A Familiar View

 And one to which I may not return; one which I had not planned to see.

Those fears of arthritis have been confirmed.  It seems the condition was noted in a similar x-ray back in 2019, though I was never advised of those findings.  I'll come back to medics shortly.

Living with pain, constant pain, is very trying.  It detracts from the ability to concentrate for any length of time; any creative juices that I may harbour are well and truly quelled.  I try to manage daily tasks, whilst also finding time to take what exercise may be possible.  The bike remains pining in the garage, as those rare sun-kissed days drift by.

Confirmation of my new arthritic status comes with a route to physiotherapy.  That however is not a cosy chat, a session on the treatment couch, warm hands doing their thing.  Oh no, first there is a questionnaire, I suspect an AI chatbot thing.  Then I have to download an App.  Is this the way forward?

I have a set of exercises, twice daily.  Feedback to give, boxes to tick.  I can't honestly tick the boxes that confirm the exercises to have been Too Hard, or Too Painful.  Or indeed Too Easy.  That leaves only one option.  I Loved It!  Really?  No box to tick for, I Managed; it was OK.  Whose Key Performance Indicators are we ticking off here?

I'll stick to the regime.  Promise.

Without the patience, or comfort, to sit down and try to produce something that might resemble music, I head out for another walk.  I pack a bag.  Camera, field glasses, drink and a biscuit.  Prepared to do a bit of sitting and watching.  Listening.  Walking poles, best used now with a pair of old finger-less cycling gloves; round my neck the microphone attachment for the phone; for Merlin.

Loudoun Hill.  I opt for the low path, round the outside.  But I keep on walking, up the road, past where we used to be able to park to access those rocky slopes.  I cross the field, still no firm plans.  Three stiles, not easy, with a pair of poles and a very restricted knee, trussed up with a hinged brace.

Through the trees, lambs scurrying to mama.  Merlin tells me I am listening to willow warblers, and a goldfinch and a wren, amongst others.  I gaze up from the foot of the slope.  Could I?  In this condition, with this pain?  Would I cause more damage?

After a bit of puzzling through the rocky bits, which foot where; and how, I reach the summit.  Those familiar views open out.  New wind turbines, partially built, towering.  They're bound to have red aviation lights.  And there lies the house.

Reaching the lower woods again, after the same struggles through the rocky parts, I chat with a group gathered to watch the lambs, mothers and teenagers, the girls a bit upset.  During my spell at the summit twins had appeared.  One had taken herself off.  She and mama knew.  The survivor tottered for a drink, from those sagging udders.  She had birthed on the dusty path, the placenta still there, red and shining, to be picked off by the crows.

Never has a lamb been so manky in taking her first drink.  In the fields we see them bright and white, and shiny.  This poor wee soul was dust covered, stumbling.  Trying to get legs to work.  Nature and mama took over.  The lost twin forgotten.

Later there was pain, increased levels, after enduring the evening exercises.  I reached for the pain relief.  With some trepidation.  I had mentioned, in the surgery, that I knew ibuprofen to be off my list, reaction with the hiatus hernia something to be avoided.  It's external, a gel on the knee, won't affect the digestive system...

I read the notes.  Do Not Use...if you are asthmatic.  But the GP that prescribes my asthma inhalers, and the chemist that dispenses them, were happy to supply, to encourage me to use it.  I despair.

Grumpy Old Man mode seems to kick in with ease these days.  And don't get me started on the election that calls for my vote later in the week.  Let's just enjoy a familiar view.  And I wonder if I'll stand there again, before we complete that move, From Peelhill to Portknockie.

Feeling the passing of the years

 As we approach the end of this first month in the new stage in life known as Retired, it is painfully obvious that the years do not pass without leaving their mark.  For as well as being in the early days of a new regime I am also approaching five weeks of having had an x-ray taken on a staggeringly painful knee.  And I have been staggering ever since.  As yet the GP still awaits results from said scan.  The pain continues, undiagnosed, and absent any possible remedy.

This particular knee has been damaged in the past, had some minor surgery a quarter of a century ago.  This time round the onset of pain was not triggered by any further damage, no accident or sporting injury whatsoever.

Thus the walking and cycling elements of the retirement plans remain on hold as yet.  That said these weeks have been busy; well wishes and many kind words from those I now need to refer to as former clients, as well as easing through the passage for new advisers to grasp the reins.  Letting go is not easy.

The painful knee, and I fear it may be the onset of arthritis, has left me limping very slowly, every step racked in pain.  Life involves regular ice packs, and too many disturbed sleeps.  Painkillers offer little help, though sleep may be aided by a pleasant 12 year old from Bowmore.

On our latest trip north, to move the retirement home on a bit, I did manage to reach the cliffs at Troup Head.  Gannets a-plenty, doing nesting things.  

I have a little woodland wander, aided by much strapping and a fine pair of walking poles, on the agenda, for I want to check up on a fine young lady I happened across in the last two visits.

Loch-na-Bo is set to become a firm favourite.  My first venture, that weekend a month or so ago when the knee first called for help, took me amongst tall Scots pines and silver birch, rhododendrons gasping for spring, and a carpet of American skunk cabbage, yet another invasive non-native species that is banned from sale here.  At this stage I realise I have yet to finish the articles drafted after that walk.  The woods are filled with song, from treecreepers, and bullfinches and all the tits, finches and warblers you can imagine.

Out on the water a pair of mute swans had chased a couple of whoopers, bugling and flapping across the loch.  Swans in flight are a marvellous sight.  I feel an addiction coming on.

Our return, through the Easter weekend saw me introducing Gilly to this woodland delight.  She took Merlin with her and we ambled slowly - all pain and poles for one of us - to the far end of the loch.  There we found my mute quine, watching and wary, but settled and comfortable.  She sat on a wide nest of straw but a handful of yards from the shore.

She has been calling me back, perhaps a clutch to show me.  It will be too soon for hatching, but I'm keen to check on her wellbeing, assuming that old knee grants permission.  I'll report on that shortly.

Retirement

 A massive step in the Peelhill to Portknockie Project this week.  The working days are coming to an end.  In this my 50th year in the tax profession, the last 32 of which running my own tax consultancy, the end is nigh.  The letters to clients are out, and I enter my last week in the workplace.

Fifty years without a break, though it has been increasingly part time these last few years.  I guess I can trace my working life back further; back to those of the morning paper round, earning £1 per week, before shelf stacking in the supermarket at £1 per hour, and then, in October 1976, full time work.

As I begin to relax and to look ahead, those plans take a little more shape.  We've had the builders in all week, and they'll be back next week.  That all started with a slate falling from the roof in August last year.  Eventually we found someone prepared to come and have a look.  The critical, professional eye was quick to spot other works needing done.  Thus this past week it has been chimney stacks and skews getting attention and bit more than TLC.  Only the thickness of the walls has prevented water penetration over the years.

Next week it will be slates - the one that came down has been replaced and the ridge tiles reset, but there's another couple of dozen needing replaced; cracked, broken, or simply 'repaired' with sealant and glued down.  Then there's rough-casting to be repaired and sealed; new gutters and facias.

All the sort of thing that you might think would be hinted at in the Home Report, budgeted for.  But no.  Hey ho.

There is a parking space at the end of the yard, and some concreting and sealing has been done there, the possible source of water access under the building.  I'm of a mind to block out the parking access, which we rarely use, by moving the fence that separates that space from the yard, bring it all into what might loosely be termed a 'garden'.

One of the legacy issues in closing the office, is the retention of files and papers, client records, until such time as GDPR compliance dictates they have to be destroyed.  Where to put them?  Rent a lock-up, perhaps a container?  There are facilities nearby but I baulk at £150pm for five years.  So, that parking space...

One of our first additions at Portknockie was a bike shed, courtesy of Pads Sheds.  It is ideal, and a solid bit of bespoke timber construction.  We could do something similar, in the former parking space.  We have the space; and Pads Shed have the skills. With paper in storage for a lengthy period there would need to be insulation involved, perhaps a tin outer layer at least on the roof.

Once Kevin and James and the gang from McGregor Roofing have brought the house up to scratch, fit for whatever years we may have left, having got to the glories of the retirement stage; then I could be in touch with Lora and Pad to find a route to resolving the storage problems.  I reckon we might be crying out for the available space, once I can safely destroy all those old office files.

That retirement word seems to have infiltrated the old bones.  Knee surgery 25 or so years ago has always left a lingering weakness.  Just as I start to put work behind me, and cast an eye to extended time on the walking routes and cycle paths, so the knee flares up.  I suspect wear & tear, old age, perhaps arthritic, for I have had neither accident nor injury.  Isn't that the Law of Sod, more time imminent, and scarcely able to shuffle along, feart to turn a crank.

Oh well, there are other projects for this great retirement.  Ones that involve sitting down.  And patience.  And there's Peelhill to be addressed.  The Departure.  Scary.  Very scary.  30 years this May, memories.  And no shortage of accumulated clutter.  Plans for that anniversary have just been laid down.  Plans that may involve a puffin or two...

On The Road Again

 As I slowed in approach to the lights at the first junction, where I knew I had to turn right, a heron lowered her landing gear and glided to a rest in the tops of a swaying tree.  Welcome to Maryport.

I made my turn, and found I didn't need the signage, the route to the Senhouse Roman Museum having become familiar.  For 18 of the last 19 years the museum has hosted a small but very enthusiastic gathering.  Over the last three years the event has become a fixture on my own calendar.  We gather to discuss writings and reading, books and authors, poets and readers.  Maryport LitFest 2026 had a theme of Light over Water: A Voyage of Discovery.

A first for me this year was a commitment to two full days, an overnight stop.  It was a strategy that hugely enhanced my fleeting visits of the previous two years.  As the weekend evolved my thoughts turned to the years ahead, realising that a return trip of close on 650 miles and over 12 hours of driving time, may not be something looked forward too with the same glee as this year's event had enticed me.

And yet this event draws me deeper into its warm embrace.  I meet friends from other gatherings, from zoom calls; a rare chance to be together in person, to have those informal chats, the catch-ups, that just cannot be matched in email exchanges.  Angela Locke is pivotal to it all, writer, tutor, magnetic.  She draws us to her gatherings on Iona, at Rydal Hall, and in on-screen sessions.  As the Writer-in-Residence at Senhouse she organises (together with the museum's Jane Laskey) and co-hosts the annual gathering.  She has this ability to cajole and persuade; connections just happen.  One of this year's speakers came from a walk on beach; another just happened to have lived next door, back when she was breeding her Herdwicks.

This is a local event, West Cumbria, a corner that seems to have an endless supply of creativity, of words set down in the right order.  Wordsworth hailed from just along the road, in Cockermouth, and thence to Rydal.

I had been aware of Maryport from countless childhood visits; a farm on the edge of Allonby.  There is a black & white snapshot of a very young me astride a pony - the first and last time.  Of those captured I am the only one left alive, pup and pony being the first to go, before Linda far too young, and then my father.  Allonby draws memories, with recent gatherings having been final farewells, and those chats afterwards, with long lost friends and new generations, lingering.

And so I walked Allonby's green before our second day got underway.  It all looks a bit tired now, in need of a lick of paint.  But beneath it all the surf rolled over the shingle; the green was dotted with worm casts and rabbit diggings; and those old narrow wooden bridges still spanned the beck.  That humped back bridge at the bend in the road; cobbled pends and farms.  The donkeys were absent, winter quartered presumably.

Sunday morning walk

Little egret on the beck

Twentyman's ice cream

I drove along the road, to that familiar farmhouse.  Conversions and extensions, mobile homes and weekend pods in the paddock.  It must be over 50 years since last we stayed there.  And yet...

Yan tyan house

The bridges over the beck

as Old Kiln beckons

David Ashworth plucked tunes from a 12 string guitar, as images from paintings and photographs rolled across the screen behind him.  One of his favourites was a snap of himself as a young man.  Allonby Beach, 5 July 1965.  I could have been there, that day.  And realising that my baby sister would celebrate her 60th birthday on the final day of this month, reinforced that feeling of deja vu.  Perhaps...

One of the highlights of the weekend presentations, and there were many, was a talk by John Porter, he who had gardened whilst Angela bred her sheep.  No, me neither.  But what a man, what a life.  Flashing across the screen behind him a girl stood on a high wire, quite a way to return to Hoy having climbed the Old Man.  Her old man's genes must run strong.

For in addition to being a writer, poet, film director and whatever his day job may have been through a transatlantic life, he had climbed.  Big and high.  He told tales of being smuggled in trains across Uzbekistan to reach unheard of peaks in the High Pamirs.  In discussion later he mentioned being stuck, completely alone, for five days, storm bound, unable to go up or down, at 27,000 feet.  On Everest.  That was 1981, long before Base Camp tourism.

I will enjoy his volume of essays and poems from a life well lived.  A Path of Shadows.

We were treated to a floor show, Richard Valentine, a performance so very special.  Whoever thought Odysseus might have been dry and dusty old stuff?  Looking forward to the latest screen adaptation in a few months, filmed on the Moray Coast.  Richard's wife, Rosie de Mello, closed the event, her enthusiasm for the coastline, the preservation of this special place and teaching of youngsters bubbling over to those of us who remained.  Life in that household must be lived at quite some pace.  Dull moments are for others.

I had decided to take in that last session, mainly as there might have been something to impart to any budding environmental scientists soon to graduate.  We heard from Joe, a marine biologist with Cumbria Wildlife Trust, funded by lottery grant.  He lives in Allonby, his charge being a unique Honeycomb Worm Reef, which gives a stretch of the bay HPMA status.  It is one of only three HPMAs in England, and the only coastal one.  Honeycomb Worm Reefs, must tell the children.

Alicia had passed on that session, determined to make her journey home in daylight.  A good plan, such is the scourge of the LED headlight.  Through two hours of filthy weather on the M74, rear mirror dipped, yellow glasses on, I applauded her.  The children had better appreciate those worms.  Night time driving is now far too stressful.  I wonder if those who have LED headlights are exempt from being blinded by the lights of others.  They must know, surely?

Mark the calendar for next year, even if we are much further away.  Much to happen between now and then.

Shingle Shock

 The inshore waters are broiling and frothing.  The longer view is masked in grey, at times little to distinguish between seas and skies, the horizon more melding than distinction.

Ash grey above, reflected in pearl grey waters with a tinge of green inshore.

The waves begin breaking more than 100m from landfall.  At any time there are five rows of surf rolling shoreward.  Windrush and rumble, air spoondrift sodden.

From Jenny's Well, where the grasses have been gathering sea foam blown from the rocks, I pick my way through the last of the low tide exposed nooks and crannies and rockpools.  On to the beach.

Before me stretches the long curve of the bay.  Those turbulent waters tumble on, reducing until it is but a final caress that crests the sands.  Once again I find myself the only beach walker absent a hound at foot; an outsider without the credentials for club membership.

As I doddle on I realise that all is not as it should be; the familiar has changed.  Usually I'll walk the wet sand, as the soft, deep piles of golden beach can become a tough trudge.

I find myself picking a way through increasingly deep shingle.  There are stretches where the beach is no more.  The sand has gone.

There have been some very high tides of late, crashing waves.  I ponder the possibility of the rushing surf bringing pebbles onwards, depositing them on the shore.  Or perhaps the receding waters have hauled the loose sand with them, exposing the hidden stones.  Maybe a bit of both.

Might have to ask a young environmental scientist or two for their thoughts on beach erosion.

I'd like to think Old Neptune may be kind enough, over time, to return our beach.

My return route takes me into the grounds of Cullen House, and on to Castle Hill.  Despite the bare canopy of the woods in winter, there is greenery I'd not noticed by the same path in the warmer months.  A carpeting of ivy, spreading to each and every tree; worn by the trunks as a winter coat, reaching for those grey skies above.

Across the viaducts, the tumbling surf below roaring from the depths.  The bay stretches out, a white coat rippling in the wind.

Then I see the beach, more brocolli brown and umber than the familiar golden.  Shingle and pebbles and stones where once there was soft, desert sand.  And strangely, after the high tides, no piled up wrack.  No weed at all.  It must be partying in the depths, with all that sand.

Slated for Greater Things

 It was never going to be a smooth journey, this late in life move to another location.  We know from experience that older properties do not come maintenance free.

Some months ago, after one of those storms that have naming rights, arrival in the north east was welcomed by a slate lying in the parking space.  A quick check on the neighbouring roof left no option but a glance, with some trepidation, at our own.  And there was the gap, under the ridge tile.  A weighty beast, still with attached concrete.

Find a local roofer.  Easier said then done as it turned out.  Just as they are down Drumclog way, they're all busy, in demand.  Little time for what sounds like a tiny job; one slate down.

The hard bit was getting attention, getting commitment, a promise to call out when next in the village.

Eventually we got expert eyes on our roof.  And this week Kevin and James get down to some real work.  Replacing one slate is the trivial bit.

It seems that years of papering over the cracks has caught up with the property.  Water is going to places it's not supposed to reach.  Thus far there is virtually no internal evidence.  There was a time we had suspected a plumbing issue.  Now we know, water from above to below, without touching the internal walls.  That however is down to the thickness of the stonework.  What might be happening underneath, beneath the concrete floors, is best not discovered.  Not yet.  Let's stop it happening.

Cracks on the chimney stacks, slates held down by silicon, roughcast that is not adhering to the gable.  I have every confidence that Kevin and James will ensure that the years ahead do not become troubled with a need for internal works.  Their external expertise will see us wind and water tight, able to relax.

It has been a stressful few months, just finding this father and son team, and getting to the stage where initial inspections lead to time in the diary for essential reparations.  In some respects we're at the nervous stage, wondering what will be exposed when outer layers are chipped away.  This week it's chimneys and slates.

They're already suggesting that the roughcast could be replaced by pointing the stonework, a common finish hereabouts, as an alternative to new roughcast.  Much will depend on what they find when the walls are laid bare.

Still, it has to be sorted, and done now.  All thoughts of bathroom changes will have to be put on hold, the budget gone on unexpected roof repairs.  It wasn't long ago we read a clean Home Report.  That'll be the sort of document riddled with caveats.  As Kevin tells me, what looks nice from the street, even if we are told that binoculars may have been used, is a different matter altogether when you get the ladders out and have a proper look.  Up close, scratching the surfaces.

Welsh slate and local sandstone, the law of sod says supplies may not be easy.  I'm sure Kevin will let me know soon.

And then, before too long, it will be time to arrange another Home Report.  Best get the builders in first, knowing that papering over the cracks is simply cheating someone else.  Not on my conscience.  Not at this stage in life.  Finding the experts, that's the hard bit.  Wonder if Kevin and James fancy a trip south?

A Year Between the Covers

 It might be a bit sad really - keeping track of everything read through the year.  And what a year it has been, with a total 182 books read, which is an average of two-day reading.  Quite astonishing, though it might suggest that I haven't spent enough time cycling.  More likely too many hours where sleep may have been a distant bedfello.

The end of the year is always a good time to delve into the records, to produce some numbers:

Fiction - 147; Non Fiction 39.  These break between male and female authors pretty evenly on the non fiction, 21 to 18, with the males edging ahead 82 to 65 in fiction.  (the numbers get skewed very slightly with a few jointly authored works, often featuring Thomas Enger, either with Jorn Lier Horst or with Johanna Gustawsson).

There is a huge increase in my fiction reading, particularly crime fiction, (even from the massive total of 141 recorded in 2024) and that has to be down to reading on my Kobo.  Non fiction remains largely in hardback, and predominantly Nature and Travel and those numbers have held up well under the onslaught of the Kobo crime.

I have then tried to select a top three reads in each category (though not placed at all which would be a step too far).  From the lists I keep over at LaidBackMuse, the following emerges:

Male Fiction - Niklas Natt och Dag - The Wolf and The Watchman;  Douglas Jackson - Blood Vengeance; Olivier Norken - The Winter Warriors.

Female Fiction - Agnes Ravatn - The Seven Doors; Johanna Gustawsson (with Thomas Enger) - Son;  Essie Fox - Dangerous.

Male Non Fiction - Tom Bowser - The Waters of Life;  Gerry Cambridge - The Ayrshire Nestling;  Richard Halliburton - The Flying Carpet.  Special mentions too for Laurie Lee and Peter Levi.

Female Non Fiction - Kirsten MacQuarrie - Remember the Rowan;  Linda Cracknell - Sea Marked;  Merryn Glover - The Hidden Fires.  Ones to watch are Cal Flyn and Christina Riley.

So, much delicious new writing for the Female Non Fiction category, whilst there has been some re-reading of old favourites for the boys.  Interesting.

It is noted that John Boyne is the only sole author to appear twice on that list at LBM, though Thomas Enger manages appearances with two different joint authorships (with Jorn Lier Horst and with Johanna Gustawsson)

It has been a splendid year for discovering new authors and delving into their back catalogues.  The girls are surging ahead here with, amongst others, Johanna Gustawsson; Maria Adolfsson; Kristina Ohlsson; Mari Jungstedt; Mari Hannah; Cal Flyn; Kati Hiekkapalto.  New boys on the block have included Ken Lussey; Anders de la Motte; Orjan Karlsson.

Old favourites holding their own include Sylvain Tesson, Bruce Chatwin and Laurie Lee, whilst Allan Martin continues to keep a Scottish crime fiction interest (though both Douglas Jackson and Ken Lussey are adding to that genre).  The Icelandic pair of Eva Bjorg Aegisdottir and Lilja Sigurdardottir continue to fly the flag for the girls, new works awaited very impatiently. 

Let's hope for more of the same in 2026.  Pages turning.  As always there is a quest for beautiful writing, with my non fiction interests spreading slowly into poetry (which is all down to the promptings of Angela Locke).  New crime teams hold a fascination, with the characters and interactions, as much as the plots, keeping interests through entire series of works.  Most of my crime reading tends to follow my historic non fiction interests - people and places, overseas, though Mari Hannah adds a Geordie accent and Ken Lussey tours favourite places in Scotland.

Onwards.