Teddy bear concert

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Another granny and I took our teddies to a concert today. It was rather sad really, because I had invited two grandchildren and their parents to come with me, as it was a special children's concert. But then they realised that my granddaughter's school concert was the same day, and as she had a part to play, she needed her family there to support her, obviously. So I set about trying to find some other children to take, but no luck, so a friend and I decided we would go anyway - AND take our teddies!


These Teddy concerts are given once a year where I live by the Kings Chamber Orchestra. They do a winter tour, and at each stop they give a children's concert in the afternoon, and an adults concert in the evening. I had only been to the evening concerts before and was keen to see what the Teddy Concert was like.


Well, we trod a roughish path to get there: severe weather made us wonder during the week if roads would be passable anyway, but by this morning a thaw was well under way, so driving was OK. We decided to have lunch first at the cafe next to the chapel where the concert was being held, but had been misinformed, and found it closed. Off in the car again to a nearby pub, The Red Cow, only to find a notice: SORRY, OUR KITCHEN IS CLOSED TODAY! Off again to a small shopping complex where we found fish and chips which we ate in the car, followed by takeaway coffees from the Tesco Express across the road. We took our coffees back with us to the chapel, and were in comfortable time to get good seats for the concert, where we surreptitiously sipped our drinks while waiting for the concert to begin, pretending that they were just shopping in plastic bags.



The chapel was soon full of children with their parents and their teddies, and the excitement in their faces was a joy. MY teddy by the way is called Ton-Ton Georges. Ton-ton is French baby-talk for Uncle, and Georges stands for Georges Brassens, the great and unique French singer songwriter. I bought my Georges at a concert given by an English group who give concerts of his songs, and was told that the mother of one of the performers knitted the teddies to raise funds for the group. He has a real take-off jumper and trousers, although his beret is fixed. I gave him his Christmas bell to wear.






Well, the performance was not so much a concert as a musical party. Every piece of music played involved the children and their teddies in some way: actions both strenuous and gentle, singing, shouting, and throwing our teddies in the air. Oh yes, Granny Rosemary and Granny Judith were going it with the best of them, though our gestures were somewhat more muted than those of the children.The orchestra even tried to lull us all to sleep at one point, and gave prizes for those who came nearest to it.




One highlight of the event was when the orchestra leader announced that he was going to show us how to make a cheap musical instrument at home - although mummies and daddies would have to do it of course, as it involved using a knife and a drill. Here is the recipe:

• Take one large carrot and trim off the ends with a sharp knife.
• Using a power drill, drill carefully into each end of the carrot, ensuring that the two drillings meet in the middle of the carrot.
• Then drill eight holes in the sides of the carrot for seven fingers and a thumb.
• Finally, take a bassoon reed, previously soaked in water, and insert it into one end of the carrot, which is now ready to play.

I kid you not: this talented cellist proceeded to play for us a "Concerto for carrot and orchestra" by Broccolini......! (I know, I was suspicious of that name when I saw it on the programme, although I didn't know then that it was a vegetable.) Now I couldn't swear to whether this was really happening. Maybe he was singing into the darned thing, but it certainly sounded like he got a tune out of it.

The story of the pictures, by the way, is of a little bag made in Ecuador which I bought from a stall on the way out, and of how much Georges liked it, so much so that he eventually insisted on being carried home in it. Maybe I shan't give it away as a Christmas present after all.

Instant uplift

A friend who knows how I am feeling today has just come by with this enchanting little posy: a rosebud, a fuschia bud and a primrose, with a fern, some rose leaves, two kinds of herbaceous leaf and two browny sort of palmate ones - I'm no good at botany.

The little cream jug, of green Denby pottery, is barely three and a quarter centimetres high.

Granny Turismo

Marge, Mary & Doris


I wonder if any of my readers have come across this act in their wanderings. Granny Turismo claim that they are the world's first and only formation shopping trolley dance team, and they are to be seen in the streets and squares and malls of our cities, at theme parks and at festivals, in fact anywhere where people are gathering for relaxation and diversion at holiday times. They carry their own loud music and sound effects around with them, and they are boisterous and not a little disgraceful.

Those of you who know that I belong to an organisation for older women called Growing Old Disgracefully, will not be surprised, therefore, to learn that we sought them out and invited two of the team to attend our Annual Gathering in Harrogate recently. Mary and Betty rolled up the ramp into the Cairn Hotel between tea and supper time on our first evening, and made themselves at home in the spacious reception areas, and later in the Promenade Suite, where there was room for the trolleys to go through their dance routines, enthusiastically accompanied on the floor by some of our members.

Sadly they could not stay with us for long, and we had dinner to eat and a further evening's entertainment ahead of us. So Mary and Betty took their leave of us. I was especially sad to see them go, because Mary is my son Ric and Betty is his partner Tess, and I am a besotted fan of them both and of the act. You might not think so from the picture below, where I appear to be haranguing my son like the worst sort of scold, but I can assure you I wasn't.

And so the Trolleys were put to rest until another occasion, and the Grannies went home.

To get the full effect of this rumbustious act, watch a video film of the team at work in Birmingham in July, and a BBC News interview with Marge and Mary at Alton Towers . Granny Turismo also have a page on Facebook

My family photos find a new home

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This is my father on his 1923 Model 16H Norton motorbike. As it happens I have not posted this picture before, even though a year or two ago I did a feature on my father's 'wheels' - that is to say his motorbikes and cars. Today some of those pictures have found a place on a website which celebrates the Norton motorcycle. John, the website owner, has managed to improve the quality of this picture, and so I have copied it back again from his website to post here.

This is the sort of exchange which really makes the internet, and blogging in particular, worth while for me. My mother and father are honoured again on a new blogsite, and John in Holland has found some more of his beloved Norton motorbikes to add to his blog.

I think I have at least one reader who will enjoy a visit to John's website, somebody else who loves his 'wheels'. Let me know what you think, Avus.

Writing under pressure

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Ten years ago, at one of our Growing Old Disgracefully gatherings, we did a writing workshop. We were asked - or rather challenged - to write a poem to someone we know well, and to liken that person to:

a colour

a kind of weather

a time of day or year

a sound

a form of transport

a kitchen implement

something eatable

an animal

a speed

We were given about 15 minutes to complete the task. In such circumstances one can hardly help but write from the heart. This was my poem. I seem to have cheated slightly on the last line.

You are my brown earth and my green growth,
You are my light and warmth and the breeze that blows.
You are my springtime and my renewal,
You are birdsong and the chime of bells.
You are the wheels that change my horizons,
You are my top gear, my accelerator.
You are the knife that cuts out waste.
You are my bread and my wine.
You are my best friend and companion.

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Holiday journal : 6-9 April - Staying with Ric

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After we had dug ourselves out of the crack in the road map, we made good progress and arrived eventually at Pecket Well, Hebden Bridge. Ric recently bought his first house here, although he has been living in rented accommodation just down the road for a number of years. He lives in one of a small terrace of houses built of stone, with their backs up against the road, and facing down the valley to Hebden Bridge. To get to their front doors you have to go down a few steps at one or other end of the terrace, and along a paved path giving access to their front doors. Their sheds, patios, and gardens all fall away down the hill on the other side of the path. This is the view from his front door.

The access to Ric's house caused me considerable problems, as the flags are uneven, and the steps of different heights, and all get slippery in the rain. I had to rely heavily on Ric's arm to get to his house, and even with it I slipped on one occasion. Being a circus performer who is used to supporting people in acrobatics, he managed to hold me (all 11 stone I'm ashamed to say) so that I did not actually land on my butt, until I told him to let me down gently for the last 2 or 3 inches, and take the weight off his arm.

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I wasn't able to get pictures of the outside of the house, as the terrace is on a bend, and the pavements are minimal at that point. It would have been too risky to stand in the road. Parking is on the side of the road opposite the house, and we drew up behind Ric's large blue van.

Although it has the appearance of a small house, it actually has three stories, and is much more roomy. The front door opens into the sitting room, which opens into the kitchen. The stairs go up from the sitting room to the first floor where there is a bathroom and a big bedroom which Ric uses as a work room. Some of you might remember my picture of his last workroom; this one being bigger contains, in addition to the sewing machine, a Black and Decker workbench, his computer and a sofa bed. If he didn't have to eat, and go out to do the gigs by which he earns his living, I reckon he could live in the one room.

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On the second floor there is a large attic bedroom, with a smaller room off - ideal for the visiting Australian family. I was offered the sofa bed in the workroom, but as I find them uncomfortably low to get out of, I opted for a b&b in The Robin Hood Inn 50 yards down the road. Here I had a comfortable bed, but found myself in danger of stunning myself against the heavy beam which ran across the room at forehead height. However, I devised a warning system for myself by tucking two white hankies into a long groove running the length of the beam.

Holiday journal : 6 April - Heading for West Yorkshire

Matthew had said right from the start that arrangements for this trip would be fluid and variable and must above anything have the laid-back quality of a relaxing holiday. That suited me fine on the road, but I did find it a bit disconcerting when a departure day was suddenly brought forward, and I was caught with my packing not yet done! However, on Monday morning I managed to be ready in time and we set off northwards to visit my No 4 son Ric in Hebden Bridge.



To my great comfort and delight I was offered the front seat beside my son for the whole of this trip, my daughter-in-law Elizabeth declaring that she was quite happy sitting in the back; I allowed myself to believe her. Matthew was determined to see as much as possible of the English countryside while in the country, and declared that we would not travel on motorways, but would follow the A6 the whole way from Hertfordshire to the Peak District National Park in Derbyshire, before moving on to Yorkshire.



We made our first stop at Bedford, after rather less than an hour's drive, as there was already a call for a comfort stop - (my grandson got his in first before mine, which I was rather chuffed about!) - and Matthew wanted to see if he could buy an adaptor for his phone charger, having failed to bring one with him from Australia. So we had coffee and walked about a bit in the sun and then got on our way again.



We stopped for lunch at the Swan Inn in Mountsorrel, north of Leicester, where my son sampled two of the local ales, Black Sheep and Theakston's Old Peculier. My grandson Peter and I had the best plates of nachos that we had tasted for a long time. Peter had been allowed special extra time (above his normal ration) to play on his DS (Dual Screen Computer Game) during our car rides, and this kept him absorbed and happy for most of the time, as long as he was fed and watered regularly.



As we made our way across the National Park after lunch we encountered a difficulty. The route which Ric had recommended to us had arrived at the join in the page of the road atlas, and turning northwards stuck there obstinately for a good few miles. Elizabeth was finding it difficult to map read accurately, so she took over the driving while Matthew directed her. This didn't immediately solve the problem, as we found ourselves at one point on Saddleworth Moor, famous site of the Moors Murders in the 1960s. While it could be said to be a place of some - rather gruesome - interest, in addition to its natural beauty, it was not on our route, and we had to turn round and go back before we could get ourselves out of the crack - as it were.

Holiday journal : 2-5 April - The Family gathers

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My Australian family was due on Friday 3rd April; the Thursday was quietish, with most things I wanted to get done already sorted, and time to cool it a bit. They had taken flight from Sydney at about 5 a.m. our time and were on their way. At 3 p.m. I got an email from my daughter-in-law sent from her BlackBerry while they were on a stopover in Hong Kong. That's a new benefit of technology since their last visit in 2005, and made the waiting less tedious. I was delighted to find later that my reply to her went back to her BlackBerry.



Another email from the BlackBerry early early next morning to say they had landed at 6 a.m. and were just collecting their car. They were planning to to do a bit of sightseeing on the way up to me, and I should not expect them till about lunchtime, by which time they would be much in need of baths! So a leisurely morning for me, of the kind that I prefer, rather than a big effort to be up and dressed and ready for them by about 9 am. By 1.15 lunch was ready - (soup and salad fortunately) - and I was still waiting, getting more and more stressed out by the minute. But I didn't have to wait long.



They had made two sightseeing stops on the way, and my grandson Peter, aged 9, had succumbed to jetlag and was carried in to the house asleep, and put down on my sofa. "Are you going to wake up and say hullo to Granny" asked his father, and rather to my surprise he came instantly awake (just) sat up and flung his arms round me, gave me a squeeze, then flopped back onto the cushions fast asleep again. Very satisfactory - last time he saw me was three and a half years ago.






















We had decided, pretty much at the last minute, that instead of staying with me, they would stay with my No 3 son who lives at the other end of the village. Peter would have the company of his cousins there, and I would be able to improvise enough beds for my No 2 son and his three children, who would arrive the next day for the big family get together. So they had lunch, then bathed, then went off to settle in to their accommodation, while I went to get my hair done for the big event.

By Sunday three of my sons were here, with two wives and six grandchildren. My brother and sister-in-law came over too, and we had a magnificent buffet lunch provided by my No 3 son and his wife, who always do a great job of entertaining. It was a lovely day, and the children happily renewed acquaintance with each other. No 2 son had to take his children home on the Sunday night, and I had to go home to pack my suitcase for a 9 am start on Monday - (a very unreasonable hour in my view) - when I would set off with my Australian family for our northerly tour to visit more family.

Hundertwasser - Austrian artist 1928-2000

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"We are in need of magic

I fill a picture until it is full with magic, as one fills up a glass with water

Everything is so infinitely simple, so infinitely beautiful."

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I have made a discovery this morning, over my bowl of cereal, which I always eat while I open my emails and my blog comments. There was a message from someone who has recently become one of my followers: 'Kissedaprincegotafrog'. I referred to her familiarly as 'Frog Lady' in one of my comments, and asked her if she minded. She sent me an agreeable email which included a link to this artist's website, with her recommendation to read his biography.

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I thought "not over breakfast, it's too early in the day", but I went there anyway. It is one of those websites with a black background, which I usually don't bother with, as they are hard on my eyes, but I stayed anyway. I read the artist's biography, which was a bit of a strain, and I admit I skipped bits, but I read most of it anyway. Then I began clicking on the coloured graphics that linked to other sections of the website, where I found paintings, videos, the artist's own thoughts and philosophy, and more paintings. Suddenly I was hooked. I have picked out two paintings that I particularly like, but I do recommend you have a look for yourself if you like what you see here. I certainly do - thankyou, Frog Lady.

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I was very struck by this extract from his writing, which seems even more important to consider today, than in 1975 when it was written:

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One must live as though one were at war and everything rationed

Man must be careful

Must think independently, must economize

Should not waste blindly

Man must take care that the cycle functions

The cycle from eating to shitting functions naturally

But the cycle from shitting to eating is disconnected

Being happy does not depend on wealth at all

Does not depend on production

That is difficult to say.

HOUSES IN THE SNOW IN THE SILVER RAIN WITH A RED ROAD

Discovered in a book ...

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... this lovely delicate little bookmark, obviously made lovingly for my grandmother Ellen Dora, known as Nell or Nellie. The book, which I was about to dispose of, is The Poetical Works of Longfellow, and it was inscribed Nellie D Bragge, Oct 15/91 - that's 1891 of course, when she was 24 and still unmarried. The giver has also inscribed his or her initials, which sadly, I am unable to interpret. But I think, given the evidence of the bookmark, it must have been a sister, cousin or girl friend.

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The shape and the colouring are so delicate that at first I thought it might be a real butterfly preserved in some magical way. But I don't really think it can be. It seems more likely that someone has painted it and cut it out so beautifully that it looks real. The pictures are worth enlarging to appreciate the delicacy of the colouring and the texture of the painting: oils? gouache?

The butterfly, together with a rose petal, was still folded into a piece of paper, which is of some interest in its own right. I don't think it is bed linen which is referred to, but, it seems, a copying service onto rather classy writing paper.

Getting in touch with my forebears

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There is something I would like to write about before the year is out. November 2008 saw the 90th anniversary of the end of World War I - The Great War as it was known, or "the war to end all wars"! British television has been full of commemorative programmes, documentaries, reconstructions of battlefields and photographs of war cemeteries in Europe. These have drawn my thoughts once more to the only one of my blood relatives who died in the war: my mother's first cousin Arthur Brian Rabone. I have always known that he died in The Great War, but as I watched some of these programmes I began to wonder exactly when and where.

Captain Arthur Brian Rabone

So I consulted my brother's genealogy of the family, and found that he was a captain in the 6th Battalion, Royal Warwickshire Regiment, and had died in France on 1st July 1916, the first day of the Somme offensive by the British and the French. I believe that the Battle of the Somme is considered to have been one of the most wasteful of the war in terms of massive casualties for a very small gain in territory. The bodies of many were never recovered, and there is a cemetery, and a memorial to the missing soldiers, at Thiepval in the Somme. It is the work of the architect Sir Edwin Lutyens. The sixteen pillars are engraved with the names of 73,367 British and Commonwealth soldiers who fell during the First Battle of the Somme between July and November 1916 and who have no known grave. Our records say that Brian (as he was known) was buried at Thiepval. He was 29 and had been married two years. He left no children.

Thiepval Memorial and cemetery

And that is where his story becomes my story. Because Brian Rabone was an only child, and left no children of his own, when his mother, already widowed, came to dispose of her personal estate, she chose to leave it to her three sisters. One of those was my grandmother, and her investments have eventually come down to me through both my mother and my mother's unmarried sister. Without that inheritance, my family's life, and my own, would have been very different. My great aunt died in 1938, which is why, in 1939, my father was able to give up trying to sell cars in Birmingham, which he hated, and become semi-retired. We moved to a country smallholding near Worcester, where he was able to work hard, and happily, raising fruit and vegetables for market.

My great aunt Mary Maude Rabone

My great uncle by marriage Arthur J Rabone

In 1949, at the age of 21, I was given my first holding of shares in John Rabone & Sons, makers of rules, tape measures and spirit levels. When I eventually came to sell these shares in 1972, as a member of the family I was able to keep the original share certificate as a souvenir. Also out of sentiment, and as a frequenter of antique markets, I have added considerably over the years to the one or two Rabone rules and measures that I already had in my possession. The collection has now passed to my son. So my inheritance has enabled me not only to indulge my own interests, such as collecting, but also to live comfortably on my own for the last 23 years.

Like so many family firms John Rabone & Sons eventually merged with another, becoming Rabone Chesterman in 1963, and finally being taken over by Stanley in 1990. Below is a picture of the original Birmingham works, taken from a price list and catalogue dated 1878.

I reflect often on how my great aunt's great sorrow has meant comfort and support for my family. But this year, in the context of the commemorative TV programmes, and with the additional information I have found, I feel that I have come a little closer to this cousin who died before I was born, and to whom I owe so much.

Summer angels

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Christmas seems to be the right time to be talking about angels. I was searching the web for 'gliding angels' the other day, because my son Richard, the one who is a street theatre performer, has recently joined a group called Larkin' About, and one of their acts consists of gliding angels. I have never seen my son perform with this group, so I was glad to find a video on YouTube taken in 2005 when they were performing at the Tate Modern. Richard was not with the group at that time, but it gives some idea of how they look.

Here is Richard at the Gateshead Summer Flower Show in 2007. Cute, eh? I've never seen him in lipstick before.

[Picture by Jack Pickard ]

Silver Surfer of The Year Awards - Pictures & Video

Portcullis House, Westminster, where the ceremony took place

Waiting with my sponsor, Stephen Bell, for the proceedings to begin

Chatting with my MP, The Rt Hon Peter Lilley

Video interview in front of Big Ben

Photographs by Sheila Joynes, and video by Stephen Bell, to both of whom my grateful and loving thanks for all their support and encouragement

My pilgrimage - continued

I realise that I have left part of my story untold, one kind person unacknowledged, and one picture unidentified. To set the scene I must reveal my wimpishness about travel. The journey from my home to Whitby by train is horrendous, involving three or four changes. It is possible to take a coach for part of the route, but coach travel makes me sick. I find all journeys with luggage by public transport stressful and tiring in the extreme, and I do not drive long distance any more either. But I am lucky enough now to be able to indulge myself and travel by hired car if there is somewhere I desperately want to go. The journey to Whitby was a major extravagance, but it was worth it.

So, back to the last morning at Sneaton Castle, when the sun was shining so brilliantly that the blue of the sky looked almost dark in its intensity. I was basking blissfully while I waited for my driver to arrive, and on the seat beside me was my folder of pictures with the one unidentified painting. The receptionist had told me she thought it might be Robin Hood's Bay. This old fishing and smugglers' port, now a favourite tourist spot, is only a few miles south of Whitby, and when my driver arrived I asked him if he would mind making a detour, so that I could see if there was any resemblance to my mother-in-law's painting. (This is at the start of a journey which is going to take four and a half hours at best, even if we don't stop for food on the way!)

He made no objection, and after a while we turned off the main road and began a long trek through narrow country lanes until we eventually emerged at the viewpoint which had been marked on the map. It was staggering! We were high up on the clifftop above the town, with a shimmering panorama of sea and sky in front of us. We parked the car and passed through a small swing gate to find ourselves at the top of a very steep path down to sea level. It was clear that if I wanted to study the buildings at the water's edge I should have to go down it. It was equally clear that my 80-year-old heart would not be equal to the climb back up again.

So what does this good man do? I have shown him the picture of course, and explained my mission, so he says "You stay here and take some pictures, and I'll go down and have a look for you." There were a couple of benches just inside the gate, and I sat there and resumed my basking mode from earlier that morning. After a while I began to feel he had been gone a long time, and got up to look for him. There he was, slogging up the hill by another route, showing all the evidence of a stiff climb. He said he thought that some of the sea wall by the slipway might have been what I was looking for, so I asked him if it was possible to drive down.

He thought it would be, so we got back in the car and started off down the very steep street. We had to drive extremely slowly, and pedestrians had to flatten themselves against the walls to let us pass. My driver observed that they didn't look as though they expected any cars to come that way, despite the yellow lines on the road. Indeed, he was right, as I found out when I went onto the village's website later: the roads are banned to tourist traffic! So we only got our just deserts later as we drove away, and found ourselves stuck on the hill behind a security van, which gave every appearance of having stopped for a cup of tea and a chat, and being in no hurry to leave.

We parked, also illegally, and my driver said he would wait with the car while I took a quick look. However, a few minutes later he came after me, for which I was grateful, as I had nervously picked my way over the cobbles of the slipway right down to the sand, wishing heartily that I had a walking stick with me; I was very glad of his arm to get up the slipway again later. We had a good look at the two buildings at its foot, and I took photographs for further study.

I still don't know what to think. Allowing for the passage of 100 years, and for much change and rebuilding, not to mention artist's licence, I think the painting could just possibly be either of the two round walled structures, which at high tide have their feet in the sea.

Lifeboat launch at Robin Hood's Bay in years gone by, and The Bay as it is today.

[These two photographs are from the Robin Hood's Bay official website.]

My pilgrimage

This was really the highspot of my trip this time, although it had nothing to do with Growing Old Disgracefully. After my husband died we discovered a box of unframed watercolours painted by his mother, who was no mean artist. There are several of them which I am hoping to frame and have on my walls. My mother-in-law, whom I never met, was born and brought up in Leeds, and it appears from her paintings that she must have spent holidays on the North Yorkshire coast, as one of them was recognisably of Whitby, and two or three had been titled 'Sandsend', which is a small bay just north of Whitby.

The headland, Sandsend

I have scanned all the smaller pictures into my computer, and I thought it would be interesting to take prints with me to Whitby, and see if I could actually find the places where the artist had sat to paint the scenes. I took altogether seven pictures, only three of which where titled, and I ended up identifying all but one of them. But this was only done with the help of three other people who supported me in my search.

Tate Hill Sands and Jetty, Whitby

My first piece of good fortune was to find a receptionist at Sneaton Castle who was a local person and actually recognised all but one of the pictures - and bear in mind that they had been painted about 100 years ago! I was planning to go on my search by taxi, and she told me exactly where to ask the driver to put me down to find the different scenes. My next piece of luck was to have a disgraceful friend offer to drive me round and wait while I located my targets and took photographs. We didn't have very long, as we had to get back for our second leaflet meeting, so it was a bit of a scramble, and I didn't get all the shots I would have liked. However, I have enough evidence to convince me that I have followed my mother-in-law's artistic trail of a hundred years ago. This proved to be quite a moving experience, and I feel that in some way I have actually met her at last. Here are my two best successes, with the painting on the left, and my photo on the right:

Sandsend, near Whitby, view from the steps running up beside the Beach Hotel.

Argument's Yard, Whitby, alongside the lifeboat shed, seen from the water's edge. The yard is now private, but I was lucky enough to be invited in by a couple who live there, who were delighted to see the 100-year-old watercolour. Further confirmation came from a painting by a contemporary artist below, and an old photo from the Whitby archive, both of which I found on the web.

Old bones

This jolly vehicle is my youngest son's van, which he uses for his work as a street entertainer, as he has a good deal in the way of props and gear to take around with him. He bought it last year and arrived in it for the first time to visit me in November. The occasion was the final clearance of my late husband's house, and he had brought a friend with him to help him hump stuff about.

I took one short ride with him then, just to the other side of the village, but it proved to be a major operation to get me into the passenger seat. As you can imagine, it is not possible to step straight in as one does with a car, and the built-in step-up is 16" above the ground. Well, I could lift my leg up far enough to put my foot on the step, but it then required a considerable heave upwards, plus a twist, to get one's bottom on the seat. On that occasion it took Richard pushing from behind, and his mate in the driving seat pulling from in front, to get me there. Since then we have been talking of getting a portable foldaway step that we could carry in the van if I wish to travel with him in the future - which I most certainly do.

I love to travel by road with Richard. We used to do regular five-hour journeys together at one time, when he would drive me from Hertfordshire to Shropshire for an annual Growing Old Disgracefully event. He is a relaxed and easygoing driver and does not mind stopping, or turning round and going back to see something, or anything that I may wish. Once we stopped off to go to a garage sale we passed on the way, which we both thoroughly enjoyed. We can talk comfortably and easily together about almost anything, like mates more than like mother and son; he is certainly on my wavelength, and I hope that I am on his.

But it's beginning to look as though this will never happen again. He arrived last night for an overnight stay, and we took the opportunity to study the problem of getting me into the van, with the aid of a small step stool. We tried it forwards, we tried it backwards, we tried it sideways, but there was no way that I could make the necessary movements to get up there on my own. Even with my son pushing behind it didn't really work - it seems that ageing, stiffening skeletons simply cannot make the sudden heaves, leaps and twists that are required to get into a large van. It might possibly be easier if he fixes a couple of grab-handles to the doorframe, but it's a lot to ask him to do, for the occasional journey I might take with him in the future.

"Bugger being old" I wailed miserably, as we gave up the effort and retreated into the house, and was comforted by a massive hug. But unless the neighbours were busy snapping us through their curtains in the dusk, I am afraid there are no pictures recording this event!!!

Red Oaks Farm

The views from the farm B&B are another feast for the eye, but this is a working farm, make no mistake.

The cows, which are bred for their beef, are a relatively rare French breed called Bazadaise. They know when it is time to come for a feed, and wander in from the field, apparently without being called. The sheep are also bred for their meat.

Billy Bull has already picked out his next partner and will stick close to her until she becomes willing. I know, because I watched from my bedroom window with my camera poised for a long time, waiting for him score, but was disappointed!

The poultry in the paddock provide fresh eggs for the guests' English cooked breakfast. The kitchen garden has home-grown blackberries and Tayberries. These berries were freshly picked for our breakfast too. And being off alcohol at the time, I drank the most delicious home-made elderflower cordial.

Of course, farms are not all views and flowers and pretty animals. While Mrs Farmer was providing all this lovely food, Mr Farmer was shovelling shit in the farmyard, loading it into lorries, and taking it off to spread over his fields. The smell was apalling, but there's no such thing as a free breakfast!

On arrival I was offered supper on the patio, overlooking the fields, which was lovely but rather breezy. The rest of the time the guests all ate in the dining room, which is an eye-goggler of a different sort!

A good time was most certainly had!

And if you should want a really comfortable, well appointed and reasonably priced B&B, in or near Bollington (near Macclesfield in Cheshire),you will find it here:

http://www.redoaksfarm.co.uk/