Jenny Burrell

Christmas is the time for spending money, the time shops rub their hands in glee and credit cards get maxed out! It’s also the time of year when products which don’t exist all year, make their appearance. They hypnotise us into thinking that, without buying them, Christmas can’t be celebrated.

I’ll start with Panettone. For some reason this bread / fruit cake is only available during the Christmas season. It hails from Milan but is readily available in many parts of the world. Not everyone knows what to do with it, me included! The pyramid shape causes a slicing issue for a start. The next challenge is how to serve it. Is it with tea, like a cake, or toast, like bread? I’ve bought it once and, by the end of January, only one slice had been taken. That was one of my many carb based monuments to an impulse buy!

Then there are those giant luxury shortbread biscuit tins that weigh a ton! To open the tin you need two weight lifter’s arms and an ultra supportive core! It’s my own fault that I struggle with them each year! They go a small way to alleviate feelings of inadequacy for not being a good housewife and baking them myself!

Mulled wine. That’s another thing that makes its annual appearance. It makes the kitchen smell like Christmases, past, present and future, it’s so pungent! Cheap red wine is poured into a pot. Cinnamon sticks, star anise, sugar and an orange, studded with cloves gets added to the simmering cauldron. Last comes nutmeg, sprinkled with gay abandon and brandy, rum or Cointreau. Rarely can I have more than one small glass. It’s either too sweet, too spicy or too much like warm Ribena. A seasonal witchcraft performance in the name of a Christmas ritual!

Christmas pudding is also a once-a-year tradition. When my mother in law was alive she would make her three sons a Christmas pudding each year. We’d not eat the new one but bring out last year’s delight which had been liberally doctored with brandy. The fumes alone would take you over the driving limit! I loved the smell of Christmas puddings boiling merrily on her hob. The kitchen windows would steam up and the whole house smell of treacle and spice. One of my favourite memories when moving to England! In South Africa we seldom had a traditional Christmas dinner and the puddings were either bought or non existent.

My mother in law used to also bake us our annual Christmas cake. She remains sorely missed but my husband has been known to use her recipe and make his own. Alas, he didn’t marry a domestic goddess! Baking is something that I simply cannot get excited about but it does make me feel a bit of a failure at this time of year! Baking requires patience, precision and a willingness to follow instructions. All I can offer is a distinct lack of enthusiasm and a wish that I could be doing something more enjoyable somewhere else! Thankfully shops do exist that offer delicious cakes far better than any I could produce. Perhaps I should consider buying them not as a sign of weakness, but skilful delegation and damage control!

So, as we embark on another Christmas and the shops begin stock-piling their annual delicacies, I’ve started my own Christmas tradition. I’ve bought a few tins of Quality Street chocolates before they rocket up in price. Instead of mulled wine we prefer champagne so have a few bottles in readiness for the festive season. My husband has started his annual fix of mince pies which will continue for as long as they’re available in supermarkets. Something else that I could bake but don’t!

Living in England I do celebrate a traditional Christmas, either at home or with close family. We have turkey or goose with all the trimmings. Pigs in blankets, cranberry sauce, brandy butter, the delicious cheeseboard and, of course, an outsourced Christmas pudding and cake! I can highly recommend certain supermarkets, butchers and bakeries for their excellent culinary delights.

If you are lucky enough to have been brought up in a home where the Christmas traditions were imbedded into your family from generations past, I’m sure you enjoy this special time. Recipes might be written on yellowing paper with butter stains and splashes of brandy. It’s those feelings of continuity, the quiet reassurance that, even though there has been monumental change over the years, some things will always remain the same.

When the Christmas pudding is presented in a ball of fire after the delicious roast has been enjoyed, I look around the table and feel very grateful. This is the unmistakeable flavour of love and belonging. It’s the true taste of Christmas. 👠

November arrives quietly, almost apologetically. The blazing spectacle of October has passed, leaving behind bare branches and, until the first frost, the last remnants of a summer garden. It’s a bridge between the vibrant colours of autumn and the quiet anticipation of winter. Even though we can experience warm days, summer has definitely moved on, blown away by the cooler northern winds.

There’s a quiet nostalgia to this month. Mornings can be misty and it seems to rain more often than usual. November has its own distinct smell of damp leaves softening on the ground, releasing that rich, woody aroma as they break down. It’s a smell that makes me breathe a little deeper and remind myself that the seasons are turning, just as they always have.

Trees shed the last of their golden or russet coloured leaves, carpeting footpaths, country lanes and gardens in thick mulchy layers. The leaves drift down, almost in slow motion, the late stragglers clinging on for as long as possible. Autumn eases itself out on a tide of senses, definitely, for me, the most noticeable being smell. Not only is this relevant when walking outside but also in the house. There’s a familiar perfume to a fire. The resinous tang of burning wood, the faint sweetness from the sap and the woody smokiness offers an invitation to settle down, relax and unwind. And then there’s the comforting sound of the fire when it pops and crackles and emits soft, contented sighs.

We can feel that it’s November. The shorter afternoons vanish abruptly into darkness and the thin light during the day is the result of the sun never climbing quite high enough in the sky. It stretches shadows right across the garden, even at midday, as if it’s running out of energy, just bright enough to mark the hours but not strong enough to offer the warmth or brilliance of those glorious summer days.

Orchards have produced their rich harvests and berries and apples have complemented meals in the forms of pies, crumbles and delicious juices. Those familiar smells of cinnamon and ginger become more prevalent. It’s the time for small rituals. Pulling out winter scarves and hats and shutting windows against the biting winds. Tastes change as we stock up cupboards and freezers for stews instead of salads and barbecues.

Nature is doing the same. We see squirrels stashing the last of their supplies in gardens and can imagine hedgehogs curling up to hibernate as the fields settle into their winter rest. Gone are the brilliant summer colours, to be replaced by muted greens, reds, golds and browns. Grey skies replace the blues of summer. The cold air nips at unprotected fingertips and those warm woolly scarves feel extra comforting. Senses are definitely heightened as autumn slowly disappears.

November opens with a bang on the fifth. Bonfire night marks the failed Gunpowder Plot of 1605 when Guy Fawkes and his conspirators planned to blow up parliament. Over the centuries the political edge has softened but the tradition remains. Families gather in parks or village fields waiting in eager anticipation for the firework displays. The skies become a stage as each dynamic explosion briefly reveals the silhouettes of trees, rooftops and hillsides.

The bonfire itself takes on a character of its own. Flames roar upwards, orange and gold, twisting and breathing like a living thing! Sparks fly off in little constellations, drifting away into the dark. Logs collapse inwards with satisfying thuds emitting waves of heat that warms your front while your back remains cold. The bonfire doesn’t only produce a distinctive scent of woodsmoke but also a primal sense that makes us instinctively lean in, hands outstretched, cheeks glowing. We share the same moment, the heat, the darkness and the excitement, a strong community feel. In its own stubborn, British way, the inclement weather adds to the charm.

On the 11th of November we have time to reflect. It is one of the most solemn, dignified and quietly powerful days of the year. Remembrance Day marks the moment the guns fell silent at the end of the First World War. Over time it has grown into a day that honours, not only those who died during the two World Wars, but all those who have served in conflicts. It’s a national act of remembrance, quiet and deeply felt. In the days leading up to the 11th we pin poppies to coats and jackets. Wreathes are laid on stone memorials in villages, towns and cities. There is something very moving about communities coming together, generation after generation, honouring those they often never knew but feel connected to.

As November quietly slips away and autumn closes its final chapter, we begin to prepare mentally, physically and emotionally for the long, cold winter days ahead. November is subtle. It doesn’t shout for attention. It gently urges us to slow our pace, wrap up a little tighter and step, with calm acceptance, into December.👠

There must be something about airports that turns two otherwise functional, rational human beings into sleep-deprived, irrational versions of themselves! The night before the flight I set my alarm but wake up every hour to ensure I don’t oversleep. I’ve set it for a time that technically counts as ‘morning’ but only if I’m a dairy farmer or doing the milk rounds. This is because we have been advised to get to the airport three hours before the plane is due to take off. It’s take off time is 8:00 am.

The taxi is booked. My husband’s suitcase is already closed and weighed. I still have to pack my face creams and makeup so I need an extra half an hour to catch up. Travelling in my golden years was always going to be a relaxing pastime. I never factored in getting up at the crack of dawn to hear my husband muttering ‘This is ridiculous. There is absolutely no need to get to the airport three hours early to fly to Spain! Wake me up five minutes before the taxi’s due.’

Getting into the taxi after my last frenetic check of doors and windows, we wait for the usual ‘Have you got your passports?’ from the taxi driver. There is no response from my husband, who should have them in his bag, so I pass on the query. The look I receive says it all! ‘Yes,’ I reply cheerfully, ‘we’re ready to go’.

Arriving at the drop off zone the taxi driver pulls into a space, jumps out of the car, opens the boot and has most of the luggage out before we’ve even alighted. ‘We only have an allotted time to stay here before the cost escalates’ he reminds us as my husband is going through all the compartments in his man bag trying to find his wallet. ‘It’s in here somewhere’ he mutters as the taxi driver checks his watch again. Finally, taxi paid and bags gathered up, we make for the entrance.

Once inside the terminal, after wandering up and down to find our airline check in, we encounter the queue. The kind of queue that makes me wonder if we’ll ever get to the other side. ‘This,’ declares my husband who has morphed into ‘Victor Meldrew’, ‘is why sensible people don’t use this airport or prefer not to fly! Airports are a nightmare!’

The bag drop off is like a school exam. Everyone looks as if they know what they’re doing but most of them just wing it before calling an assistant. Walking up to the machine that expects you to register your passport, agree the flight number, then you must solemnly promise that you’ve packed and approved everything in your suitcase, before it will spit out your luggage ticket. Then it’s time to join another queue. When our suitcases finally trundle away on the belt, I feel like giving them a wave, wishing them the best of luck and hoping that we’ll get to see them soon.

Then we head for security where any remaining excitement goes to die!

Nothing brings out the irritation and sarcasm in ‘Victor’ like a long line snaking along at the speed of erosion! When we finally reach the trays I hear my husband mutter’ Oh great! Shoes off, belt off, jacket off, watch off, wonder why we don’t all just go through in our underwear!’ The cabin bags are placed on the conveyor belt and our trays filled before we head for the x-ray scanner.

This time it’s my tray that does a detour into the dark side where it’s selected for inspection. The first time ever because I am so careful. I had packed a plastic tub with my cereal, nuts, yoghurt and a drop of milk to eat at the airport. I never imagined that it would be deemed a weapon of mass destruction and have to be closely examined and potentially confiscated! I was asked to open the offending tub which is held aloft and taken to the manager for a second opinion. It’s then sent back through the scanner before given to me with a warning that it contained an unknown quantity of liquid. I’ll not do that again!

Finally, an hour later, we are once more fully clothed and heading through the Duty Free shops to find seats to while away one and a half hours before the boarding gate number is announced. Out come the phones, iPad, tablet and puzzles and, with a warm drink, manage to occupy us for an hour.

The last half an hour before the gate is announced feels less like thirty minutes and more like a small lifetime. Even the tricky crosswords are finished so the pair of us are staring at the departure board as though sheer willpower will divulge the state secret of our gate number and we can move on. We’re tired, frazzled and getting on each other’s nerves. And so we wait, marooned in airport limbo, where time stands still and the tannoy never shuts up!

Finally the gate number miraculously appears and we weave our way past zombie travellers until we reach our required gate, at the opposite end of the airport. Of course, reaching the gate doesn’t mean boarding the plane! We make our way to the small queue beginning to gather, proudly holding our boarding pass neatly tucked into our passport as we are in Group A. We’d be boarding the plane first! But no, deluded that Group A actually means something as we were in row 5, we never realised, in the joke that is airport logic, Group A means that we board the plane last!

We watch as all the other groups surge past us with mountains of cabin luggage, each determined to occupy an entire overhead locker on their own! With every bulging suit case or rucksack that waddles past us we become more annoyed and convinced that we’ll have to sit with our luggage on our laps!

But somehow, by miracle, luck or sheer determination, we eventually walk down the bridge, find the last overhead space and collapse into our seats. We buckle in as the engines roar into life. The air hostess launches herself into the safety briefing with cheerful optimism while I sit, glassy eyed, unable to concentrate.

Finally we’re airborne, leaving behind the queues and the chaos. At last the holiday can begin. We can relax for a few hours until we reach Spain and the airport nightmare starts all over again.👠

There is something really absurd about the self checkout. Supermarkets insist that it makes life easier. What it actually does is make me a part time employee with no training and no HR induction.

I walk into the supermarket feeling like a fully functional human being in possession of all my faculties. I leave feeling like my brain should be taken in for diagnostic testing!

I only ever use the self checkout if I have a few items. I don’t want to stand in a long queue behind people doing their Christmas shopping in early November or preparing for a war! I just want to get in, get out and go home!

My stress levels begin to rise as I walk up to the self checkout with my basket containing a loaf of bread, a pint of milk and a bottle of jam. That’s when I begin to hold an internal conversation.

‘It’s fine, relax, it’s only a machine and can’t hurt you! You are a grown woman! People have gone into space! You can surely manage to scan a barcode!’

The machine starts flashing options at me, giving me choices I don’t need or want. I press START but it’s not actually the start of the process. It’s the gateway to a series of interrogations. I put my basket down on the section marked BASKETS. Before I scan one single barcode it needs to know if I need a bag. I put my bag in the space provided and press ‘NO’.

And so the questions begin. Do I have a loyalty card? Am I paying by cash or credit card? Am I going bagless? I feel as if I’m entering a witness protection scheme. It is only after I have satisfied the machine by declaring my allegiance, my bag status and my future payment orientation, that it finally allows me to scan the first item! Unfortunately not all supermarkets follow the same process. They’re all different and all equally baffling!

I scan the loaf of bread. ‘Unexpected item in the bagging area’ the ludicrous machine informs me. That would be the item I have literally just scanned, the one I was told to scan three seconds ago! I now have to wait for assistance! It has summonsed the all knowing goddess of override who is currently helping six other people also fast becoming emotionally unravelled!

Finally the goddess arrives and looks at me disdainfully. She waves her magic wand at the machine while I start babbling excuses. ‘I did scan the loaf of bread’ I apologise. ‘I can’t understand how this has happened.’

I feel like a common criminal yet I’ve not knowingly done anything wrong! ‘Why is it so hard to scan a loaf of bread?’ I hear her thoughts. ‘It’s not rocket science!’ I silently reply as I stare back at her. ‘I should have gone to Waitrose and got an actual person to do this for me!’

‘You should be fine now’, she says patronisingly as I grab hold of the pint of milk. I reverently present it to the useless machine as if it’s a ceremonial offering. How can a piece of software make me feel so inferior? And, more to the point, why am I standing in front of it trying to justify myself? This is irrational and embarrassing. I can feel my blood pressure rising as I scan, re-scan, wait, re-scan, wait then hold my breath before emitting an internal scream! I scan the barcode again. I dare not flex a muscle and pray that it pings and I can move on.

After all this stress and mental degradation and I’ve finally scanned in the last item, the ludicrous machine asks me if I’d like to donate to charity? Am I ever going to get away from it? All these damn questions and all the while the queue behind me is growing longer. I’m becoming more flustered as I sense their irritation.

Finally I reach the end and point my credit card at another machine. Naively I think that I can now leave this ‘little shop of horrors’. But no, after fully dismantling my personality, dignity, confidence and emotional stability, it has the audacity to ask me, in a passive aggressive Mary Poppins voice, ‘How was your shopping experience today’?

Well, I’ll tell you!

It spiritually defeated me! I came in for a handful of items and am leaving questioning my eligibility to live amongst society. I’ve shaved ten IQ points off my cognitive functioning. I no longer feel like a capable adult! And there’s more! I don’t want convenience! I want a human cashier. I want someone to treat me like an equal.

Spending even longer at the supermarket than I ever dreamed possible I finally grab my bag and head for the exit. No one should ever experience this level of trauma when simply going to buy a loaf of bread, a pint of milk and a bottle of jam!👠

In my youth I used a typewriter. If I hit the wrong key I had to sort out the error myself. It was called tippex and held pride of place on my desk. The whole world had no means of judging me if I had hit the wrong key. A typo was seen as a minor mistake, trivial and easily corrected.

Enter the smartphone and, with it, ‘Autocorrect’. It’s the self proclaimed arbiter of language and syntax. In theory it’s meant to make our texts more legible, our spelling impeccable and our lives more efficient. In practice ‘Autocorrect’ is anything but! It’s managed to become my worst enemy!

I’ll start typing and misspell or even just start a word and ‘Autocorrect’ will rush in! It doesn’t work with me, it works against me! It turns even the simplest, uncomplicated message into something confusing, awkward or at best, unintentionally hilarious! It doesn’t save time. It wastes time!

Autocorrect doesn’t negotiate nor does it pause to reflect. It creates a battlefield between my intended meaning and a series of algorithmic assumptions. I can accept minor alterations but not when one word has changed the entire sentence, often with profound social implications! It decides what I want to say without consultation. When I want to type ‘I’m on my way’ why does it think I’m really trying to say ‘I’m on my waffle’ Really? What does that even mean? I’ve sent a ‘Happy Birthday’ message to a friend and it’s gone as ‘Happy Birthing’!

Autocorrect doesn’t discriminate. Anyone can be a potential victim regardless of age, profession or linguistic prowess. Humour lies in the fact that these messages are often more entertaining than the original intended. ‘Autocorrect’ forces us to see the fragility, flexibility and often absurdity of the English language. It’s a reminder that clarity is both precious and precarious.

But ‘Autocorrect’ has an ally in ‘Predictive Text’, the ever confident futurist! It’s equally as ambitious and equally prone to error. It attempts to anticipate what I want to say and boldly complete my sentences for me! When I type ‘I’m going to the …’ it will write ‘rave’. It demonstrates the remarkable capability of machine learning to recognise patterns, yet it fails miserably in grasping context, subtlety or just plain common sense!

Despite the occasional embarrassing text or email why do I still keep using ‘Autocorrect’ and ‘Predictive Text’? Is it because, in many ways, it does work? Both have been known to correct genuine mistakes which contributes towards speed and efficiency. ‘Predictive Text’ tempts us with short cuts. We live in this world of rapid response where a delayed text could feel like a social faux pas. Some of us have been conditioned to trust technology, giving it the benefit of the doubt. Embarrassingly, I just don’t know how to turn them off!

While AI can process vast quantities of information, it remains unable to grasp context, nuance or the subtleties of human communication. it is simultaneously helpful, frustrating, fascinating and often highly amusing. Not a bad thing that AI is not infallible and can’t read the human mind. To stay one step ahead I have learned, the hard way, to think before I tap ‘send’. It’ll take a while before I can treat ‘Autocorrect’ and ‘Predictive Text’ as allies or even friends.

AI may be clever but they don’t have our wit, common sense or guile and that’s why we’ll always have the last word!👠

It’s that time again when I try to convince myself that I have to reorganise my wardrobe. It’s October. The nights are drawing in, the air is getting colder and leaves are clogging up drains and gutters. It’s also the month when my husband becomes twitchy.

I find packing away summer clothes a complex, emotional experience. It sounds so easy. A bit of organisation, a dash of nostalgia and some folding. Alas, it involves a lot more. The first thing I have to negotiate is the ending of another summer. I can sense when it’s coming. A strangeness settles over the garden. The flowers, once so vibrant, begin to droop, their leaves curling at the edges. Even the birds seem quieter, just flitting from tree to tree rather than belting out their usual robust melodic chorus.

I gather together my thoughts as I stare into the wardrobe. The dilemma of what I should keep or put in the charity bag threatens to overwhelm me. I rifle through my colour coded tops and feel a Deja vieu. Another summer has passed and I still haven’t worn that one, the one next to it and a few more in the blue section. In denial I move onto the oranges, greens, creams, whites and blacks. The empty bin bag lies on the floor, mocking me! Logic dictates that I should get rid of half the contents of this cupboard but each item holds a memory, a chance that it will come back into fashion, or that I might fit into it next year!

There are clothes that haven’t been worn for several summers. How can I sever ties with these reminders of happy days long past? My heart protests but my feeble hands falter. ‘Sentimental old fool’ I mutter in contempt as I move onto the array of summer sandals. Perhaps it’s guilt? Like discarding an old friend?

I glance outside at the grey mizzle and take a deep breath. I call my husband and he hears those words he has dreaded for weeks. ‘Love’, I say in dulcet tones when I want something,’Please can you go into the loft and bring down my winter clothes’?

To add insult to injury, there are not one but two wasp nests in the loft. My husband hasn’t called the pest control man as he’s done a bit of diy himself and hopes that they’ll soon be dying anyway. So, while I’m struggling heroically in the bedroom with my conscience and non existent logic gene, my husband, the brave warrior, is armed with a spray can and a torch as bright as a million candles (according to Rhod Gilbert!).

I picture him battling his way through deadly buzzing invaders to rescue my box of jumpers, a brave trooper on the front line of seasonal change. It adds an element of suspense to the process, like a domestic version of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Cardigans. Every six months the changing of the seasons brings a certain level of drama to our household. This year it feels like a blockbuster!

And so, after much dithering, sighing and deliberating, I finally admit defeat. The summer is over. Any random heatwaves won’t last. Between my inability to let go and my husband’s potential near death experience, (he swells up impressively if stung by a wasp) I’ve managed to turn a simple wardrobe exchange into a full scale domestic war.

I always hope that this bi-annual event is a smooth, organised process, but it always turns into an emotional rollercoaster! Let’s be honest, by next June I’ll have forgotten half of what I’ve packed away and reopening the boxes will feel like Christmas has come early!

And thus ends the ‘Great Wardrobe Migration’ for another six months! My husband has survived two deadly wasp nests, a true hero in my eyes. I, on the other hand, was left traumatised by my usual indecisiveness, illogical dithering and hoarding weakness. I plead guilty as charged.👠

Forget Netflix or Prime, I have a fascinating movie outside my back window at any time of the day. I keep filling the bird feeders with nuts, sunflower hearts and suet pellets, not just so that there is a varied menu for the birds, but for the show it provides!

As much as I want the birds to enjoy a continuous supply of food, I love watching them, exclaiming in delight when new comers appear. I have the Merlin app so can identify them by their sounds which is an added bonus. There is a certain kind of magic that only exists in the soft hush of a summer’s evening when the sun is bowing out and the birds perform their final chorus before nightfall. That’s when I sit in the breeze house at the bottom of our garden opposite the wood and find endless delight in the wonders of nature.

Perhaps the birds don’t know I’m there? Or maybe they do and just don’t care, which I find quite flattering! Thanks to my Merlin app I can hear blue tits gossiping in one of the sycamore trees. A robin is doing his best Shakespearean soliloquy on the fence close by. Somewhere under one of the ferns in my husband’s exotic tropical garden, a wren sounds as if she’s offering unsolicited advice at 90 miles an hour!

Just as I’m enjoying the ambience of this particular summer’s evening along comes a squirrel, part ninja, part circus performer but really just a petty criminal! He stands, eyeing the bird feeder. He sizes it up like a jewel thief casing the joint. He has been there many times. He comes with the same plan, under the same delusion and with the same dogged determination! He knows the seeds are up there! He knows I’m outside watching him, but he doesn’t care!

His first attempt is to sprint up the pole, hang onto the edge of the of the squirrel repellant dome and, with sheer upper body strength, clamber on top. It’s mobile and he can’t get a grip so plummets down, landing unceremoniously close to a fat pigeon who takes flight.

Attempt number two sees him trying again, this time starting a bit further away to build up speed. That also fails but he’s not giving up! He runs into the garden and climbs up the azalea bush reaching the top and finding the sturdiest branch. It’s directly opposite the feeder. He now has a strategy. He’s moving with intent, his eyes locked on the prize. Maybe he watched an episode of Mission:Impossible for squirrels! The branch sways, the leaves rustle and the robin stops his soliloquy to watch Tom Cruise of the squirrel world sail into the air and land on the feeder.

I wait with bated breath. His tail flicks. He calculates the wind speed. He judges the distance. He forgets about physics. And then he launches! All four paws are spread out like a flying squirrel. He arcs through the air in slow motion heading straight for the top of the squirrel repellent dome. For one glorious second he lands right on top. A direct hit before the dome wobbles, but still he hangs on for one brief moment. He doesn’t fall, exactly. It’s more like an undignified slide, belly down, paws scrabbling frantically and tail flailing like a malfunctioning rudder. To rub insult into the wound I have it on video. He will become the laughing stock of my family. I have a few minutes of viral-worthy footage while the squirrel has mild concussion. Unfortunately for him and his equally delusional yet determined mates, my husband has raised the pole making their challenge even harder!

The show is over for me for another day. The setting sun is hovering just above the horizon, the trees silhouetted against its golden glow. As the sun begins to sink, the sky deepens, becoming a bold, brilliant crimson that spills across the skyline like liquid fire. The red intensifies, deep and velvety, streaks of magenta and burnt orange create vivid layers of colour. The trees are slowly becoming darker outlines etched against this glowing tapestry. For a few fleeting moments my world is awash in the warmest, richest light. The sun slips away, leaving a smouldering sky, a quiet reverence for the closing of another day.

In those final moments, as the last light fades and the sky deepens into twilight, I’m reminded of the quiet, humbling glory of nature. It’s so vast, yet so effortless and profoundly moving. A glorious sunset means more to me than just the end of another day. It’s a fleeting masterpiece, a miracle of beauty that asks nothing in return. It’s a single moment of stillness and wonder, the only constant in this unpredictable, turbulent world. It restores my faith and gives me hope for the future.👠

Alaska is a place where nature doesn’t whisper, it roars! Beautiful snow topped mountains stand majestically etched, on a good day, against a cloudless blue sky. It was where three generations of our family spent eight days without losing Wi-Fi, patience or anyone’s sense of humour! A feat within itself!

As the only woman in the party I noticed a quiet complexity between the three men. It wasn’t just about different tastes in sightseeing or meals, it was about navigating identity, memory and legacy. All this mostly non verbal, but creating the differing dynamics of our party. The grandfather brought persecutive. He’d seen it all before, the ambition, the mistakes, the growing pains. My son, in the middle of life’s demands, bridged the generations. My grandson was fast becoming his own person by testing ideas and quietly watching the dynamics between the two older men.

Anchorage was our base. We rented an airbnb with a hot tub overlooking a field and a wood. We were warned not to leave food out to entice bears and to stay away from moose. We chose our bedrooms, the oldies taking the en-suite. We settled in that first night and went out for a meal. The two youngsters sat in the hot tub on our return nursing beers and hoping to catch sight of wild life. My husband and I had gained eight hours but were exhausted so escaped to our room. The fun was going to start the next day and we wanted to be rested and ready for the challenge.

My son carried the quiet weight of responsibility. He had booked the trip and done a lot of research into the best sights to visit and had chosen our car. It was a four wheel drive with a huge engine and, to the men, a satisfying amount of power and torque! He had just sold his muscle car, a Dodge Shaker and had withdrawal symptoms so appreciated the deafening roar of the engine. We were herded into the car, too early for my liking, but our first trip was to Beluga Point to spot the whales taking advantage of the salmon run. We drove along Turnagain Arm, with cliffs on one side and silvery, sparking water on the other. It was chilly but the sky was a brilliant blue and I sat quietly in the back of the car, enjoying the banter, totally relaxed. We didn’t see any whales, despite the hopeful signs and the name! It was low tide with a sharp wind but I was dressed appropriately. We stood together for a while, saying little but eyes scanning the water for a sign of a fin.

We visited the Alaskan Wildlife Conservation Centre the next day, just off the Seaward Highway, nestled between towering peaks and a wide glacial plain. It was wet and cold and probably not the right time to wander around in the open. Huddled up in many layers, holding an umbrella, I ventured out of the warm car. It’s not a zoo but a place where injured or orphaned animals are brought to live out their lives in the wild, as much as captivity allows. The musk ox enclosure was my favourite. They looked like prehistoric creatures with heavy coats and heavier stares! They made me chuckle as they trudged through the mud like old men needing to be somewhere but not really sure where!

My grandson was fascinated with the lynx, he loves cats. The wood bison apparently had been brought back from extinction which had taken a few decades. I saw moose and caribou which were luckily behind a fence, the best place to see them! The rain became heavier. My husband and son were determined to see the bears. My grandson and I headed back to the car where he drove to the bear enclosure then got out to join his Dad and Granddad. I never did see the bears. I’ve not lost any sleep over that. I preferred seeing the photos in the warmth of the car!

A little south of Anchorage, past the beautiful jagged cliffs and sparkling wide waters of the Turnagain Arms, is a town called Girdwood. It’s a quiet ski town although, it being August, the snow had long gone! My son’s itinerary for that morning was a ride in the Alyeska Aerial Tram. He wanted the thrill of the view, gliding above the spruce forest, past rocky outcrops and left over snow patches clinging stubbornly to the north-facing slopes. I wanted to avoid the hike up which my husband and I would have done if we had been on our own!

At the top the view was spectacular! Looking out over the valley and the distant glaciers I soaked it all in. I stayed back letting the boys walk up to the lookout platform. To be honest that chilly wind and the thin mountain air had me puffing and panting for breath so was happy to take my time and just soak in the atmosphere. Looking back as I write this blog it reminds me how special that day felt, being together as a family. Standing in a place that vast and that beautiful was anything but ordinary!

We spent an afternoon at the Eluktna Lake and Recreational Park. It’s a stunning glacial lake surrounded by forested mountains. That is where I rode an awful, unbalanced bicycle along seriously rough terrain, the most difficult, challenging, embarrassing experience I’ve had in years! It took me ages and a lot of patience from my son, who doggedly persevered explaining how to set off with my right foot on the pedal, press on the left pedal with my left foot and just keep pedalling. So simple yet a Herculean task for me. The bike kept veering to the left! I had to try and avoid pot holes worse than those on the Park and huge stones. Not lacking determination, but with sky high blood pressure and heart pumping madly, I managed to pedal for a few metres before slamming on breaks and resetting the handlebars. But I didn’t fall or break any nails!

We spent a night at a Denali Lodge ready to catch a bus up through the heart of the National Park. It was a five and a half hour drive from Anchorage but we wanted to see the Denali mountain so chose the scenic route. Wrong move! One road after another was closed for repairs and the weather had set in with cloud and fog covering any chance of a view! My son had begun to feel unwell so we stopped the detour and headed straight for the lodge.

An early start the next morning found us in the bus ready to travel into the heart of the wild. We expected to see many dangerous animals from the comfort of our seats so settled down to enjoy the experience. My son didn’t look well and had not joined us for the previous evening’s meal. I was concerned. His son, however, was concerned about catching his Dad’s lurgi! He kept as far away from his Dad as possible!

No private vehicles are allowed past the fifteen mile point so that was where the adventure began. This bus trip is apparently a front row seat into one of North America’s greatest wild frontiers. It’s a moving wildlife safari, a geology lesson and a meditation retreat according to the leaflet we picked up at the lodge. We would pass open tundra and alpine meadows, sweeping mountain ranges and braided streams. We’d see moose, caribou, grizzly bears and wolves in their natural habitat. All we saw was a grouse, a few caribou and two grizzly bears about a mile away. Binoculars would have been good! That was it!

We managed to do a short walk along the Tony Knowles Coastal Trail but the weather was not conducive to outside activities. We spent three nights in a lovely house, another Airbnb property, bordering a golf course. We played cards and spent time relaxing. My son’s condition was not improving and the last two days he spent trying to sleep himself better. We later discovered that he had covid and pneumonia.

I came to Alaska hoping for great views. I left with something far better, precious memories of time spent with my husband, son and grandson. That can’t be measured in money or in miles. 👠

In this world filled with challenges and uncertainties, positive thinking isn’t about ignoring reality. It’s a conscious choice to focus on the good, to see opportunity in difficulty and to believe in the power of positive thoughts to shape outcomes. In this blog I’ll try to explore the power of positive thinking, get a better understanding of why it could matter and how it could help in our daily lives.

Being positive is an attitude. It’s being able to focus on the bright side of life and be grounded in self belief, gratitude and the ability to reframe negative thoughts. I’m sure that some people are biologically wired to be naturally positive. I am convinced that traits, like optimism, resilience and extroversion are genetic. Apparently, if you are born with a certain variation of the serotonin transporter gene, you are able to regulate your emotions more effectively. Naturally you’ll be more upbeat. So, like height or eye colour, a tendency towards positivity can be inherited. I have met and admired people who always seem positive whatever life throws at them. Genetics could be the explanation.

A positive environment in childhood is another factor. Children raised in a nurturing, encouraging home may grow up with more confidence and emotional security. If taught that failure is part of learning, not defeat, optimism can become a default setting.

However, not all positive mental attitudes can be associated with DNA. Some naturally positive people didn’t start out that way. They earned their positive mindset through adversity. Their motto becomes ‘if I made it through that, I can make it through anything’! So resilience can often fuel positivity, not the other way around.

Being positive can also become a habit. Positive people tend to keep their moods high. They gravitate towards uplifting people, exercise regularly, which boosts endorphins, sleep well and reduce exposure to toxic media. It can be seen as good mental hygiene.

As with all things in life, balance is so important. A positive person can still feel sad, anxious or stressed. It just means that they lean towards a positive outcome and find solutions or workarounds quicker than a negative one.

In my humble opinion, being positive isn’t about pretending that everything is perfect. It’s the ability to focus on what can be controlled. It needs a mindset that encourages personal growth, resilience and hope. So, a pro-active, positive mindset is the all important requirement in responding to challenges, connecting with others and controlling our daily lives. This would create a longer term benefit, resulting in a more fulfilling, happy future. Sounds so simple, like flicking on a light switch.

Alas, creating a positive mindset requires determination and a huge amount of effort. It’s like building muscles. It’s takes time and won’t happen over night. If we’re not born with that all important serotonin transporter gene we have to develop it by changing the way we think, react and engage with the world and the people around us. It sounds so simple yet it would take courage and an unwavering desire to want to change the habits of a lifetime! Positive thinking definitely isn’t about fake smiles or ignoring reality. And it’s definitely not for the faint hearted.

Change won’t happen overnight but every small shift counts. I’m sure the more we practice, the more natural it will become. A positive mindset won’t just be about how we think. It can shape our entire lives, one thought at a time. It won’t guarantee an easy life but it could give us the strength to meet each challenge head on, with clarity and purpose. If we can replace doubt with optimism and fear with courage, we can rewrite our life stories. I am willing to give it a try. There is everything to gain and nothing to lose. Those are great odds! But, for me, it will take enormous effort and resilience because, alas, I wasn’t born with that all important positive gene! 👠

River cruises are definitely one of my favourite holidays. However, giant monsters of steel and glass, with their own eco systems, that glide arrogantly through oceans carrying thousands of passengers, definitely is not!

River boats, by comparison, are built for proximity to the shore line. You can admire the landscape and appreciate the architecture and culture. They are quieter, significantly smaller, slower and more refined. And the water beneath is a lost shallower! Cruise ships focus on the ship as the destination whereas river boats focus on the journey and the places explored along the way.

A riverboat has a different rhythm, a subtler vibe. It offers comfort, luxury and perspective. You sail past castles, vineyards and little villages and watch locals fishing, swimming, or having picnics. You become part of the fabric of the places you visit. It’s not always how far or how fast you travel before you can stop and unwind. I found this slower pace from day one far more relaxing.

My husband and I have just returned from a riverboat journey on the Rhône in Provence. We met my sister and brother in law, who live in Australia, so hadn’t seen them for a while. We looked forward to spending ten glorious days catching up on family news, enjoying delicious wines and meals and steeping ourselves in French history.

Waking up on that first morning was glorious although I had to set the alarm because breakfast was served between 7:00 am and 8:30 am. I’m not a morning person, it was Saturday and I had hoped for a lie-in! I was also looking forward to the ship sailing but our first excursion was a bus ride to Beaune, back for lunch and only then would the journey begin!

Looking out from our cabin window as the boat drifted slowly along was a wonderful experience. As we glided over the water I could feel that gentle rhythm and noticed how the colours of the river mirrored the sky. On either side of the bank the Rhone revealed a living landscape. We floated past rows of vineyards clinging to sunlit hills, sleepy stone villages nestled beneath terracotta rooftops and centuries old chateaux watching over the river like timeless sentinels. We passed fields of lavender and sunflowers, their heads worshipping the sun, swaying gently in the breeze. The air was calm, clean, laced with birdsong and the distant bells from riverside chapels. A sensory perfection!

Every day we were offered excursions. By day two the heatwave had swept in and temperatures had begun to steadily climb. By early afternoon the temperature had reached 36C. We met a wonderful couple from Essex so our dining table expanded from four to six. We sat in the corner, near the kitchen and soon built up a good rapport with a couple of the waiters. They quickly learnt our preferences and favourite wines! Showing a little kindness and interest went a long way towards a richer, more personalised dining experience.

Avignon was a wonderful village where history, art and atmosphere blended seamlessly. I felt as if I was walking through a medieval tapestry. We were given a guided tour of the Pope’s Palace. Unfortunately the guide bombarded us with information and by then the temperature was close to 40C and very uncomfortable. There is only so much my brain can absorb before I suffer from ‘information overload’. I could admire the fact that it was Europe’s largest Gothic palace and the centre of Christianity in the early 1300’s. However, I could have googled the rest in the cool, air-conditioned cabin on my return. That was a long and hot two hours! The famous Pont-Saint-Benezet bridge, partially ruined in medieval times, was well worth a visit despite having to brave that intense heat. The views of the city walls, river and surrounding countryside were spectacular.

Our trip to the Camargue the next day will remain with me for a long time. It was 42C. We drove through this unique, untamed landscape, part wild delta, part cultural heartland. We saw vast wetlands, salt flats, rice paddies, lagoons and pastures. The pink flamingoes in the nature park were stunning along with other water birds in their natural habitat. We were given time to explore on our own and my husband, ever the adventurer, decided, after being told not to wander off piste, to do exactly that! I went with him to keep an eye on the limited time we were allotted and to chivvy him up. All in vain as the map wasn’t to scale so we held up the coach, much to my embarrassment and the annoyance of some passengers! I cannot leave out the Camargue white horses, or the black bulls grazing on the flat plains. It was a place of contrast, harsh and soft, sunburnt, windswept, solitary yet, for me, quite soulful

The city of Arles, on the banks of the river, is where ancient and modern blend seamlessly together. Once the Roman provincial capital, the amphitheatre, although in ruins, is still used for concerts and bullfights. Van Gogh spent time there, creating more than 300 artworks, the most famous being the Yellow House, which still remains, now sadly empty as the last owners were made bankrupt by a huge tax bill. In October 1888 Van Gogh painted his iconic ‘Bedroom in Arles’. It’s not just a painting of a room, it’s a portrait of peace, order and a deep yearning for rest and stability. (Thank you Google)!

Our last trip was a journey to Orange and a winery in the Chateauneuf-du-Pape region. A favourite wine of ours this was going to be the highlight of our cruise. The wine tasting didn’t disappoint. I wasn’t too impressed with the white wine but the two reds were delicious!

We visited some lovely places and thoroughly enjoyed our stay on the boat but the most memorable time of the holiday was definitely the people. Meeting up with my sister and brother in law was so special and we’ve made some wonderful memories. We’ll remain in contact with our new friends from Essex. It is just down the road …….

From cheerful toasts, we had a few of those, to laughter around the dinner table, every day was richer because of those we shared it with. In many ways we became a floating family. The calm of the river, the rhythmic hum of the boat, the excitement of passing through umpteen locks and the serene beauty of the scenery were all amplified because we were with close family and friends. It was a shared experience, relaxing, informative and great fun. 👠