Baggage

Telling him (March 2024)

Mar 3rd, 2024

I was in the card shop looking at the uncle birthday cards and throwing them back in exasperation. To a great uncle on your special day! To a special uncle! The words seem so inadequate. I have just written a blog called Tell Them about telling people what they mean to you. I thought of words that would seem more adequate and here they are. I hope they tell him everything I would want him to know.

My mum has a brother who she has always worshipped. He is eighteen months older than her and the only boy in a generation of four female cousins. As such, he was given preferential treatment by his elders…..a choice of food in a post-war era when options were limited, the chance to attend grammar school when the girls went to the local secondary school, a reverence only afforded to him, according to the girls in the family, anyway! My mum tagged along after him all of their childhood to the point his patience was so tested that he pushed her into the local boating lake, known as the Swannie Ponds! Even in later life when she reminded him of it, she did so with adoration in her eyes! His female cousins also adored him, seeing him as the “man of the family” when all of the men in his father’s generation were gone.

Our family photos are of a handsome young boy and the four female cousins who spent much of their time together. The female twins always looked immaculate. They were from a wealthy family, the much adored daughters of very protective parents. The others looked more like the typical children of their era, functional clothes that looked worse for endless hours of outdoor playing, sensible shoes and hair tied back for practicality. They were from the less wealthy families who lived in the dark tenement buildings typical of the time in Dundee.

My first memory of him is a vague one. I think it’s of a trip to a park – a day trip where we would no doubt have taken a picnic and it would have been freezing cold! I also remember a day on a beach where him and my aunty were lying on the sand laughing on a sunny day. It was one of the rare halcyon days of summer when the sun actually shone in Scotland!

They moved away to England when I was little so I didn’t see much of them. I just remember that a visit from them was something to look forward to and that he would make my mum laugh in a way she only did with him. They came once to visit and my Aunty Anne was babysitting me while my parents went out with my aunty and uncle. When they came back from their night out, my uncle started mercilessly taking the mick out of my Dad, teasing him about a pair of shoes which were, admittedly, very ahead of their time. They were black and white brogues of which my Dad was very proud. My uncle thought they were ridiculous and he made fun of them until the tears were streaming down my Mum and aunties’ faces. Many cries of “och, David”, a refrain I have heard all my life for he is a jester with a great sense of humour, just not one you want to be on the receiving end of!

He looks just like my grandad, his father, also named David. As he has gotten older this resemblance has become stronger. Both handsome with brown eyes and a slight wave at the front of their hair. The first words in my conscious memory were “och, David!” but this time spoken to my grandad, who was pestering me. I adored my grandad. He was my ally, the person to whom I would run away with a packed bag when my parents upset me. It was easy to connect these two influential men in my life when they looked so alike and they were the key men in my mum’s life. I think at first I loved my Uncle David because he reminded me of my grandad who I loved beyond words.

When my Grandad died we went to Carlisle, where he had passed away, so my mum and uncle could make arrangements. I remember how subdued everyone was. I don’t remember ever seeing my uncle being serious before. My mum was desperately sad after losing her beloved dad and her brother seemed to become even more important to her.

I vaguely remember trips to Carlisle as a child. A couple of weeks ago, I was working in a glass fronted room overlooking Carlisle Castle. I stood and gazed at it, remembering those trips and how the castle had made such an impression on me. If only I’d known then how Carlisle would come to change my life.

When I was fifteen, we emigrated to Canada. I was beyond heartbroken to leave Dundee and the friends I adored. We left via Carlisle and I spent my last days in the UK at my aunty and uncle’s house. The departure from Prestwick airport is a blur. I think my traumatised mind has wiped it from my memory. I do remember that my uncle wrote my mum a letter in which he told her what she meant to him. The letter ended with him talking about driving back to Carlisle and the fact that it would be a long way with misty eyes. She sobbed when she read it and I have never forgotten it.

My aunty and uncle wrote to me without fail. I lived for letters from home and these were such a source of comfort to me. By the time they arrived for their first trip to Canada, a year after we moved there, I was beside myself with excitement! I can remember many happy moments of waiting in Vancouver airport for them to burst through those doors in arrivals. As a result, airports are still a happy place for me today, although I haven’t had that same sense of anticipation for years now.

I never gave up on my dream of returning home, despite a doomed marriage to someone who lived in Canada. I travelled back to the UK many times, yearning more every time to come back. My aunty and uncle always empathised and understood. They listened and eventually accepted and welcomed my young family when we did come back to give life in the UK a go.

Years moved on and times changed. A partial move away on their part and the breakup of my marriage meant we saw less of each other for a while. However, they moved back and, when I met and married someone they already knew and liked, we forged bonds on a whole new level.

When I started my business and took on a project that was way beyond what I had first anticipated, my aunty and uncle never left my side. My uncle, now retired from the job that had been such a part of his identity, seemed to enjoy the sense of purpose that his new role as “head of maintenance” gave him. He turned up day after day and put in long hours of hard work while my aunty brought picnics and hugs. It was a bleak time in my life. I was out of my depth and scared of what I had undertaken. They will never know how their presence comforted me.

My dad died in the middle of that unhappy time and, on a freezing cold, dark winter morning we set off on the longest journey of our lives to say our goodbyes. I don’t know that I could have got through it without his calming presence.

On my return, I immersed myself in starting my business but it was almost strange being in there without my uncle in his overalls painting away by my side! Life threw me a few curveballs in the ensuing years. When I was faced with the terror of losing my darling husband, they were right with me. They love him like a son and that made me feel less alone.

When faced with a family issue that tore our family apart, they were again right by my side. They have mopped tears, listened endlessly, consoled and counselled me. They traveled to the other side of the world with me to try to fix the unfixable and, once again, they comforted me when I cried for what could never be.

On a more joyous note, several people in my life have contributed to my love of music but maybe no-one more so than my uncle. I call our musical connection “the hum” because it needs no words. He introduced me to Lisa Stansfield, Randy Crawford, Rick Astley and so many more artists that I love. We have bonded over a shared love of soul music and the Eagles. I have many happy memories of trips through the Lake District with the music we loved playing and the feeling of camaraderie that only being in the front of a car gazing at scenery and humming together can bring.

He is both analytical and wise. He will take on your problem or worry as though it was his own. He will try to fix it and be bothered when he can’t. He also shares in your successes and happy times with genuine pride and interest. He is a family man who is fiercely proud of his sons and grandchildren and a husband who married his teenage sweetheart and still adores her. He wrote to his granddaughter while she was at university and now does the same with his grandson. No doubt their letters will be as treasured as mine were when I lived at the other side of the world. He is a loyal friend to many as shown by his long-standing friendships which have survived time and distance.

He has also been a success in his profession, his practical, no-nonsense approach to life ensuring the smooth production of many thousands of newspapers over the years. He has juggled a career with a happy life, seeing a huge amount of the world. He is the first generation in our family to achieve these things and, as such, he has always been an inspiration to me. He once said to me “you only get one life so live it, live it, live it.” I have never forgotten those words and anyone who knows me knows that I seek adventures and experiences around every corner. I am so grateful he taught me to do so.

My husband and I share many happy times with my aunty and uncle over meals, drinks and in our shared membership of the local leek club. My life in England of almost thirty years has been so enriched by his and my aunty’s presence. I call him my favourite uncle and we laugh because he is my only uncle. He still would be if I had a hundred uncles. So, following my own advice, I am telling him what he means to me and I hope he will feel some sense that all that he has shared with me has been so gratefully received and appreciated.
Tell Them (June 2023)

Jan 2nd, 2024

I guess it’s a “getting old” thing when you start losing people in your life. The conveyor belt just keeps moving forward and generations drop off. Sometimes people who shouldn’t be near the front are shunted forward and before you know it, you are holding on for, and to, dear life.

In recent months, two people in my life have passed away. They were neither family (not that that is the criteria for immense sadness upon their loss) nor very close friends. They were not part of my day-to-day life, yet they were woven into the fabric of my story and their loss has affected me profoundly. I realise that it’s not the amount of involvement someone has in your life that makes the imprint on your soul but the way in which they touch your life, and the depth of their impact on you, however brief or sporadic the contact you had with them.

The first of these people was the mum of one of my dearest friends, someone I would go for years without seeing or talking to, yet her loss has turned a light off in my world. My first memory is of her standing at the end of the block of council houses, taking her Westie out for a last walk before bed. She was tall and slim, quite a striking woman with strong features and short hair. She would walk around smoking her cigarette, illuminated by the streetlight as her son and I said our goodnights.

She didn’t have the easiest life. She was a nurse who worked hard but seemed to love what she did. Later, a single mum, divorced, and managing on her own at a time when that was much more difficult than it is now. She was everything that Scottish people are to me – stoic in the face of adversity, warm, sincere, and caring. Her son, who adored her, once wept on telling me that, at times in her life, she hadn’t felt good enough. His sadness at her pain was tangible and I vividly remember not knowing what to say to comfort him in that moment. But she was more than good enough. She elicited more love from her son in that moment than she could ever have imagined. I hope that if she could have seen him then she would have, indeed, felt good enough.

When my son went through a difficult experience, my friend said, “why don’t you talk to Mum?” So, I did, and this lady who had not seen or talked to me for a very long time counselled me like a loving mum would her own daughter. I have never forgotten the comfort she gave me and how much less alone she made me feel. A generation apart but with a shared experience in motherhood that bonded me to her forever. And she never knew what comfort she brought me.

At a time when I thought I might lose her son’s friendship she assured me “you’ll always have a part of him.” It was the quiet reassurance I needed at the time. And she was right. In a mum, she was everything you would want her to be. I saw how her son adored her and she him. I used to watch them together, and how I envied that warmth between a mother and her adult child. She would travel a long way to stay with him then she wouldn’t go anywhere other than his home! She was visiting one of the most exciting cities in the world but, for her, it was enough just to be with him. Little did she know how she inspired me as a mother and how I hoped to replicate her relationships with her children in mine with my own.

He bought her a house when he could. A brand-new place of her own that was beyond her wildest dreams. So humble, she saw herself as a custodian who was looking after it for her son. I believe of all the things he achieved in his life, the one that brought him the most joy might have been seeing her face when he handed her the keys. I can’t presume to speak for him, and he has never told me that but I imagine that to be so.

Over the years, I had a few visits with her. She made me feel at home, fussing over me with homemade treats and making endless cups of tea. Our common roles as mothers and our love of her son were common bonds, and we seemed to find conversation easy. When my husband was ill and I poured my heart out to her, she became a nurse again after many years of retirement. Her face lit up as the subject of health care, so clearly her comfort zone, was discussed and her knowledge and passion for her subject stunned me.

On what was to be our last visit, I knew that she was becoming slightly frailer and more forgetful. She still had a twinkle in her eye though, especially when she found something funny or made a joke. Her eyes twinkled too when she talked about smoking, another little vice and act of rebellion on her part! I drove away enriched by our visit and in awe of this special woman. I wondered how my friend would be without her when the time came. If she had touched my life like that, what had she done for his life? How wonderful to have had such love and such an amazing role model.

I got a message from him some time later to tell me she had passed away. She had been in pain at times in her last years and he, despite his own pain at losing her, was glad she was no longer suffering. I wondered how he would be now. Would the enormity of her loss be more than he could bear? I wanted to take his pain away yet knew that I couldn’t, and any words of comfort would seem inadequate.

In the weeks that followed, he made enormous decisions. He moved into the house that was his mum’s (and that she had always maintained was his!). I held my breath wondering if it was right for him or if it would it be a decision made in haste that he would regret. Thankfully, I can see that is not the case and I see a man who is at peace. I know he misses her but, if anything, I think the completeness of that love sustains him. They were a source of great joy to each other and there is surely comfort in that.

Personally, I wish she had known how she touched my life. She will have touched many people during her career with her empathy and compassion. She will have touched the lives of her other children and grandchildren, friends and family. I was just part of the tapestry of her life, interwoven with her son’s relationship with me, and she will never know how thankful she made me feel at times when I needed a confidante. I am so grateful to have known her and I am changed for the better for having done so.

The other person was my friend’s husband, who recently passed away after a long period of poor health. Where to begin to describe this man……. a mass of complexities, stubborn, strong-minded, challenging. There are so many ways in which I could describe him. Despite these less than complimentary adjectives, I think his family would agree! However, I look at all the comments people have made to his family on his passing, and they include many more things that he also was – kind, a gentleman, wise, funny, a character. I have seen people comment on how he gave good advice. I have been told of how he comforted a nephew on the passing of his brother. I have seen the words he wrote to his beloved daughter, a poem that meant so much to her she had it tattooed on her body and that made him so angry he didn’t speak to her for twenty-four hours! I have heard of the honours he received for bravery to his country. I knew him for more twenty-five years, yet I never heard him talk about those things. I would not have listed humility as one of the adjectives to describe him with, yet aren’t the humblest people the ones who give no indication of their achievements?

A military man with a strong sense of what was right and wrong, someone who had stood on his own feet from a very young age before he became the husband, and family man, that I knew. His wife is my dear friend. She has not been a girl’s girl until our friendship (or so she tells me!) but her beloved tolerated my presence in her life, rolling his eyes at our antics and welcoming our family into theirs. We shared laughter and drinks round their kitchen table, and I will always picture him leaning in his dining room chair, one shoulder back, the other leaning forward as he rested his arm on the table. Given to strong views, he would narrow his eyes and shake his head at things he disagreed with. A clever man who knew a lot about a lot of things. He took a keen interest in young people and could spot potential in people that he would then mentor, remembering and asking about their progress. He loved dogs and golf, classic cars, his daughters and his wife. There will be so much more but, again, although he was part of the tapestry of my life, I can’t say I knew him intimately. I suspect many people didn’t and that it was a chosen few who got close. One such moment I was privileged to have was when my husband was ill. He asked, with his typical bluntness, what his prognosis was. At the time it wasn’t good and, when I told him, he cried. I have never forgotten that moment and the fact that he cared enough to share in our pain so deeply.

I do know that he loved music and I can picture him driving through our village, windows open, music blasting and him singing and playing imaginary drums with great gusto! It is a happy image that I’ll never forget. We spent happy nights as a group talking about music and bands and songs that we loved. We always planned to have a music night where we would all choose tracks and play everyone’s choices. It never happened. Life got in the way, we took separate paths as families for a long time and the years went by. By the time we were more in each other’s lives again, his health was poor. I sensed the urgency of the music night but always felt there would be time to do it.

Last week his daughter asked if I had any suggestions for the playlist for her dad’s funeral. I had a vague memory that the Eagles and Take it to the Limit would feature, that he liked Queen but that was all I could remember. If we had had the music night I would have known. What songs would he have chosen for his Desert Island Discs? The reason for its success being the insight it gives into people’s souls. I wish I had taken the time to get that insight into his.

My friend and he had a long, loving marriage. They drove each other crazy at times and their bickering reflected that. Two very different people, she longed to travel, he didn’t. She loved to exercise and keep fit. He didn’t! She was open to exploring and new experiences that he wasn’t! She got so frustrated with him and he with her at times. Yet now he is gone, and she is broken. On his passing, I didn’t have the words. So, she clung to me and sobbed, and I held her and told her I had no words. I have tried to help her, comfort her, be a presence and give her space and none of it feels right or like it is enough.

I am absolutely honoured to have been asked to read at his funeral. I don’t know how I will get through it as I will be seeing their immense pain reflected as I read. I will hopefully do him, and them, proud. And in the time after the funeral when all goes quiet and she needs me the most, I hope I can be there for her. He once thanked me for being such a good friend to her. He may not have thought that in the years when life took us in different directions but, Major, if you are watching me now, I will do my best.

In connecting these scenarios, what strikes me is the importance of telling these people how much they have meant to you. Perhaps we focus on telling the people closes to us how much we love them, the husbands, wives, siblings, children and close friends but we neglect to tell the people who are woven into our lives that, in being there, they have greatly enriched and influenced ours. So, tell them. Even if it’s something small they have done that has changed how we think, helped us make a decision or given us reassurance in a moment of doubt. Those small things are monumental. Have the music night. Listen to the songs that touch their soul and play them when they have gone so you never forget that their presence meant something to you.

Just tell them.
Telling her (December 2024)

Feb 16th, 2025

A most precious jewel in the treasure that is my life’s baggage is my Aunty Sheila. When I moved back to the UK after 15 years away she, recognising that I was now grown up, asked if I would like to call my uncle and her Dave and Sheila. I was aghast at the thought! She is, and always will be, my Aunty. Aunty Sheila is like her whole name to me, with all the best connotations that being an Aunty has. She is someone who, despite her diminutive stature, I have looked up to all my life.

Less than five feet tall and a tiny slip of a person, she has a heart as big as a lion’s, a warmth that is incredibly rare and a memory like a computer! She is a walking encyclopaedia of “on this day 55 years ago….,” of dates and tiny details. She pays attention like no-one else I know and that is because she cares about everything and everyone.

To be loved by her is a privilege and I am lucky to be a recipient of her love. She touches countless lives, none more so than her husband of almost sixty years, the two sons she adores and her grandchildren. She has so many friends, most of whom are lifelong friends, that her mini-iPad and phone ping constantly with the daily conversations in which she takes part. She has scheduled conversations with people from all over the world so she can keep up with everyone. Her life is filled with love and goodwill from others that is absolutely deserved.

She is one of my precious bits of home. Her early adult life was spent in Dundee, as was my childhood, and it connects us to something that not many others in my life understand as she does. We also have a shared connection in our lives in Carlisle and my life here has been infinitely enhanced by my proximity to her. Nothing made me happier than to see their faces at my son’s wedding and to see that connection span the generations.

My earliest childhood memory is my maternal grandmother telling off my grandad for teasing me by saying “och, David….leave that bairn alone!” Throughout my life I have heard my Aunty Sheila repeat the “och, David” part in exasperated tones to her own David when he has annoyed her! He has the most amazing twinkly brown eyes that are usually filled with mischief when she’s telling him off, but their chemistry is undeniable. To sustain that for a lifetime is a joy to witness and something I admire so much.

I can picture her so clearly in black cords, red t-shirt and red clogs in the 70s, in a pink jumpsuit with strawberry blonde curls in the 80s. She wore a pink dress with beads on the front on my wedding day in 1984 and a black skirt with a gold top on New Year’s Eve 1987!! When I picture her, she is always smiling. Although she has to reach up to hug most people, her hugs are all encompassing and they always make you feel better.

We have put the world to rights over many cups of tea, picnics, happy meals filled with laughter and camaraderie. She loves my husband like a son (the feeling is mutual!) and for that I love her even more. Not many people have empathy to such a level that they feel your pain and cry tears with you. My Aunty Sheila does. I know her presence in my life has made me a better person. She is a light in my life that I celebrate on this very special birthday of hers. I won’t say the number because, to me and everyone who loves her, she is ageless.
Greek baggage (September 2023)

Jan 2nd, 2024

Another metal bird but this time purely for joy! A peaceful escape to the hot sunshine of Greece where we could leave our worries at home and lie in the heat, escaping into our books and cooling off in the sea. I booked it in a moment of rage in late July when the rain in Cumbria was pouring so hard it was bouncing back at me. Knowing the prospect of nights drawing in was looming ahead, I had to get a last burst of blue sky. We took a chance on a cheap package, read the reviews for the resort and decided that people were just being picky and we, being far more tolerant than these people with unrealistic expectations, could suck it up. It’s only for a week after all!

Fast forward to the moment on the plane where the woman next to my husband informs him we’re expecting bad weather! What? But it’s forecast to be thirty-three degrees and sunny every day, we protest! Not now we’re told! Surely she is mistaken! The weather app on our phones has had those little orange sunshines showing for the next ten days!

We de-plane and are relieved to feel that longed for burst of heat! We get on the little transfer bus and feel that lovely combination of excitement and apprehension at the thought of seeing our resort. We are duly deposited, greeted by an abrupt lady who informs us of the additional charges and how much the desperately needed air conditioning will cost. We decline for now and we’re grudgingly escorted to our accommodation. I nod quietly as we see it.

“Well, we’ve been to Greece loads and never stayed in luxury!” I assure my lovely husband, who is anxiously awaiting my reaction. I can see him exhale with relief. I pack some clothes into the ramshackle furniture, and we set off to find something to eat and drink.

“We’ll need to find a fan if we’re not paying for air conditioning!” I announce.

My beloved barely conceals an eye roll and asks “tonight?”

“Yes! I’ll never sleep in a room that hot!”

His expression is weary as we are persuaded to have a meal in a restaurant that we are assured has a beautiful sea view. Sadly, neither of us can see it and we question our host as we leave. He smiles with all the smugness of someone who has just gained fifty Euros from two unsuspecting tourists, shrugs and points to somewhere that is obscured by a load of buildings! Suitably ripped off, we go on to buy a large pedestal fan for which my darling has haggled a price reduction, and he is now feeling very pleased with himself. He is not so pleased, however, that he now must carry it through every bar we visit on the way back to our apartment! Nor is he pleased that people keep making jokes about it! “Is that your number one fan?” being a favourite! We get said fan home, plug in the mosquito repellent plugs (who says romance is dead?) and lie there waiting for the fan to take effect. I look above me at what I can only describe as industrial ceiling tiles, the kind they have in business premises, and realise that the four above me have the most garish decals on. Brown and orange with metal trim arranged at a jaunty angle, they are as much of an eye sore as the dust-gathering dried flowers in the vase in the corner. Never mind, I’m here in Paradise, and tomorrow is another day.

We wake up to Paradise being overcast but hot. We reluctantly accept that this weather was not in our plans, but we will make the best of it. We start the queue for the tourist train into Zante Town and are joined by the family from hell! Noisy, cranky children being dragged through their holiday by hostile, grumpy parents determined to have a good time despite their little treasures! The train comes along, and we leap into the furthest away position from the Noisy Family that we can find! An elderly couple sit beside us, and the lady keeps trying to catch my eye to chat. She looks slightly frail and nervous, so she never actually strikes up a conversation. We are dropped off at the harbour and we pause to admire the beautiful yachts, especially the one with the helicopter pad on top! Who has that kind of money? Total extravagance, we mutter, while turning green with envy. We walk into the bustling streets filled with tourist shops and cafes. Everywhere is busy but we notice a place full of local people (always a good sign!) with a lovely atmosphere – shade from the trees and old men playing backgammon as though they have all the time in the world. The beauty is that they do! They are smoking heavily and drinking expressos, but I conclude that their longevity is due to the lack of stress and not so much their lifestyle!

An English couple invite us to sit down at their table and we accept gratefully. He is a very slick James Bond look-alike with a younger, pretty wife. He sits and holds court in the café with the air of someone who thinks himself king of the castle. A table becomes freed up and we thank our James Bond lookalike host and his wife and retreat to our own table. We decide that he must be a local gangster when someone comes to get him, and they go off down the street purposefully! We think they are planning something sinister and wonder where they have gone. Of course, this could well be the wanderings of our over-active imaginations at play! Breakfast is lovely and we wander off into the colourful shops with their brightly coloured leather goods, Zakynthos bathmats and selections of olive oils and olive oil toiletries.

On returning to our not-so-deluxe accommodation (really must take better note of those reviews next time!), we walk past some skips which are overflowing with rubbish and cats! The cats are everywhere, lying on dilapidated cushions, eating from old trays of food and castoffs from the local restaurants. They are fighting, climbing in and out of the skips and hiding in the trees. I decide this must be the inspiration for a Disney film and start to consider the plot! We return to the apartment, are grunted at by our not-so-congenial hosts and we decide playing Scrabble on our patio is preferable to gazing at the roof tiles while we aim for a siesta. We look from our patio to an apartment at the other side of the complex to see a very large Mr. Budgie Smugglers stretching on his patio. Not the most attractive backdrop but he was clearly living his best life!

We get dressed up for the evening. All glammed up and reeking of mosquito repellent – ah, that romance again! The weather has become more threatening of rain, and I wish I had brought my brolly! We find a fabulous family run restaurant where we have the loveliest, yet most inexpensive, meal. We are greeted and seated by a man we presume to be the son of the elderly man at the back who sits and counts money all night! The waiters (more sons?) circulate, checking that we are all happy and moving through the numbers of people waiting outside in the rain, delighted that they now have a captive audience who just want to get into a dry place without shopping around.

We go off in search of a brolly, then find ourselves in a bar with live music. Great! The band is a duo who perform rock covers and there is a lively atmosphere where people join in the singing. We are very grateful for the brolly as we negotiate our way back that night through the pouring rain. It rains all night, and the streets are still running with rain the next morning. We now know that the UK is having a heatwave which started the day we set off to Greece. I see pictures of people revelling in glorious blue skies all over the UK. That’s nice, I hiss through gritted teeth!

Still, we are achieving what we wanted which was an escape from working life where we could relax with our books and just spend some time together. Yes, you keep telling yourself that while you keep looking anxiously at the sky and praying for the weather to break! Comments on Facebook include “Really glad I’m not in Greece at the moment. Have you seen the flooding?” Not helpful for our morale but we soldier on with more Scrabble on the patio, Mr. Budgie Smugglers overlooking us and counting cats by the skip when we walk home!

There are different bands playing in our now-favourite bar every evening so we return to see who’s playing tonight. Another rock covers band but this time with foreign accents. We smile at the renditions of Can’t Get No Sateesfaction, and the fact that “Mudder Mary comes to me speaking words of weesdom!” “Ees these lof that I’m feelin’?” sounded vastly different when performed by Whitesnake!

I watch a beautifully groomed woman in her slim fitting dress and high heels as she attempts to flirt with her husband. He looks at her with disdain and I suspect he is a businessman of some kind who doesn’t easily let his hair down. With every drink she becomes more flirtatious, sidling up to him and singing as he contains an exasperated eye roll. Now captivated by this fascinating people-watching, I see a tanned lady in a see-through white dress singing Stand By Me with full gusto to her husband. He is cuddling her, and they are in a world of their own. How lovely that they can have this precious moment, away from their everyday lives, just to make memories like this. If only Mr Uptight could look at his flirty wife in the same way!

The bar manager has now joined the group for a rendition of Sweet Home Alabama and the crowd (all fifty of us!) go wild! By the end of the week, we had seen him join whatever band was playing. Rock star aspirations must have been part of his story. The climax of his performances was when a band were playing Born to Be Wild and they rode a motorcycle, with him on it, through the bar and up to the stage. Rock on!

I drink in every moment, conscious that it wasn’t so long ago that the world was quietened by a pandemic and there were no crowds, music or unadulterated joy like this. So, I, like the rest of the crowd, sing my little heart out to Take Me Home, Country Roads and embrace the happy atmosphere. To make my night complete, Mr Uptight has now had sufficient alcoholic lubrication that he is on the dance floor with his wife and they are laughing together. I silently hope he will do more of that! She looks so happy.

By day three, the weather has now become what we hoped it would be – glorious blue skies and hot! We find a lovely pool bar where we can spend our days lying in the sun with our books, dipping into the pool to cool down and moving to the waterfront restaurant for lunch. These are the lazy idyllic days that we dreamed of. More people watching and we start counting the women with trout pouts and numerous tattoos! Lots of big men in budgie smugglers alongside tattooed ladies in bikinis that are too small. A tiny lady circulates the pool bars offering massages and we watch as many people take her up on the offer, receiving back, neck or foot massages while lying in the sun. The lady wore a face mask which struck us as unusual in our post-Covid world. She lowered it one day and we were stunned to see that she had the biggest, most blindingly white teeth! They were so disproportionate to the rest of her! It gave us quite a start! Why was that Colgate ring of confidence advert from the seventies haunting me?

The waitress who served us every day at the pool bar seemed to never stop smiling. She treated everyone with the same lovely positive attitude. She never seemed phased by the endless requests from customers, trying to carry huge trays of food and drinks when the waterfront restaurant was windy. If only she knew what an effect she had on us as guests in her country and how her smile will be etched on our memories forever. This was in sharp contrast to the foul tempered bus driver who arrived at a bus stop where there must have been several delayed buses or no-shows of scheduled buses. He opened his doors to be greeted by a barrage of questions from people about where his bus was going. On being asked a variety of places to which he might be going, he just put up his hand and screamed “nooooo!!!” at the perplexed passengers! On being asked where these poor people could get their buses from, he just shrugged his shoulders and yelled “I don’t know!” and shut the doors on them. Customer service is alive and well!!!

We realised we were near the resort where we had stayed nineteen years before and where we had met our very good friends with whom we still meet up annually. We took a bus trip out there and we could not believe how all those years had slipped away in between. The resort was barely recognisable. What had once been rustic and quaint was now a small city by the sea with modern hotels and expensive bars and restaurants. We went for breakfast to the place we had frequented all those years ago. It used to be a thriving, bustling place. Now it was deserted and the despondent man who wearily showed us to our table turned out to be the same owner that we had known years before. He stood leaning on the railings and looking out at what had once been so busy and he despaired at how the place had changed, obviously moving the bulk of the business to another part of the resort. We felt sad for him. We could see the soul had gone out of the place. It was tired looking and in need of refurbishment which he probably didn’t have the heart for. Some memories are best left as they were.

We were sitting on our patio having a nightcap one night and the elderly couple we had seen on the train on day one stopped to talk to us. The nervous looking lady turned out to be very chatty and her husband more so. It turned out they spent months every year there as her husband played mandolin in a local group. They told us they got a long booking at our apartment complex every year so he could indulge this hobby. What would draw him back to this complex every year, we asked, incredulous? The friendly staff, he smiled! He must have met someone that we hadn’t! He then proceeded to recite us a poem. I can’t remember what started the process. I only remember ten minutes longer wishing it would stop! Don’t get me wrong – I think it is very clever to be able to remember a long poem and deliver it with such passion, but I would rather have been counting cats in the skips!

We found another bar we liked where there was a very friendly English lad who was a window cleaner in England in the winter and a bartender in Greece every summer. Who does your window round when you are away, I asked. He responded that they wait for him, and they are very understanding clients. Presumably happy not to see out of their windows all summer, I think! There is another perma-grinning waitress at the same bar. Again, she opens her mouth to reveal the most bedazzling set of teeth! What is with the Greek toothpaste, we wonder?

As the sun sets on our last day, I realise I have forgotten about the grey weather at the start and the grubby ceiling decals on the tiles. I will remember only the cast of characters we have met, and the peace of our silent camaraderie as we lay in the sun with our books, the joy of singing along with the music and people-watching, how we couldn’t resist counting the cats near out not-so-lovely apartment! I will cherish the sun-kissed, windswept lunches by the sea away from the worries of every day life. Not quite Paradise, but almost.
Packing Treasures

Aug 15th, 2023

This week I found some precious stuff to pack in my baggage. I found myself plonked down half-way across the world by one of those incredible metal birds that often transport you to pastures new. Sometimes, however, they transport you to a place you’ve been before. A place that is full of ghosts from your past. Pain that you manage to bury in your normal life thousands of miles away suddenly finds you here. But so does joy – the beauty of re-establishing connections and building new ones. And that’s where I was. In a place I used to reluctantly call home, somewhere I never chose for myself, but that fate chose for me. I hated it once but now I try to see it for the good it brought to my life. It can’t possess me anymore. I belong somewhere else and this place only borrowed me for a while. It has taken a long time of growing older to give me this perspective, but I am thankful to have found peace with it all.

Here, in this beautiful place of oceans and mountains, I found light. Sunlit skies of electric blue against tall trees. Living in a place which, while it is beautiful and green, also has incredibly grey skies for much of the time makes me crave the blue and the light.

I was so aware of my senses – revelling in the warmth on my skin, the light breeze, my feet on the rocks in icy cold water, the sound of the float planes as they swooped around me, the waves cascading over my feet as they dug into the cool sand, long forgotten flavours – Maple syrup, how different Canadian bread tastes to ours. Remember all of this, I told myself as I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, trying to retain the memories.

While my trip was difficult and focused in part on resolving a tough family situation, I found golden treasures in amongst the worry and sadness. I was shown, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the unwavering love and support of a beloved Aunty and Uncle who counselled me, held my hand and put their arms around me, both literally and figuratively speaking. I will never forget the sacrifices they made for me throughout what has been not only a challenging trip but an incredibly difficult few years.

I was re-united with a dear friend who was once like a mother to me. We worked together in a different lifetime, and she was an inspiration! She was funny, clever, kind and loving. She would burst into silly songs in the middle of our office, had an imaginary friend that she blamed whenever anything went missing or went wrong yet she was wise and offered me good advice many times. She was my confidante and friend. Most importantly she loved me like a daughter.

She is frail now and forgetful but, in the midst of it all, she appeared with all the fire and sincerity in her eyes that I remember so well. She looked at me pointedly in the middle of our small talk and said, “you enjoy every minute of your life because, before you know it, this will be you.” I was painfully aware of the passing years. She asked me how long it had been since we had seen each other. To my shame, I had to admit that it had been nineteen years. “How did that happen?” she asked earnestly. I could only answer that I didn’t know and that the years had just slipped away but it saddened me enormously. How much had we missed of this precious friendship in those nineteen years?

Out of the blue, she looked me right in the eyes and said, “I’m so glad you came to see me because I have always held you in my heart.” Tears fall as I write this. What an honour to always be held in someone’s heart. Today I sent her a little heart that tells her she is always in mine. It can never make up for those lost nineteen years, but I hope it lets her know what she means to me.

A visit to another dear friend brought similar joy. She moved to Canada for love many years ago and that love remains, having gone through a metamorphosis over the years into something enduring and beautiful. We’re part of a family, not joined by blood or genetics, but bound by our shared history. That fiery hair of hers, such a strong feature. She has a smile that lights up the room and a generosity of spirit that makes her want to share everything she has with anyone she can. We chatted as if we had seen each other yesterday. I knew when I left her we would probably only keep in touch with a message now and then but she, like my aforementioned friend, will live in my heart forever. She gave me a necklace when she greeted me on this trip and every time I put it on I feel her with me. Another piece of light to take from my travels.

My extended family has become so precious in the face of adversity. I have been supported and cared for by cousins who have shown me real kindness, offered me practical help and support at a time when I have needed it. Not only that, but they have also listened, advised and kept me laughing when that was so needed too. Those people probably have no idea what their kindness means to me and, although I have tried to express it to them, the words don’t seem like enough. I carry their love and support with me now.

I walked miles on this trip, gazing at that beautiful mountainous backdrop and appreciating that I was always surrounded by water, the best tonic for this Piscean soul. I wandered down streets, their names so familiar but so far in the past – Granville, Burrard, Davie, Hastings, West Georgia. I walked to English Bay and smiled at the statues of the laughing people. How can anyone look at that and not smile? The sun beating down, I paddled in the cool, clear water of the Pacific. I breathed deeply and let the tears fall. I had survived this trip that I was so afraid of. I knew that I was stronger and more at peace than I had been in a very long time. I would travel home lighter, freer.

As well as gratitude for my newfound peace, I will pack into my baggage friendships and family bonds that will sustain me, even when I am far away. I’ll treasure the laughter shared with them – the in-jokes that only close people can share with a glance, the belly laughs that bring such release. I will pack the feel of the cool Pacific on my feet, that beautiful blue sky and the light of those sunny days. I’ll remember the wind in my hair in the convertible with the top down, the nostalgia of walking and driving down memory lane with a soulmate and, in the words of Fairground Attraction, just for a moment, life will be Perfect.
Baggage

Jun 3rd, 2023

Introduction

Why would anyone have a blog called Baggage? All those negative connotations – “Don’t get into that relationship – he comes with too much baggage!” “She’s been married before? Stay away! Too much baggage!” With all those images of people burdened by their ‘baggage’, laden down by burdens and heavy loads, maybe there should be a title with more appealing imagery. Hopefully, I can convince you of my reasons for sticking with it!

It was on an idyllic, sunlit day walking in Northumberland with my cousin that I first mentioned to him my dream of being a writer. It was a moment of intimacy for me and not something I often shared with others for fear of their surprise, or worse, ridicule. He didn’t laugh though, or express surprise. In fact, his only surprise was that I wasn’t doing anything about it. He knew I had written stories and poetry as a child. How could he not? My Nana had thrust my childish works upon him and my other long-suffering cousins on her many visits to Canada. She was my greatest cheerleader, entering one of my poems in a competition in a local magazine and devastated when it was rejected. If only I had harnessed her belief in me, I might have taken this brave step, in putting my writing into the public domain, a long time ago.

The few people I had told of my passion for writing had only known me as a wife, a friend, a mum and an earner of a living, too caught up in getting through life to pursue my passion. My mother had told me years ago that writing for a living was a pipe dream full of people who wanted to do the same thing, that it was full of rejection and that you had to be great to succeed. So I’m not that great, said the voice in my head – not great enough to succeed. Even when a college lecturer assured me there was no reason I could not be a published author, I still chose to hear my mother’s negative voice instead of the encouraging, supportive one. Why hadn’t I listened to the positive ones instead?

My cousin was the right person to tell. He is an actor and a happy, fulfilled one at that. And he earns a living doing what he loves. To do it, he had to be brave, to become a mature student and study his craft, to embrace uncertainty and financial instability and to face rejection. But he did it! In a hugely competitive part of the world where the top players in North America work, he holds his own and, as I pause to reflect on this, I admire him and wonder if he was brave enough, why shouldn’t I be?

So where to start? That bloody blank page has haunted me all of my adult life! I would feel compelled to write but about what and for what audience? I confessed my longing to a friend who, as it turns out has a similar interest. She found us some writing workshops and my adult writing journey began. I don’t know what I expected in these workshops, but it was certainly not that nothing I wrote would be wrong and that I should simply let my pen do the talking, Wow! What a revelation to feel free, that no-one would judge me.

I told a few people close to me, most of whom were encouraging but none more so than my cousin on that glorious day.

“You need a blog!” he exclaimed.

“But what would I write about?”

“All those things you are curious about exploring! The tips you give people about places to go and see! You have this curiosity about the world which makes you seek out and embrace experiences. Write about that!”

“But who will read it?”

“Who cares? Do it for you!”

“But what would I call it?”

“Baggage, of course!”

So, baggage is his affectionate, but slightly insulting, nickname for me! It is derived from the affectionate “old bag” which became extended to “baggage,” “old baggage” or “my favourite baggage” when he is feeling particularly affectionate! It has stuck ever since!

A year after our conversation, I reflected on it, having done more workshops and stared at more blank pages. Then I listened to a podcast during which someone, having achieved great professional success, said with great passion that you would never achieve anything if you didn’t make a start. “Don’t complain about that great unwritten blog if you never write it!” Was he speaking directly to me? I was sure I could feel him looking into my eyes as he said it and I heard him loud and clear.

So baggage it is! Not just because it is a much loved cousin’s nickname for me and I have become sentimental about it. It’s about the more positive connotations baggage might have. It is what you take on your travels. It facilitates your journey to adventures, to places and people that become treasured memories. Life’s baggage contains everything we gather along the way…………the lessons learned, the mistakes and the pain that change us and help us evolve. Baggage is part of our journey so I hope you will enjoy, or at least indulge me, in this apprehensive sharing of mine.

Telling him (March 2024)

Tell Them (June 2023)

Telling her (December 2024)

Greek baggage (September 2023)

Packing Treasures

Baggage