by the local newspaper up in Hull whilst Paul and I were busking. Someone had dug it out and plastered it across my algorithm. Sent me into a right old tailspin of time travel.

We were both standing there, busking away, trying to earn a crust and maybe even enough leftover for a pint. Both wearing Dutch captains caps we had got from some ex-army supplies type place. No idea why we loved them so much, but we did. We were also both wearing old suits. Mainly because we were so skint we couldn’t afford to buy new clothes. So used to go to Pauline’s house instead. She was a neighbour and also Roland Gifts mum (he of the Fine Young Cannibal’s) and sold vintage pieces at knockdown prices. We had a particular fondness for the old suits and cardigans which were passed on when their previous owners died, mainly because they were really cheap. For obvious reasons.

Looking at that picture I thought of all the fun and frolics that had passed under the bridge since then. The good luck and fair winds. I would never have believed such things were possible for me back then. Mind you, I also remembered all the heartbreak and horror too. The multiple visits from those annoying five horsemen of the apocalypse; death, disease, divorce, disaster … and dental work. Would never imagined so much unpleasantness would occur either.

Was a bit of a downer to be honest, which is exactly why I try to avoid old photos somuch. There again, it was also a reminder to get out there, shake some trees and hope that, despite the odds, a few crumbs of adventure rain down on me and mine before I end up in a hole in the ground. Or whatever the fashion is when my time comes.

On which cheery note - I shall leave you. Hope you’re having a nostalgia free time!

Either way, just now I was watching the rose bush outside our dining room window. It’s been there for years. Was old before we moved in. Every year I pare it back, cutting off the bits that stick out into the patio. And every year it grows them right back out again. Every year black or greenfly appear, blight settles on the leaves, and every year, the rose bush shrugs them off and comes back stronger than ever the very next spring. Most impressive. A fine reminder of the power of nature to overcome.

As I sat and watched just now, a faint breeze passed through the leaves, sending small showers of petals slipping towards the ground. Got me thinking about a phrase my old dad used to say. “Those not busy being born, are busy dying.”

Definitely true in the case of the roses on that bush. Seems the flowers are either budding young things full of promise for tomorrow, or fading beauties on their way to collapse and death. Sending bittersweet showers of petals to the ground, littering their own graves with colourful reminders of the short, sweetly scented lives all us mortals lead. Sigh.

The bit in the middle, the bit where they are in full bloom, filling the air with their scent, thrilling the eyes, noses and probosces of hungry insect admirers, well, that bit seems to flash by in an instant. I’ve watched it happen many a time. You see a perfect bloom in the morning, only to find it withered and stale the very next day.

Sometimes I snip off a head or two when they are at the height of their powers, slip them into a lovely little vase on our dining table and breath in their youthful beauty. Like some sort of floral vampire. They give off a heady mix of perfume, pictorial delight and philosophical springboard. It doesn’t last. Within a short span of hours they are old and withered and ready for compost corner. Really is a rose coloured metaphor for life.

Don’t know about you, but I like to take a mental step back from the real world occasionally, to look down on it from above. Like a Roman emperor of old. Pretending for one moment I am an observer. One who looks at humans the way we look at ants scurrying past our feet. The thing I notice with all of us; family, friends and strangers, is that we really are always busy either being born or dying.

Right now I can picture some of my loved ones with tiny babies, new parents spending every waking hour, which is most of them by the way, rushing round trying to make every single thing as bright and beautiful as they possibly can for their brand new bundle of joy. Which is exactly as it should be, obviously. Others have got teenagers in the house, just as troublesome and demanding as babies but, not going to lie, slightly less rewarding and far more expensive. Again, exactly as it should be. We all put our parents through it, seems only fair that our kids should do the same to us.

Then, looking in the other direction, I can bring to mind older family and friends. All trudging through the later years. All dealing with the usual smorgasbord of death, disease and downward spiral of health and hopefulness. Honestly, it’s a fascinating mind game to play.

Weirdly, it’s also a game I find endlessly uplifting. Brings a bounce to my day every time. Because the one thing that stands out like a red flag on a white chocolate biscuit, time and time again, is that our days on this planet are short. They flash by in a moment. So we really do have a solemn duty to grab hold of whatever happiness we can find. To clutch our dreams close and our loved ones closer. To go out there and live every moment, every minute and every hour as brightly and boldly as we can. To get out there, smell the roses, drink deep of the delights and make the best of every single solitary moment we have.

Because if you’re not busy being born, then what are you doing? Living la vie en rose, hopefully.

Until next time, all the best

Stan

Quite apart from the weeks long heatwaves that have washed up on our shores over the last few months, the weather right now, as I type these words, is still off the scale bananas. I mean, everyone knows how the routine goes by now, surely? We have a nice old time in May and June, with heat and sun and days getting longer and then, the minute the kids break up school for the summer holidays, boom. The good weather runs away and hides whilst rain falls from the sky like crumbs from breakfast croissants. Tents gets flooded, holidays in Cornwall require waterproofs and all is right with the world.

That’s the way it has always been since time began. A sad but true fact of school life. It’s the main reason so many people fly off to the sun in August. Splurging all their heard earned pennies to escape the relentless rain and misery of a classic English summer. But not this year. Oh, no, sirree, Bob, not this summer. This year, they have wasted their time and their hard earned cash. Which is a very sad thing to say. But, it’s a fact. As we all know, the sun has just kept on shining right on through, like a National guitar, as Paul Simon once put it so sweetly.

On top of all that meteorological madness, another tidal wave of weird has swept over us all, here at Cullimore Cottage. Don’t know if it us, our age, our friends and family or just a phase of mercury in retrograde (whatever that is), but feels like something fishy is going on out there. Very fishy. Everywhere we turn seems that folk we know are slogging their way through a jungle of difficulties. It’s as if the world has suddenly decided that what we really, REALLY want right now is a whole bowl of trouble with a side order of heatwave. Most odd.

To be fair, some of this troublesome stuff is home grown. But not all of it. We aren’t entirely to blame. Honest. Though I will admit our family is going through one of those seismic shifts that come along from time to time in the lives of large, extended families. Something which is bound to happen if you have as many small children, fluffy dogs and aging relatives as we have in ours. Somehow, this summer, seems like all of us are going through changes in our lives. Big ones. Game changing ones. Changes that require some rewirement of the status quo. (No, not the band.)

Some of the kids are turning into teenagers, others are turning into toddlers and some of the old ones are moving slowly onwards and downwards. All of them getting ready for the exciting time when they spread their wings, take a leap of faith and flap away from the nest. Sigh.

All of which leaves Mrs C and myself with a teeny, tiny conundrum. What do you do when the kids and grandkids just don’t need you around so much any more? When you find yourself ever so slightly surplus to requirements? In truth, it’s not a huge issue yet, we somehow still manage to find ourselves drowning in a sea of spare dogs and aging relatives half the time. Right now, for instance, after a few days of old folks and visitors from overseas, we have a doggy guest staying with us for a couple of weeks.

Just like the small children in our lives, she likes to throw a curve ball into the mix from time to time. Last night we took her out for a lovely evening stroll and she decided to ruin everything by doing a runner. Meaning we had to spend a couple of hours searching high and low for her. Luckily, thanks to the kindness of strangers and the dog tag on her collar, she was eventually found, safe, sound and, just like small children everywhere, completely unrepentant.

All of which makes me wonder how life will be when this crazy weather finally breaks. When normal meteorological service is resumed. Will our lives return to their familiar and comfortable grooves? Will the world go back to sanity? Or will we be spinning off into a brave new clutch of craziness in a few weeks? So many questions, so little time.

Hope your world is running smooth and sweet, like a bear with a barrel of honey.

Trouble is, these days I’m not one of them. Which means various members of my family have spent various years of their lives being hideously embarrassed at the relaxed way I waffle away to waiters and waitresses. The familial embarrassment doesn’t effect me much, but it does provide the odd moment of light relief in my otherwise staid existence.

Had one of those moments recently when I was out and about with a select group of family members. Should probably mention that one of the family members involved on that particular occasion was a teenage grand daughter. She is at the age and inclination where every single thing I say, do, or even think, is a huge source of shame and regret, to her. Not going to lie, that actually spurs me on to greater heights of (in her eyes) unacceptable behaviour. Which is nothing to be proud of, I know. But I can’t help it. Sigh.

On this particular occasion, we were somewhere having a drink. A very friendly young lady approached the table to take our order. As I turned to talk to here, to sort out sippables, I noticed a couple of points of interest. The first, was the plethora of tattoos on display on her arms. Luckily, I’ve been down this road before. More than once. With and without family members around. I might think a lot of modern tattoos look like the sort of thing a toddler would produce when let loose with a couple of felt tip pens, but people with those tattoos don’t like me to share this point of view. So I have learnt to zip up and move onto easier conversational gambits.

In this case, it was a couple of stars that caught my eye. Brightly coloured, shiny little paper stars. I recognised them from my childhood. They were the sort of star that teachers at primary school used to put on homework when they marked it. Reason I noticed these particular stars, is that they were randomly placed on the waitresses face. Since I doubted whether anyone had been marking homework on her chin, I thought it was safe to ask what they were all about.

Turns out, the simple answer, is that they are a way of covering up spots for thoroughly modern misses. In other words, as I pointed out to the young lady, they are just a brand new version of the age old beauty spot. A marvellous call back in honour of times gone by. Sadly, this young person had absolutely no idea what a beauty spot was, so I had to give her a potted history.

I’m sure that you, dear reader, know all about these fashionable devices from the Baroque and Rococo eras, but this young lady did not. So I briefly explained that in the 17th and 18th century, before a vaccine was invented, lots of people got smallpox, which often left scars and pimples on the face. These scars were not generally considered a good look. Bit like spots these days, I suppose.

Back then, some bright spark had the great idea of copying the little mole which Venus, the goddess of beauty, had upon her famously fabulous face. Which gave lots of fashionable folk the perfect excuse to start wearing little black spots to cover up their smallpox scars. Of course, these spots weren’t always round, sometimes they were star shaped. Which, as I explained to the waitress, just goes to show that there really is nothing new under the sun.

Perhaps my favourite part of this whole explanation was the effect it had on the young lady in question. And my grand daughter. The waitress was obviously completely unimpressed by the history lesson. Whilst my grand daughter was completely unimpressed by my chattiness. In short, it was a double bubble of joy for yours truly.

Until next time, all the best

Stan

Anyway, without further ado, for what it’s worth, here it is, this is the line I’m about to repeat. “The best laid plans of mice and men oft times go astray.” Not one of mine, I know. Someone else said it first. Actually, if I’m being honest, that’s not really what I wanted to say at all. And nor is it the actual line. Oh, no. The actual line was this, “The best laid schemes o mice an’ men, gang aft agley.” That’s the thing with our good old Rabbie Burns, he does benefit from a touch of translation at times. Aids the digestion. Literally speaking. But I digress.

Point is, I put in the Rabbie Burns quote for two very good reasons. Firstly, because it’s a great line and pretty close to the thing I actually wanted to say, and secondly because I have just spent the last week in Scotland. Which really was rather bonny. Well worth the trip, despite the inevitable Scottish summer rain. Every single day. But I’m digressing all over the place now. Which is no good. So back to the matter at hand. The thing I wanted to say, was this. “Sometimes, the best laid plan of all, is to have no plan. At all.”

In short, sometimes, it is best to just wander through the world and wait to see what delights the great and glorious universe will choose to throw into your lap. The important thing, is not to let them slip past without jumping on in. As I often tell anyone who will listen, a small crowd at the best of times, there are plenty of windows of opportunity in life. The tricky thing is having the courage to leap through them when they appear, not knowing what you will find when you land. You need courage because these windows of opportunity are usually travelling at speed and are often not that easy to squeeze through.

The moral seems to be, when you see something coming towards you, something you like the look of, then you have to dive in and never mind the consequences. You might end up with egg all over your face, or your face all over the news, but either way, you can’t be snoozing. Because snoozing leads to losing.

Got about of this last week whilst up there in Scotland. Had taken the little camper van along and had given myself a week to pootle about the highlands. Seeing what I could find. There was no plan, hence the line above about the best laid plan being no plan. One thing I had done, was to take my e-bike. Regular readers will no doubt remember my latest love affair with this motorised two wheel seductress. She is a thing of grace and beauty and once you get her on the back of a van, well, the world becomes a better place just for having her in it. Sigh.

Was a real game changer. Meant I could park up somewhere quiet and lovely for the night, then jump on the e-bike to explore the surrounding locale. Loved it. Saw sights I’d never even dreamt of. But I digress. Again.

Point is, the best thing that happened whilst I was up there took place late one afternoon. With no bikes involved. To set the scene, the rain had been drizzling down all day, as it always seems to up there, but I had no cares for such things, as I had been driving through sublime scenery. Must say, that is something they do marvellously well up there. The scenery is off the scale. Anyway, long story short, I came to a gorgeous cove and decided to stop for the night. To bathe in the beauty of the cliffs. After jumping out of the van, I went to the edge of the cliffs and looked down at the beach below. Only to see, a sauna. An honest to goodness wood fired sauna in the middle of nowhere.

So I grabbed my swimmers, went down to investigate and soon found myself swimming in a perfect sea, in a perfect cove, then jumping into a toasty hot sauna with friendly locals. All in all, I couldn’t have come up with a better way to spend the evening if I had planned it. Which I hadn’t. Which only goes to show that, like I said, sometimes the best plan, is not make a plan.

The underdog I’m talking about here is not only extremely home grown, as English as a fry up with beans, it is also extremely quirky and definitely unexpected. Which is probably the very best sort of longshot, underdog there is out there. Huzzah and hurray. More power to their modest elbows. I stumbled across them quite by accident when I was engaged in one of my latest, late night, pursuits. Regular readers might recall that I have recently fallen into the routine of watching films on telly. Especially films that suit a late night spot of viewing.

At this point, it’s probably worth taking a step back in time to explain why watching films is such a new thing for me. Probably got something to do with my childhood, as these things often do. You see, back in the last century, when I was a nipper, we didn’t have a telly at home. My parents didn’t see the need. And they continued not seeing the need until round about the time I got to secondary school. Even then, the telly we had was a teeny, tiny thing. Black and white and only able to be watched when the wind was in the right direction. You had to stamp your feet and move the aerial to try and get a picture that you could actually watch. Which meant that watching films on TV was not high on the agenda. In fact, come to think of it, wasn’t even on the agenda.

Fast forward a few years and I went off to uni, which is when I experienced the joy of colour TV for the first time. A few of my housemates and I clubbed together to rent a telly. But since we had to share it, once again, my film watching opportunities were limited.

Which means I have got quite a lot of catching up to do. But already, after only a few short weeks of watching late night telly films, I have noticed a problem with the sort of big box office, Hollywood blockbusters that appear on our screens. They are so samey. The name of the film might change, but as a general rule, it’s always the same actors, the same plots, the same sort of high octane chases, fights and bang wallops. Whereas what I am looking for is more small budget and quirky. Films where the focus is on interesting characters doing interesting things in interesting places.

All of which brings me neatly to the underdog I was talking about, above. They are a tiny film production company based right here in the UK. In Lincolnshire. They are called, Tin Hat Productions. So far they have made four films, all based on stuff that happened in the second world war. What makes these films so remarkable and so fascinating, is that they are made for pennies compared to the Hollywood big shots. Have to say, after watching the first of these Tin Hat films, “Lancaster Skies,” all about a crew from bomber command, I am in awe. Most impressed. For my money, this tiny studio is putting out flicks that are head and shoulders above the dull, samey CGI stuffed dross that pours out of the Hollywood studios like sewage into the sea.

Not only are the underdog films more entertaining, they also stay in the mind for longer. I find with Hollywood films, I forget them completely by the time the end credits roll. In fact, sometimes I forget them halfway through and go to bed instead. Whereas the Tin Hat film was still giving me food for thought a couple of days later.

So there you have my first ever thoughts on a teeny, tiny film studio. I would go on, but I’ve got another film lined up for tonight. About a Spitfire over Berlin. Can’t wait. now all I need is popcorn!

Until next time, all the best

Or maybe that’s just me with my upbeat attitude and love of fizz. Though actually, come to think of it, can’t just be me. There are so many wonderful examples of it through the ages. Almost makes your head spin. It’s yet another example of that most unescapable rule of life. The iron rule of unintended consequences. Sort of.

Got thinking about all this recently when I was watching some random TV show. There was a professor bloke with an enormous ginger beard strolling about on a British beach, getting all over excited about fossils. In particular he was tickled by the sight of a fossilised hippo tooth. He started getting all moon eyed and joyful at the thought that many thousands of years ago, there were hippos here in the UK. Just like the ones that now live in Africa. He then casually dropped into the conversation that when the hippos and their ilk were living over here, the weather was a lot warmer. Quite similar to the mediterranean today, in fact. Which really got me thinking. Feels like we’ve had a splash of that Spanish sunshine slipping into our lives over the last few weeks.

Next day I was chatting to one of the grandkids about our present day climate concerns. This bright young thing was happily rattling off all the usual guff they get told at school these days. Doom, gloom and dismal disaster as far as the future eye can see. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m totally onboard with the notion that us foolish and thoughtless humans are making a right merry muck up of this glorious planet of ours. Polluting every corner. Putting our filthy fingerprints all over everywhere and everything. Turning this beautiful garden of Eden into a dumping ground for all manor of mass produced messes. As the song says, we take paradise and put up a parking lot. Then put a fast food joint alongside and drop the wrappers all over the show. Double sigh.

And yet. And yet. As I told my grandchild cheerfully, the Earth has seen plenty of pollution and unpleasantness before. Way back in the mists of time, before life as we know it had come along, the planet was populated by a whole heap of bacteria type bods. They breathed in bucket loads of that tricky carbon dioxide and breathed out a painful pollutant. Well, painful to them. But not us. It was oxygen.

After millions of years of polluting the planet with all that filthy dirty oxygen of theirs, those bacteria bods got their comeuppance when life forms like dinosaurs came along, using it to breath. To make themselves all big and strong. Perfect example of a silver lining, to my mind.

Next example of an unexpected consequence, a shiny piece of silver lighting up the world, was the enormous great meteor that crashed into the planet millions of years ago. Wasn’t very good news for the dinosaurs. Mostly wiped them off the face of the place. However, according to another TV show I watched recently, all that death and destruction also gave rise to a brand new type of glorious plant. Grapevines. The meteor knocked forests for six, but all that space and openness gave vines the perfect chance to come along and go for grape given tastiness.

Fast forward a few more million years and us humans finally realised that grapevines make grapes. And grapes make wine. And wine makes for good times. Silver linings all the way. So, dear heart, next time you raise a glass of something lovely, maybe with bubbles, maybe not, remember without pollution and that dirty great meteor doing it’s best to kill off everything in sight there would be no wine for us to merry mortals to enjoy.

All of which is another mighty fine and dandy silver lining. Up there with the best. I would go on with examples from history, but we’re running out of space. So, instead, it just remains for me to ask you all to charge your glasses and be upstanding. To drink to the wonderful world of unintended consequences. May all their linings be silver.

Cheers

Until next time, all the best

Was reminded of this the other day when I was sitting around the kitchen table, feeling bluer than a bag of Blue Riband biscuits on a big blue tablecloth. If such a thing is possible. Strangely, there was nothing actually going wrong in my life back then. In fact, it was quite the reverse. Things had been incredibly good round our way for quite some time. We had seen family and friends, had good times, giggles and even managed to squeeze in a BBQ between rain clouds. All mightily marvellous stuff. And yet, and yet.

For no good reason I found myself feeling decidedly down in the dumps. Less than cheery. Wouldn’t call it depression, for the same reason I don’t call physical unpleasantness, pain. Words have power and it’s always good to be careful with them. No good giving words more headspace than necessary, especially if they are not nice labels to have flying around the brain box. For instance, when it comes to painful stuff in my body, my preferred term is, sensation. So rather than having a headache, I will think of it as a strong sensation in my brainiac area. Silly, I know. But does seem to be strangely helpful. Got the idea from a yoga teacher I used to know. When anyone pulled a face or squealed in his class whilst stretching, he would tell them to lean into the sensation. Not the pain.

Same thing with feeling down in the dumps, calling it depression gives it far too much power for my liking. Allows it go get a foothold in your psyche. Which is definitely not a good thing. Ever. But I digress.

Point is, there I was, sitting around the house feeling a tad under par. Less than smiley. So I decided to lean in to that hoary old saw and get some movement into my day. Only question was, what to do? Regular readers may remember that many years ago I was a bit of a runner. These days, I’m more of a plodder. Mainly due to a shortage of youth in my knees, hips and ankle bones. To make things easier, these days I do most of my plodding on a machine in the gym. The sprung softness of the treadmill seems to help keep the sensations at bay.

However, I was so far down in the dumps, I really couldn’t be bothered to go to the gym. Too much effort. So instead, I put on my running shoes, opened the front door and set off. At a slow plod. Wasn’t easy. In fact, every fibre of my being was crying out to slow down, stop and maybe put the kettle on. But I refused to give in. Even when a rather overweight snail overtook me on the first corner, I did not yield to the temptation of turning my plod into a stroll. For I am made of sterner stuff. So I kept on going. I plodded like no man has ever plodded before.

After half an hour of this slow but steady progress, I found myself once again at my front door. Only this time, there was no black dog of despair waiting to curl up on my lap. Oh, no. That beast had slung it’s paw and waddled off in search of slower moving targets. Instead of feeling blue, I now merely felt old, knackered and in desperate need of a nice hot bath to soothe my aching, well, my aching everything.

After which, I relaxed on the sofa with a cup of tea, having a grand old time, making a list of all the strong sensations I could now feel flooding my senses. One thing is for sure, I was not feeling down in the dumps any more. Oh, no. I was far too busy feeling my hip flexors trying to find their rightful place in the world. Which just shows that misery really is no friend of movement. Even if it is just a gentle plod around the park.

Until next time, all the best

Stan

Must admit, it’s an area of the country we didn’t know that well before we arrived, which is exactly why we set off to explore it. Always a good idea to seek new trails, in my experience. Mind you, should probably admit right now, we went in search of cooler climes and were completely disappointed. It was just as hot over there as it was over here. Hotter than a dragons dentures. However, it was well worth the journey. Very much so. And I’m not just saying that because the very first place we visited was Worthing. Though, now I think about it, that would have been an excellent thing to weave into the story. Sigh. Note to self. Plan ahead next time. But I digress.

Point is, we went in search of lower temperatures and instead of them, we found ourselves in possession of something far more valuable. Lower stress levels. Which was a completely unexpected bonus. Long story short, since it was a last minute decision to go, we went for the simplest, cheapest and cheerfullest option on offer. Which turned out to be a dog friendly static caravan on a holiday park right next to a busy road in the middle of who knows where surrounded by lakes.

Now, that might not sound like the most promising start to a short, sharp breakaway. Maybe not the best thing since crisp sandwiches and fizzy pop, but strangely enough, the whole adventure was oddly awesome. Though, I would be the first to admit that when we pulled off the main road and found ourselves immediately driving into our holiday home zone, my overheated heart sank just the teeniest tiniest bit. Didn’t feel like a promising start. Which just shows how wrong first impressions can be.

Once we had found our caravan, unpacked our stuff and set out for an exploratory stroll we quickly realised that the whole area was full of happy, smiling faces. There were friendly folk sitting out on deckchairs, some of them with drinks in hand, some of them with dogs lolling in the shade alongside. Pretty sure the dogs would have had drinks in hand too, if they had any hands. Poor things.

Other folks had brought their kids along for the ride, which meant that everywhere you wandered you would see small children and their parents riding bikes, kicking balls or just hanging out doing the stuff that families with small children like to do outdoors on a fine summers day.

It really was like stepping back in time to the 1950’s or 60’s. When living was easy, the world made sense and the price of a pint was measured in pennies. Sigh. Of course, the dream didn’t last, They never do. My bubble was burst the very next morning when I turned on the news and heard all of the silly things our stupid politicians had been up to for the last twenty four hours. No idea why modern politicians spend all their time trying to make things as unpleasant, uncomfortable and unaffordable as possible for the people who vote for them. But they do.

Luckily, before all this foolishness could destroy my happiness completely, we made the sensible decision to spend the day by the seaside, which we then did. Once there, we strolled along the sea shore, had some very pleasing coffee and cake after which some of us (well, only me, actually) went for a most refreshing dip in the splendidly cooling waters of the English Channel. It was, quite frankly, divine. A day to savour and remember.

Everywhere we went every single person we met was friendly, chatty and nice. It really did feel like we had gone back to a simpler age. A time when all the faces looked familiar, when all the ills of the modern world could be forgotten and when things could only get better. Really was the most perfect way to get away. To head back to a land that (apparently) time forgot to trample underfoot.

Wherever you are this week, hope you are able to find just as much happiness.

Until next time, all the best

In case you’re wondering, reason I got to thinking about all this stuff is because we had some friends round to tea at Cullimore Cottage the other day. After chatting about the weather, the price of fish and the general difficulties of being older than the sum of our respective shoe sizes, we moved onto the subject of travel.

I had just returned from yet another long haul trip to elsewhere and was sharing my thoughts on the times that were had. Travel is supposed to broaden the mind and from my experience I can confirm it definitely does. Broadens it to the point of exhaustion at some times. Especially when you’ve had one too many long haul flights to one too many weird and wacky countries. Mind you, the upside is, it also sharpens the eye. Makes you see things from a different point of view when you return home.

In this particular instance, I was muttering about the fact that when I first started my globe trotting, I was always grateful to get back to Blighty. To return to the sanity and safety of a civilised country. One that wasn’t perfect by any stretch, but was definitely better than any of the alternatives on offer. Or at least, better than the ones I had travelled to.

However, these days, I am getting that feeling less and less strongly when I get home. Seems that quite a bit of the sanity and safety has fled the scene from this green and pleasant land of ours. Leaving a far less civilised country behind in it’s wake. But, since it seems we’ve gone beyond the point of no return, reckon it’s a poor use of time to dwell on it for too long. There’s nothing that can be done about the disastrous changes, without some pretty drastic action. Something no government is ever going to manage. So no point crying over spilt milk that is well past the point of curdling. Instead of getting all maudlin about the lost, mythicalt paradise of our youth, I found myself turning to the pages of history for inspiration. Which is always a good thing to do.

History is another of those things that broaden the mind and sharpen the eye. Thankfully you don’t need to go anywhere near an airport to deal with history, which makes it even more of a crowd pleaser in my humble opinion. But I digress.

Point is, shortly after returning from my latest long haul trip to strangeville, the one where I came home and promptly felt like a visitor in a strange land, I was listening to a podcast. A history podcast. This one was getting all excited about the Japanese Samurai era. An age which took place about the same time as our forefathers were enjoying the pleasures of being enslaved and over run by viking invaders.

My main takeaway from this podcast was that nothing has really changed. Just as the locals over here were watching the vikings change the face of society forever, the Japanese nobility over there were watching the newly formed samurai doing exactly the same thing to their neck of the woods. Incident which really drove it home to my mind was the reaction of a cloistered emperor when the samurai arrived and killed off his family and friends en masse.

They let the emperor keep his life and wander off elsewhere. As he did so, he mildly mused that ever since that day he had felt like a visitor in a foreign land. He said it in Japanese, so those weren’t his exact and actual words. But you get the point. The feeling of being in the wrong country is obviously nothing new.

Until next time, all the best

Stan

Long story short, it wasn’t the films themselves that got me so over excited, so much as the ideas they hatched in my simple little grey cells. You see, although I have watched loads of the things, I have never actually written a film myself. Written loads of other things, mind you; scripts, books, songs, poems. Shopping lists. And the one thing they all have in common is that they follow a time honoured structure. Beginning, middle and end. Apart from shopping lists, obviously. They go on for ever. Though maybe that’s just my life. Sigh.

Anyway, point I’m trying to make here, is that whilst watching these late night films grind through all their inevitable beginnings, middles and ends, I suddenly realised something. There’s a reason why humans have spent so long watching movies. And not just because they’re so seductive. I mean, what’s not to love about the big screen?The films upon it are like one huge, great, gigantic gob stopper of technicolour delights. A real rush of blood to the heart and soul.

To you and me, the viewers, they are a way to while away a couple of spare hours. Giving us the chance to watch someone else’s life go through the blender. Sometimes up, sometimes down, sometimes blown apart and sometimes mended like Humpty Dumpty on a good day. There is a real pleasure in watching someone else’s reaction to the rollercoaster of life. Even if it is an entirely made up and fictional rollercoaster.

Which brings me to one thing I know about films. Whatever else they may be, they are also an awful lot of hard work to put together. Got some friends who work in that business. Watching someone who wants to make a film climb aboard that floaty boat is a real eye opener. To call it a struggle would be an understatement. It’s more like an insane gamble. Where the odds are stacked against you and any horses in the race are so busy gnawing off their own legs, they’ve got no time to run.

A movie is a product that takes lots of people to make it happen, lots of money to get it made and lots of luck to get it noticed. Basically, getting a film made is a twenty four carat nightmare. With knobs on. But still people do it. And still we watch them, many of us wondering why we can’t live lives as gorgeous and glamorous as those we’re watching unfold on screen. Which is where my bold, brilliant and beautiful idea came into play. It suddenly struck me, out of nowhere, in the middle of one particularly joyous sci-fi flick.

Why not treat our own lives as movies? Films in which we are scriptwriter, director and star. After all, just like us mere mortals, films have a beginning, a middle and an end. And just like us, not all films have successful souls driving Rolls Royces round town, making deals, having wonderful times and living happily ever after. In fact, most of the films I like are much more downbeat than that. They feature some schmuck failing miserably, getting kicked around by fate and ending up just grateful for whatever small crumbs of happiness fall their way.

Why shouldn’t we each treat our own lives in the same way? As a slice of entertainment, to while away the hours and days. A moving feast of fun and frolics. Sometimes up, sometimes down. When things get sticky and rough we can always remind ourselves that without failure there is no struggle. Without struggle there is no jeopardy and without jeopardy there is no meaning.

I mean, it’s not the most original thought in the world, I know. But there again, as any good scriptwriter will tell you, there are only seven stories in the story chest. Doesn’t stop us from enjoying a trip out to the movies though does it?

Talking of which, time is ticking on, must dash. Got to pick my film for the night. Cheers.

Until next time, all the best

Got thinking about all this when I was down in Devon recently. Went down to visit some old pals, a lovely pair who live quietly tucked away in a really quiet corner of a rather leafy and lovely part of that heavenly shire. To make things even more delicious, they own a rather lovely lodge next door, which is where Mrs C and I stayed. It was cute, cosy and, rather charmingly, came equipped with it’s very own hot tub. Huzzah and hurray. Love a hot tub, me.

Quite frankly, it was a joy and a privilege to snuggle on down in that amazing space for a few days. Allowed the mind and head to float free from the usual stresses and strains of the outside world. Instead, all that peace and quiet filled the head with fine thoughts and countless reasons to be grateful just for being alive. Sigh. Expect the birds, bees and free range beauty all around helped a wee bit too. But I digress.

Point is, that quiet corner gave one a lot of time to do very little, if that was your thing. Must admit, that was, and is, my thing, very much so. But we were travelling as a party of three. With small dog Rufus by our side. Which means that whenever it came to the vote, I was outnumbered. Two to one. So rather than sitting around all day doing nothing but drink tea, stare at the birds and sit in the hot tub, I was forced to get up off my hind end and do stuff. Tourist type stuff.

Not that I was complaining. There were lots of really nice places to visit nearby, Lyme Regis, Sidmouth, Seaton, Beer. (The place, not the drink.) I could easily go on with the bucket and spade list, but hopefully you get the drift. We were right next to a coastline filled with more cute spots than a basket full of dalmatian puppies. Which means we did exactly what good tourists should do at times like that. We visited them all, one by one. Then went back for seconds. And ice cream.

But somehow, I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that we were gilding the lily, getting greedy, grabbing more of the fun than we truly needed. Which is where the theme I mentioned at the top comes rolling right back into view. The one about travelling the world and learning that, in the best of all possible worlds, there really is no need to travel the world. In the words of a wise man from long ago, who may, or may not, have been George Harrison, Beatle extraordinaire, you can see infinity in a grain of rice from the comfort of your own bedroom. If only you choose to look for it.

What I mean is, sitting there on the sun drenched terrace outside our lodge, within or without the hot tub, letting our eyes gently roam near and far over the gorgeous green folds rolling away as wide as the birds could fly, well. There was more than enough beauty to gladden the heart of any human. No matter how old, young, simple or tricksy. There was absolutely no need to fly off to some far flung foreign field to try and find better. Because it just couldn’t be done. Doesn’t matter where you find yourself on this beautiful blue planet of ours, there is always something to see, sniff or sample that is more than good enough to make you fall in love with life all over again. Just like when you were young and saw your first butterfly. Or bluebell wood.

Hope you are feeling pretty much the same way, wherever you may be wandering.

Until next time, all the best

To be honest, it’s probably better to read it than hear it spoken out loud. So far, every time I have tried using those four little words on folk they have frowned at me and asked why they need to remember the seagull. Most times they have then followed up with a grumble or two about the pesky blighters stealing chips or ice cream from them at some point in the past.

By the time I tell them I’m talking about sea eagles, enormous great birds with a wingspan as big as a sofa, claws as big as your head and a healthy devotion to a fish based diet, they’ve lost interest. Wandered off into conversational avenues anew. Sigh. So, before that happens with you, dear reader, allow me to explain. And don’t worry, no knowledge of, or interest in, birds, is required.

It all started a few years back when some crazy souls, with official permission and everything, released a few sea eagles around the Isle of Wight area. Apparently the fluffy feathered creatures liked it so much they started doing what comes naturally to the birds and the bees. Making babies. And being baby birds, some of these youngsters spread their wings and flapped off in search of love away from the nest. Some of them even travelled as far afield as Somerset.

All of which means that keen birdwatchers in our area now occasionally get all giddy and over excited by the news that other birdwatchers in the area have caught sight of one of these magnificent monsters, putting in a passing appearance at local fishy hot spots, as they float on by in search of love, romance and maybe even dinner.

All of which is why one of my mates rang a while back and demanded that we both go out and do some quick birdwatching, as soon as possible. He had heard of a sea eagle being seen in the vicinity and he wanted to have a look at it. Pronto. Which is exactly what we did. A few days later.

Now, at this point, I should mention that these enormous birds cover enormous distances. Seeing one in a place and then going to look for it a few days later in that self same place, is a bit like hearing someone has found a fifty pound note on the floor, then going to the same place a week later to see if it’s still there. In other words, failure is always an option.

Luckily, I wasn’t too bothered about seeing the bird, but I do like any excuse to take my little camper van out for the day. So we set off. Sure enough, after spending a spot of time scanning the skies at the place where the sea eagle was spotted some while back, we draw a blank. Nothing doing. So I casually suggested we move on to a quiet spot, put the kettle on and maybe stare at the wind chasing blades of grass uphill. Which is exactly what we did. Very nice it was too.

We sat, we stared at nothing much and we sipped our tea. We also agreed that chasing all over the place for a sight of a big old bird was a fools errand. After which, we leaned back, looked up at the blue sky and wondered what on earth that enormous great blob flapping towards us was.

After picking up our binoculars, we soon realised that what we were looking at, as it circled lazily above our heads, was none other than the juvenile male sea eagle that everyone had been raving about. Turns out, we hadn’t gone in search of it, so much as it had come in search of us. Or something. Either way, we soon realised that this was a most marvellous lesson in life skills.

Sometimes, it’s not about rushing all over the show in search of adventure and excitement. There’s not always a need to move the mountain. No, at times, the smart thing to do, is to let the mountain come to you. Or, as we put it to ourselves shortly after the bird flapped off. “Remember the sea eagle.”

ps. Not to be confused with seagull.

Until next time, all the best

As is often the way with these things, there was so much stuff to write about I couldn’t fit it all in. So had to leave some of the more interesting bits out of the reviews. Which was a shame. Rather than let all these interesting bits fall by the wayside, thought I would jot them down in a nice, neat list, make a display of them right here, right now. Mainly because good people like you deserve all the lovely things of life to be given to you, on a line in a column. So, here goes. My little list for my little friends. Things I learned when I went to the southern hemisphere.

No. 1 - probably the most obvious thing you notice when you get off the plane, is the weather. As we are strolling into summer over here, they are waltzing into winter down there. Which is odd, mainly because you still need lots of suncream and mozzie spray when you get there. Mind you, since I was heading off to Mauritius, the land of the dodo and also a tropical island paradise, it was hardly a surprise to find out that the weather is always quite warm and wonderful out there.

No 2 - talking of which. Dodo’s. Those tubby flightless birds from that isle, the ones that are no longer with us. Turns out there are many reasons for their extinction. Being relatively tame and tasting like turkey probably didn’t help their cause much. But even worse, were the cats and rats Europeans introduced to the island. Saddest salient fact of all, is that apparently the very last surviving dodo was eaten by a sailor from Bristol. Sigh. Hardly a feather in our civic cap.

No. 3 - talking of weird and wonderful creatures. We need to consider fruit bats. Admittedly, you get plenty of these in the northern hemisphere too. But still. I can never get over the sight of these oversized beasties lumbering across the skyline at dusk. On their way to chow down on some tasty fruits and flowers. Most impressive. And odd. They definitely look like something leftover from the dinosaurs. To put them in context, in case you’re not familiar, they’re roughly the same size as a small dog, with wings. I mean, we have a small dog of our very own right here at Cullimore Cottage, Rufus the small dog. Which means when I find myself staring at a fruit bat, or more accurately, a flying fox, flapping by, I often wonder how Rufus would deal with wings made out of rubbery skin. Expect he wouldn’t mind them so much, wings are always useful. But the fruitarian diet would be the end of him.

No. 4 - The moon in June. Actually, the moon at any month of the year. Since they see it from a different point of view down there, it looks slightly different. Not a lot different and not all the time, but enough to make you scratch your head. If you are that way inclined. In short, when the moon is waxing or waning, gibbous, shaped like a segment from an orange, it faces the other way round to the one we see up here.

Up here, if you pop outside late at night, as I often do when Rufus is in need of a garden visit before bedtime, you will see a crescent moon. If you lift up your right hand right now and curve it like a banana, you will see what I’m talking about. Whereas, in the southern hemisphere, they see it shaped like the letter, C. If you lift up your left hand right now and curve it like a banana , you will see just what I’m talking about. May not sound like much of a difference. In truth, it isn’t much of a difference. But for some reason I really can’t fathom, I found it more than a trifle exciting. Probably says more about me than about the moon, but there you go.

Could go on, but hopefully that will be enough to give you a flavour of the fun things you find when you fly off to far flung foreign climes. Hope you are enjoying life wherever you may find yourself right now.

Until next time, all the best

I had an epiphany. A vision. A blinding flash of inspiration. I suddenly realised something I should have realised ages ago. And it’s all to do with this retirement malarkey. Regular readers will be aware that, apart from this joyous little column, I have recently entered my golden years. That is to say; those hard earned, unpaid, carefree years that stretch out from here to eternity. Or, death. Whichever comes first. Those years marking the slow change from days of work to days of decrepitude. Must admit, I haven’t been entirely ok with it. Not something I ever thought would happen, quite honestly. Been a bit unnerving unpacking how to deal with it.

Means I have good days and not so good days. Simple truth is, I’m not sure how to handle all this free time and lack of work related excitement. And lack of earnings. How to square the circle of living life as a gentleman of leisure, with grace and dignity, whilst also experiencing a slight lack of cash. Hmm. Tricky.

However, after the events of last week, I’m starting to think things might be on the up. To see the world through new eyes. This change of heart came along right after I realised that the situation I find myself in right now is not so different than my entire working life.

Long story short, I had what can probably best be described as, a portfolio career. A pick’n’mix bouquet of patchwork projects. In my early days, I was a shelf stacker in Waitrose, after which I delivered newspapers, washed up dishes, waited tables and busked on street corners. I then headed off for a brief spell of academia, before becoming a popstar, opening a wholefood shop and writing kids books.

If that wasn’t enough to keep my CV simmering along nicely, I then went on to spend many happy years working in kids telly, before travelling the world with my little ukulele under my arm. Reason I mention all of the above is to prove there was no big career plan at any point. My work life was all just a long series of fortunate events that kept the wolf from the door and the moths from my wallet.

Back in those days, Mrs Cullimore and I lived in a largish house, with many mouths to feed, an enormous mortgage to pay every month and enough bills to pay to fill a small shoebox every other week. Which meant that when the coffers were running low, I had to lock myself in my room and wrack my brains, trying to work out a way to persuade someone to pay me lots of money for doing stuff I rather liked doing.

Which brings us neatly back to my blinding flash of inspiration last week. I suddenly realised that being retired is not so very different from those long ago days when I used to lock myself away in my room. With one glorious exception. One golden, glorious, glittering detail that makes my little world complete. It is this. These days, I’m not looking for people to pay me for doing stuff I rather like doing. Oh no. These days, I’m just looking for stuff I rather like doing. Which is a lot easier. As long as it’s not too expensive, obviously. There will be no flying lessons in my future, for instance. No buying of yachts, diamonds or sportscars. Which is absolutely fine by me, as none of those things appeal.

Instead, I am now just left with the rather delicious job or dreaming up things I would like to do with the rest of my life. If possible, I might even dream up some things that Mrs Cullimore and Rufus the small dog might like to do with me too.

So there you have it, dear reader. My recipe for a happy old age. Simplicity itself. One that suits this particular old person. Hope you too have found a recipe all of your very own that brings you as much pleasure, joy and goodness as your own happy little heart could hope for.

Until next time, all the best

However, seems some of todays youngsters totally disagree with me. Which can only be a good thing. Optimism is always a healthy option. Mind, at this point I should probably confess that the particular youngster I have in my thoughts, is one of my very own grandkids. Most of whom, quite frankly, totally disagree with me on most things at most times. For which I blame my wife. She will insist on giving them inaccurate guidance on these matters. Telling them I’m just a silly old fool who should best be ignored whenever possible. Especially on the subject of potholes. Grrr. But I digress.

Point is, this particular young lady is at that time of life where she is no longer a child, but is also definitely not an adult. I remember going through that stage myself and I have to say, it was no waltz in the winter gardens. It can be a confusing and complex time. Which can give rise to some slightly confusing and complicated things. Brand new facial expressions, for instance.

One of which came to the fore when this young lady popped over to Cullimore Cottage recently for a sleepover. A most marvellous time was had by all, by the way. As it always is. Hot chocolate was consumed, films were watched and board games were played. Big ticks all round. (Even though there was just the teeniest, tiniest, bit of cheating involved in some of the games. Not from yours truly, I should add. Double sigh.)

All of which is the usual order of things when one of the grandkids comes for a sleepover. We have been lucky enough to have lived close by to them all for many, many years now. Watching a whole heap of them blossom from being tiny babies to, in the case of this one, being a fully formed, rather splendid, teenager. Hurrah and huzzah! Throughout her young life so far, she and I have always got on incredibly well. Like the proverbial house on fire, with a side order of flammable fun. Which is something I have always been incredibly grateful for and will continue to be. Despite the difficulties caused by my wife’s continued inaccurate guidance. Sigh.

Thankfully, this grand daughter and I still get on very well, very much so. But the other evening I noticed something new. A strange new character trait raising it’s flag over the world. It was a facial expression I had never seen on her features before. Expect anyone familiar with teenagers will be familiar with the type of look. Think it could probably best be described as, “the face of disgust.” Seems to be her latest fave. Came out on show at regular intervals.

Talking of regularity, regular readers of these columns might recall that recently I have taken to playing chess when the mood grabs me. Luckily, this granddaughter also enjoys a game or two. So at one point in the evening, we got out the board and had a couple of matches. Which is when things got interesting. We’re usually a well matched pair of players, mainly because we are both slightly rubbish at the game. Not given to concentrating on strategy enough. Which means winning, and losing, comes naturally, to both of us.

But on this particular night, I noticed something odd. I was getting a right good bruising on the board. My dear granddaughter was winning every single game, a fact which was made even more impressive as she spent most of her time staring at her phone whilst playing.

It was only when I caught a glimpse of the screen that I realised what was going on. She was using some form of AI app on her phone to work out what moves to make on the board. In other words, she was using her brain all right, but not to play chess. She was using it to get her phone to beat me on her behalf.

It was when I pointed out this could be construed as being not entirely fair, I first noticed that brand new facial expression. The face of disgust. Must say, it was most effective. I somehow found myself feeling as if I was in the wrong. As if my grumbling was the problem, not her AI app.

Wonder if the face of disgust works equally well when one stumble over any of the enormous great potholes that are appearing all over the place…

If you don’t believe me, just take a stroll down any historical timeline. No matter where in the world you wander, or what time frame you choose, you will always find that people loved to squeeze a bit of sport into their lives. Whether it was the ancient Greeks, the roving Romans or the terrible Tudors, every age has been into playing games. Admittedly, some of the sports they went for in the olden days were a bit more bloodthirsty than your average tennis match. Or football derby, for that matter.

But the point remains. Sport; like love, loss and laughing at your friends when they fall over, it’s as old as houses and hardwired into the human psyche. Don’t know it. Doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere fast either.

Reason I mention all of the above is that some old mates and I were playing sport the other day. Most marvellous it was too. Win, lose or draw, it’s always a blast to get out and bang some balls around the place. Especially when mates are involved. At this point, regular readers of this modest little column might be rolling their eyes, muttering to themselves that they know where I’m going with all this talk of games and sport. They might even be worrying that at any moment, I’m going to be getting all bat lashes barmy, going on about my latest love involving bat and ball.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, it’s Padel. The newest sport sensation that’s sweeping the nation. Half tennis, half squash, half ping pong. Knocking down all before it and laying siege to the hearts and minds of men and women, young and old, alike. Sigh. Including my own tender warm parts, I must admit. But, either way, I digress.

The sport itself is not relevant here. What’s important is the philosophy behind the playing. You see, after we had finished our session the other day, we got ourselves a glass of something refreshing, took a seat apiece and then started to pick apart the results. To see who won what, how and why.

Which is when the subject of sport philosophy raised it’s slightly moist headband. The younger members of the team were both of the opinion that the best way to play the game, was to take chances. Go for glory. To try and smash their way to victory. Win big or go home, as the saying goes. Whereas the two more mature members of the congregation (that would include yours truly), had a very different view. We thought it was better to take the long view, to sit back, play it safe and leave the showing off to younger, less experienced folk. Not so much letting them eat cake, as letting them make their own mistakes, all by themselves, in their own sweet time.

In short, the two ages of the team had strikingly different ways of looking at how to best play the game. The youngsters thought you should smash your way to success. Whilst us two older but wiser, war horses thought that it was better to keep things safe and solid. Play the ball back across the net and leave it up to our opponents to muck up things up on their own side of the net. Give them enough rope and wait for them to do the most obvious thing with it.

Which is where the actual philosophy came into it’s own. We quickly realised that the way you play on the sport court, often informs the way you play at life. Basically, it’s yet another version of the old tortoise and hare race from Aesops fables. You know, the one first written down by some ancient Greek. Either you hare off at life, rushing around, trying to smash your way to glory, or you take more of a tortoise eye view. The one where you meander along carefully, making each move mindfully, getting where you want to go, one slow step at a time. And, by the bye, beating those impetuous young hares into a boxed corner.

Which, incidentally, is exactly what happened on the Padel court the other day. Like I said at the top. The sporting life, it’s a marvellous thing, isn’t it?

Hope you’re having a fine old time, no matter how you play the game of life. And remember, win, lose or draw, we all end up in the same place in the end. Probably.

It all began when I found myself up in Scotland, in a camper van, with a few days to kill. For no good reason, I found myself thinking longingly about the Isle of Skye. Mainly because it’s easy to get to, thanks to the bridge. The Skye bridge. The one that goes from the Kyle of Lochalsh. Which, by the way, turns out to be a superb name, given to a slightly less than superb place. Ah, well. Can’t have everything, can you?

Anyway, no sooner had I thought about making the trip, than I had set off. One man and his small, but pre-loved, camper van, off on a solo road trip to the edge of infinity. And beyond. Which isn’t a very accurate picture, geographically speaking, but since it took me two days of hard core driving from Bristol to get there, I wasn’t in the mood to be picky.

First thing to note about this island, is that it really isn’t very far from the mainland. To be frank, if one was a fan of frisbee golf, there is every chance you could fling a well built frisbee from one side of the water to the other. If the wind was in the right direction. Certainly puts a new perspective on the old song, the one about going over the sea to Skye.

None of which is a complaint, by the way, merely an observation. The next thing one needs to know about this little island, is that it is absolutely enormous. We’re talking fifty miles long and twenty five miles wide, people. It’s huge. Again, not a complaint. If anything, it’s a compliment. I spent several hours driving around the place and could easily have spent several days doing the same. And at no point would I ever have got bored of the scenery. It’s stunning.

Also, it’s worth noting that a common cliche is to say that scenic stuff takes your breath away. But in this particular case, on this particular island, I have to admit, that is pretty much a literal description. I mean, without wishing to appear big headed, in my life as a travel writer, I have been to my fair share of islands. And I have enjoyed every single one. But this island seems to have taken all the good bits, and rolled them into one joyous package.

Which brings me onto the elephant in the room. Or rather, the two elephants. First of which is midges. The Scottish version of mosquitoes. Apparently, if you visit between June and September, these little blighters can make life tricky. However, since I went there in early Spring, they weren’t around for me to comment upon.

But what was around, however, was the second elephant on the isthmus. The infamous Scottish weather. I mean, we’ve all heard about the joy of four seasons in one day, haven’t we? Well this place takes that idea and runs with it. It fact it runs so fast, it can get through all four seasons in less time than it takes to drink a cup of coffee. Honestly, it happened to me.

I strolled along a High Street in the sunshine, ducked into a cafe for a quick cuppa, and watched in open mouthed wonder as first it started to rain, then started to snow and finally ended up with a howling wind that cleared all the wetness away. All of this before I had finished my final mouthful of caffeine. Not going to lie, it was quite impressive. And a useful reminder that in spring on this island, you need to take your sunglasses and an umbrella whenever you step outside.

But none of the above can take away from the sheer, mind numbing, exuberance of the place. It’s prettier than a chocolate box crossed with a puppy. I mean, I didn’t just see rainbows, I saw the shadows of rainbows. On mountains. Mountains that were topped by snow. Mountains that looked like something out of the Lord of the Rings.

To paraphrase Caesar, I went, I saw and I was conquered, by the beautiful Isle of Skye.

Of course, back in those hazy, crazy, heady days of youth, the things that terrified me most were, in no particular order; the mortgage, the kids ability to cost money and the worlds ability to not care two hoots about my bank balance problems. Sigh. Must admit, I don’t miss those prickly little panic attacks in the middle of the night one little bit. But, sadly, I don’t miss them for all the wrong reasons.

You see, these days, in a rather unexpected twist of fate, I am once again finding 3am in the morning to be a rather terrifying time to be awake. Thankfully, these days, I’m not so worried about bills, money and the mortgage. Mainly because we have finally paid off the mortgage, the kids are old enough to feed themselves and I’ve finally got used to the fact that the world doesn’t care two hoots about me or my bank balance problems.

Which actually feels like a clue to the reason for my midnight restlessness. These days I am more concerned about the big, bad world out there than my own little corner of it. Mainly because every time I look at the news, feels like the world out there is losing it’s collective brain cells at an crazy rate of knots. One that is definitely not sustainable. The thought of which is currently doing it’s damnedest to stop me from sleeping in peace throughout the night. Sigh.

Reason I mention all of this is that I think I have finally found a solution. Not to the problems of the world, sadly. That feels like it might just be a bit above my pay grade. But rather, I think I’ve found a solution to my own inner world worries. And the solution is, snacks. Not the eating of them. Oh, no. Perish the thought. The idea of tiptoeing down to the fridge in the middle of the night is definitely not my idea of the way forward.

No, the thing about snacks that has got me into a good place right now, is thinking about them from a philosophical point of view. Take the other evening, for instance. As often happens, I found myself jolted from sleep around 3am. Naturally, my mind started to muse on the problems of the world, politics and the foolishness of politicians. Wondering where I could move to get away from it all. But then, just as I thought sleep had escaped me for the rest of the night, I remembered something Mrs Cullimore had mentioned earlier.

She had been munching on some carrot sticks at the time, which is, I admit, a pretty odd thing to be doing at any time of the day. To make it even odder, she was dipping them in hummus. About which I shall make no comment.

Thing is, as she dipped, munched and crunched, she was humming a happy little ditty. Whilst also looking most pleased with life, the universe and her own little corner of it. We then had a most stimulating discussion about the benefits of carrot sticks and hummus. Not the most obvious of snacks, I admit. Speaking selfishly, when I am feeling snackish, my normal go-to food of choice would be a stiff round of biscuits. Or maybe even a good sized chocolate bar, with all the trimmings.

But here’s where the conversation got interesting. I usually find after a feast of biscuits or choccy bars, I feel less than pleased with myself. In fact, after I have eaten any kind of sweet treat that is entirely unnecessary and no good for the waistline, I am overwhelmed by a wave of snackers remorse.

Whereas Mrs Cullimore was pleased as punch with life, after her carrot sticks. Upon discussing this fact, we both agreed they were a top notch, slap up, nibble. In fact, we went further. We decided they were one of the ultimate, feel good snacks. Which led us on to debating which snaks were, “feel good,” and which were, “feel bad.”

So as I lay there awake the other night, at 3am, thinking about the merits of savoury, versus sweet, snacks I realised something. Not only is it a fascinating subject to talk about and think about, it’s also an excellent way to bore yourself so much, you fall back asleep.

Sweet dreams

Until next time, all the best

Should point out, by the bye, I’m not talking about the outside world here. The world of politics and people out to ruin every little thing for every single one of us. Oh, no. Perish the thought. I’m talking here about the world of home and hearth, garden and park. Of quiet days spent in gentle contemplation, with friends, family, pets and peaceful cups of tea. (Or coffee.)

Please excuse my over excitement by the way, my delirious delight in the sheer essence of existence right now, I know it’s a tad over the top, but I really can’t help myself, it’s that of time of year again. Spring has sprung and my cup overfloweth, as they say.

Regular readers may have noticed, over the dank, dark months of winter, those tough times between November and February, that there were a few grumbles about weather and darkness in these modest columns. Which is why I find this time of year just so sweet and superb. This is it. This is what we’ve been waiting for, folks. The thing we have been counting down the days toward. The season of freshness and light is once again upon us. In full flow. Bouncing all over the biosphere like a blooming rubber ball. Hopefully, like me, you will also be moving around with an extra bit of boing in your step these days. Finding a new reason to smile every day at the complete awesomeness of the natural world around us.

I mean, to start at the beginning, as I sit here typing in the sunshine, I can see a neighbours tree quietly unfolding a fresh coat of foliage for the summer ahead. A delicious overcoat of tiny lime green leaves, gathering speed and size with every new morning. A few moments ago, a squirrel was squirrelling it’s way round the branches. Doing whatever it is that squirrels do at this time of year.

That’s another of the bonus features you get from this corner of the calendar. Thanks to the trees wearing nothing but the lightest of leaf lingerie, you can still see pretty much everything that’s going on in their midst. Can still peer within the lattice work of twigs, trunks and buds, to get a glimpse of the life arboreal.

As a perennial bird watcher, that gives me even more to smile about. Not only can you hear the sweet sound of birdsong, you can also actually see the little blighters too. Most marvellous. Which this year is even more rewarding for yours truly, since I recently picked up a rather superior pair of binoculars from one of our local charity shops.

These have come in handy when I’m out walking the dog through the park and hear one of the sweetest sounds of spring. The gentle yet insistent tap, tap, tap of Mr, or Mrs, Woodpecker doing whatever it is they need to do. Stops me in my tracks every time. It is the sound of the suburbs I love to perceive. I never know if they’re looking for food, looking for a mate, or building themselves a new bijou lovenest. But I do know how it makes me feel. Joyful. That’s the word. That simple sound cuts straight to the heart of the matter. Spring has sprung and all is right with the world. Sigh.

At this point, I could go on, and on. Listing the cornucopia of delights that will shuffle their way past our eager ears, eyes and nostrils during this few magic weeks. But sadly, space is limited and I’m running out of words small enough to fit in.

So I shall end by repeating what I said at the beginning. Isn’t the world a wonderful place? Isn’t life just lovely? Is paradise really just a place on earth? Sigh. I think so. When the sun shines bright , the birds sing up and the trees do their waltzing little wiggle in the spring breezes, there really is nothing better than just to be alive. To be. To breath. To have a heart full of gratitude, basking in the wonder of every single solitary piece of creation. Hope you are feeling exactly the same way.

Until next time, all the best