‘Hope and fear cannot occupy

The same space at the same time.

Invite one to stay.’

Maya Angelou

As it’s New Year’s Eve, I have been thinking about the year that has passed and the new year to come. The last couple of years have been crazy for everyone when you think that at this time in 2020 we had no idea what was coming and how Covid would affect us all. Now three years on, we are all starting to recover although of course a great sadness remains because of all the deaths and suffering that happened. This year I feel hopeful that we will all recover more. From working in a school, I see the long-lasting effects on some of the students I work with. Not only the loss of time in the classroom but the anxiety and self-doubt that can cripple. Hopefully this year with the help and care of my amazing colleagues they will recover more and reach their full potential. I can understand this as my mental health suffered too and for the first time in my life, I became agoraphobic. I couldn’t leave the house and if I did I had a panic attack. Fortunately, with help from my family and friends I recovered and become more resilient and determined to come back stronger.

During lockdown I started writing Pandora’s Cave which is a book about hope. It is also a book about mental health. Writing it was cathartic for me and it is full of light and dark. Each chapter begins with a quote about hope.  The Maya Angelou one above is one I love and I have chosen a couple of my other favourites for you…

‘Hope is like a bird that senses the dawn

And carefully starts to sing while it is still dark.’ Unknown Author

‘True hope is swift and flies with swallows wings.’ William Shakespeare

‘Hope itself is like a star-not to be seen in the sunshine of prosperity,

And only to be discovered in the night of adversity.’ C.H. Spurgeon

Writing helps my mental health enormously. Being creative is an outlet that changes my mindset. Although being a writer means you spend hours agonising and feeling paralysed with self-doubt. I don’t think I will ever not feel like an imposter but I carry on…I didn’t know when I began writing my book, that the story of Pandora is actually about hope. Until I began researching, I thought she let out the Seven Deadly Sins and that was it.

I got the idea to write the Pandora story after going on a boat trip to Italy. We were taken into this amazing tiny cave and our guide said it is called Grotta del Pandora – Pandora’s Cave. She then said that everyone who enters must make a wish. Perplexed by this, I looked up the story when we got back and found that Hope was left behind to fight the sins covering the earth.

When Pandora is mentioned it is normally associated with a box and has been depicted as such in many paintings over the years. However, while I was researching the Pandora myth I discovered that actually it has been wrongly translated over time. Pandora released the Seven Deadly Sins from a jar (pithos) in Greek.

I’ve written a calligram, a shape poem about Pandora. As this form of poetry originated in Ancient Greece as early as 2 BC, I thought it was fitting as Pandora is from the Greek Myths and I had lots of fun trying to get the shape right.

Pandora’s Jar

Pandora the first woman who was created

  By Zeus purely to punish man

Sculpted like a statue from

  River Evinos clay

Beautiful

With big, dark eyes, satin soft skin

And a teasing, tantalising smile she turned heads

As she wore rich tunics spun by silkworms in a myriad of

The brightest colours – Scarlet, Emerald, Sapphire, Indigo and Gold.

Making men fell at her feet beguiled – bestowing lavish gifts upon her in the

Hope she would notice them. All the while Zeus laughed patiently

Waiting to take his revenge on Prometheus for giving men fire.

Prometheus, blinded by lust, asked for Pandora’s hand.

The wedding gift from Zeus was a large jar which

He told her she must never ever open.

Her curiosity overcame her and she

Opened it freeing the Seven

Deadly Sins that crept

Insidiously

Across the earth

Lust, Wrath, Gluttony, Greed, Pride, Envy and Sloth.

  What could stop their spread of destruction? Only Hope

 That remained in the jar and was released combatting them all.

Some days, hope is hard to come by. Especially if you watch the news and see all the awful things going on and look at the state of our country and politics. However, hope endures and always has done. All the quotes I used in my book are written by people that have died but had hope in their lives which helped them survive the hardships they were experiencing at the time.

We have a tradition in our family that we only started in the last few years. On New Year’s Eve, we sit around the table and write our hopes and wishes for the year ahead. These are personal and not shown to anyone else. We fold them up and put them into a glass jar and don’t open it until the following year and we unfold them to see if they have happened. Some are small – one of mine was to make time to read more books. One year, Will’s was to pass his driving test which he did. Last year, I know that my hope was to finish my book and publish it which happened. At the time I hadn’t finished writing it and didn’t know how it was going to end. I can’t remember what else I wished for.

This year my hope is to try to enjoy being in the present. I’m always thinking about the next thing which means not standing still and just being. We have a little robin that visits our garden every day and asks for food. He makes me smile and my aim is to stop constantly thinking about what I should be doing. Instead, just enjoy listening to his song and watching him hop around and eat the seed we put out for him. I am also hoping to start writing my new book.

Whereas Pandora freed Hope from the jar, we do the opposite and contain our hopes hoping they will come true. I’m looking forward to opening it later and finding out what’s in there.

I hope all your hopes and wishes come true in 2023. Happy New Year! X

Every time I turn on the news, there seems to be more and more awful things to consider. I feel dreadful for the people in war zones and those being discriminated against. I’m sick of hearing about fuel prices and how our heating bills are going to soar. I’m disgusted that the government haven’t given any provision to those on benefits who are already struggling to survive. All these things make me feel helpless. Compared to many, I’m incredibly fortunate to have the life I have and the freedom to enjoy living in the beautiful countryside without fear, so instead of switching on the television, I’ve turned to watching Spring arrive – the perfect antidote.

The warm weather we had for a couple of weeks made it feel as if everything was waking up from a winter slumber. The wonderful thing about Spring is its glorious monotony. Whatever is happening in the world, it can be counted on to come, without fail, bringing life, happiness and hope.

For many years I used to admire the stonewalls around where I live, because at this time of year, they are decorated with purple patches of Aubretia As time wore on I began to covet their gorgeous flowers and want to transform the stone wall outside my house. So, three years ago I decided to buy some seedlings in the hope that I could grow my own. After careful planting, a couple survived; some succumbed to frost, others just gave up so, I kept buying more and more each year – determined to have my dream wall – and finally I have been rewarded. Every time I go out the gate and see my wall, dripping with the bunches of little flowers ranging from indigo, violet and one an intense shade of magenta, I can’t stop smiling. And I’m not the only one who loves it, it’s a favourite with butterflies too. I went outside earlier and found a man out on a walk admiring it. He said, ‘your wall looks lovely. I’ve got the purple ones but I want that colour now’ and he pointed to the magenta one. Finally people are admiring my wall after my hard work.

Our next-door neighbour has a magnificent Magnolia tree. It is huge and a herald of Spring when it’s smothered in pale pink blossom, beautiful against the bright blue of the sky. They also have a bank at the front of their garden. At present, it is barely visible due to the hundreds of small Celandine flowers crowning the grass – turning it gold. At night, and when they’re in shadow, they close up tightly waiting for  the heat of the sun to warm their faces.

In our garden, daffodils and tulips are pushing through making a riot of yellow, red, pink and orange. Dusty, drunken bees with their pockets full of pollen busily hum as they visit them. The roses are getting their new soft leaves and climbing the arch we put in last year. I can’t wait to see it covered in sweet-smelling blooms.

Our Camelia has exploded and looks the best I’ve ever seen it. It’s becoming more tree than bush. The birds love to sit and sway on its branches amidst the perfect pink rosettes.

We have always enjoyed bird watching; however, in the last few years we have become serious twitchers!. Now we have two bird tables, we’re forever buying specialist types of seed to attract more exotic birds than our standard pigeons, starlings and sparrows. I know that sparrows are meant to be in decline, but not in our garden. They come in crowds and bully the other birds off the food. We have a pair of blackbirds who have learnt to stand their ground. The male wakes us up every morning singing his heart out from the top of the shed roof outside our window. With his intricate repertoire of whistles and warbles he is the best alarm clock ever! We also have a pair of robins who are pretty feisty. They aren’t scared of the sparrows or us and hang around a lot. This year we have a few new additions: a chaffinch has been calling, long-tailed tits, beautiful goldfinches that come in a small flock for our special seed. They light up the garden for a few minutes with their scarlet heads and gold wings flashing in the sunlight while they perch and feed.

The best news this year is that we have bluetits nesting in our box. They have obviously worked out that they are welcome as they have a ready-made house and food supply. I haven’t managed to get a picture of them yet, but we’re very excited to see their babies when they hatch.

We’ve begun walking before work, something we did all the time before lockdown. I love it because it is silent, and we are alone, with Otis off the lead sniffing for rabbits. Dawn is breaking as we set off. I feel joyful, watching the sunrise – feeling those first pale rays touch my face while the sky turns from dark to light – the orange light foreshadowing the sun’s arrival.

As it slowly ascends above the hills, the sheep in the fields turn rosy and the little lambs start bleating and feeding on their mother’s milk, their little tails wagging with pleasure.

The banks are dotted with yellow primroses. Sprays of blackthorn light up the hedgerows and robins whistle and watch us pass by.

The fields surrounding us are full of rapeseed that glows golden in the sunshine like it’s wrapping the village in a warm embrace. I enjoy its heady scent as it fills the air.

During our walks we often hear the loud rhythmic pecking of woodpeckers, although rarely see one as they are so shy. Most excitingly the other morning, as we had just set out, we saw one who obviously had love on his mind as he was drilling furiously into a tree trying to attract a mate. After watching for a few minutes, we saw a glimpse of red as he flew away. Towards the end we could hear another one as we approached a line of old oak trees. It was so loud in comparison to the stillness and quiet of the morning. We looked up and were rewarded by another sighting. At home we worked out that they were both Great Spotted Woodpeckers

The sunsets of late have been pretty spectacular too. The wonderful thing about this time of year is the sense of anticipation – knowing that we have the whole summer ahead – with hopefully lots of lovely weather so we can go wild swimming and explore new places we’ve never been before.

As I’m writing this it’s another sunny day with clear skies, the birds are trilling away and I’ve just been to visit my friend Joy, as it’s her birthday. She’s 92! I love to hear her stories. She was a evacuated to Devon from London as a teenager in World War Two so has some understanding through personal experience of what people are going through now.

She has a wonderful garden and gives me lots of wise horticultural guidance. It is a suntrap so I enjoy sitting amongst her pots full of bright colourful flowers, surrounded by great swathes of daffodils mixed with Grape Hyacinths, while looking at the incredible view. On a clear day you can see Dartmoor ahead in the distance and to the left, a sparkling silver line – the sea at Sidmouth. She also has a bird table that is visited by a whole family of woodpeckers which is something we are hoping we get to see in our garden in the future. On her sage advice I’m off to buy some mealworms…

Now that summer is fading and the trees in the view from my window are changing from green to amber and gold, I started thinking about summer memories. At school this week I’ve worn dresses as it’s been so warm and have had several comments about me clinging on to summer. I suppose that I am – as it was one of the best I’ve ever had.

It started on the first day of the summer holidays, back at the end of July. My friend, Ally, married Paul. It was a very special wedding. The ceremony was in a tiny chapel belonging to the Kennaway family, on the Escot estate surrounded by rolling hills and woodland. In the church, I imagined the olden days and the family coming in their carriage to church on a Sunday and I wondered about other weddings that had been held there in the past.

The scent of wood and history collided as I walked in combined with the fragrance of the country flowers decorating the ends of the old, thin wooden pews. There were tiny green vases, like test tubes, filled with little hedgerow flowers. The rain was pouring outside, but it didn’t dampen anyone’s spirits. There was a wonderful sense of excitement and anticipation. I love a good wedding as it gives me hope. It can never be a bad day when you’re celebrating love.

While we waited the church began to fill up with relatives and friends – nephews, nieces, aunts and uncles – it was lovely to see so many people I’ve met before, as I’ve known the bride for more than 25 years. Paul sat and waited sweating and fingering his collar. He is a man who has worked for Greenpeace for years and is a confident speaker but on this occasion, the fact that he was so nervous shows his love for Ally. He so wanted everything to be perfect. He looked dapper in his blue suit, as did their boys, Alex and Sam.

When the bride arrived with a huge beam on her face saying, “All right everyone!” she looked radiant. Her dress was a creamy colour with a pattern of pearls all over it that shimmered and shone in the light. In her hand she held a beautiful bouquet filled with blue and white flowers – cornflowers, roses, daisies – and other blooms picked from the hedgerows. Sunny, her daughter looked gorgeous in a blue dress as she proudly walked her up the aisle holding up her train with Sam beside her.

Four of the little nieces stood up to perform a poem. They each wore a summer dress and hedgerow flowers in their hair. They all looked so pretty as they stood on the steps to the pulpit and took turns reciting The Owl and the Pussycat, looking like they were in The Sound of Music, with their proud parents watching them.

Then it was my turn. Before the wedding Ally had asked me to say a poem so I wrote one for them.

Love

Love is a deer

Running free

Through field after field

With no fear of fences.

Love is a plant

Placed in a garden

Nurtured, watered

And kept in the sunshine

Until its buds

Turn to beautiful blooms.

Love is an atlas

Taking you on a trip

To far flung places

You’ve never been before.

Love is a meeting

Of mutual minds

And a competition

Of generosity.

I was nervous as I stepped up as I’m not a big fan of public speaking, but I enjoyed it and it made them smile.

Ally and Paul have three crazy dogs. The lady looking after them wanted to see the wedding so sat at the back of the church keeping the dogs quiet with treats. When the vicar asked if anyone had any objection to the wedding and said, “speak now or forever hold your peace”, one of the dogs let out a huge howl which made everyone laugh! .

After the actual ceremony, which was moving as they looked so happy, I got up to do the second poem which Ally had chosen. This one was a beautiful blessing by Rumi, a twelfth century philosopher.

This Marriage

By Rumi

May these vows and this marriage be blessed.
May it be sweet milk,
this marriage, like wine and halvah.
May this marriage offer fruit and shade
like the date palm.
May this marriage be full of laughter,
our every day a day in paradise.
May this marriage be a sign of compassion,
a seal of happiness here and hereafter.
May this marriage have a fair face and a good name,
an omen as welcomes the moon in a clear blue sky.
I am out of words to describe
how spirit mingles in this marriage.

The sun came out and spilled colours all over the church floor as it shone through the stained-glass windows. It also made Ally’s dress sparkle even more.

We waited to throw rose petals over the happy couple in the field next to the church, where the party was being held. There was a huge marquee, and bell tents for glamping. They had a shepherd’s hut to sleep in on their wedding night. We were served pretty cocktails made from Gin and Elderflower adorned with little flowers. The canapes were delicious too and looked like works of art as they were also decorated with edible blue and purple flowers.

It was everything that a good wedding should be. There were lots of little kids everywhere. Little girls wearing dresses dancing to the music and boys wearing smart clothes and eating and playing football. Everyone, young and old, was chatting and laughing. It was a joyous occasion.

Later, we had a sit-down meal. The tables looked stunning; and the food was fantastic.

Their wedding cake was amazing.

The speeches were funny, especially the one by Uncle Brian who told a story about the night Ally was born. Her parents, Bob and Stella used to have an old motorbike and sidecar. They were going out one evening when Stella was heavily pregnant. Bob was driving and she was in the sidecar when somehow, a ferret got in there and scared her to death and she went into labour!

After the speeches, the heavens opened, so we all dived for cover in the tent. They had bands playing which were excellent, particularly the funk band. We didn’t stop dancing all night and I was loathe to leave at midnight, like Cinderella, when we had booked the taxi.

It was the first time we had really been out since Covid. And it felt wonderful to be free and be able to dance again after so long with old friends and the new ones we made that day. It was a perfect way to start the holidays.

I decided to write a different blog for a change and interview Jack Williams who is an incredible chef and also (which I know makes me biased) my middle son. We are a family of foodies and love any opportunity of getting together to cook, eat fabulous food and catch up.

When Jack first moved to London, he began working in a restaurant called Primeur owned by Dave Gingell and Jeremie Cometto-Linghelm. Since then, they have opened new restaurants, Westerns Laundry, Jolene and Big Jo, which are also bakeries, in London all of which Jack has been involved with.

Back in 2019 it was my 50^th birthday and I decided that I was going to celebrate it in fifty different ways. Some of the things I did were big like going to Italy on holiday – others were dog walks and pub lunches with friends; however, one of my favourites was going for dinner at Jolene, the restaurant in London where Jack was Head Chef.

Jolene is situated in Newington Green close to where I lived in north London as a teenager so walking there made me quite nostalgic. When we arrived, Jack showed us round. It is a lovely space with high ceilings and a long bar that takes up most of one side.

We drank delicious organic wine all evening and Jack ordered the whole menu which was fantastic. Jolene serves lots of sharing plates with a small daily changing menu written using vegetables from small farms and fish from Cornwall.

Jack writes the menu by hand the night before based on what is in season and what his suppliers say they will provide.

It was an absolute feast and a wonderful evening that I won’t forget. Everything we ate was fresh and exciting with fabulous taste combinations

This is a selection of the dishes we sampled. In the large picture at the front: Pollock, fennel, tomatoes and aioli. At the back: T bone with confit garlic, roast onions and greens. Top left: Cavatelli, broccoli, chilli, garlic and pangratta. Middle: Carbonara. Bottom: Spelt, wild garlic, hazelnuts and Parmesan.

As we haven’t seen Jack since last summer, I sent him a list of questions and here are the answers.

Why did you decide to become a chef?

I’ve always been a bit obsessed with food but was put off by people saying it was a bad job – long hours, shit money – blah, blah, blah. I went to university in Bristol but was still much more interested in food. I got a job in a pub, totally fell in love with cooking and never went back to university.

When Jack was around 15, he started working in The Six Bells, our local in Payhembury, as a pot washer and he used to stick up skittles. He worked there while he was at sixth form and it was then that he became really interested in food. They sometimes let him do the desserts and he started buying his own ingredients and cooking things at home where it was quite crazy then as there were six of us living in a small house. He would buy the stuff to make one tiny pudding so it would take ages to make and he would use loads of utensils. At the end it was invariably delectable but as we only had a tiny mouthful each we were always left wanting more! I seem to remember he made a chocolate pot once which must have been good as it’s still lodged in my mind. Before going to university, he had a gap year and went up to Bristol for an interview to work at a ski resort in France. They asked him to bring something with him to talk about. He took a panna cotta he made and got the job. While he was in France he worked in the resort’s kitchen until he had an unfortunate accident where he broke his leg by using it as a brake while on a sledge, but that’s another story.

Which country most inspires your cooking?

France, Britain, Italy and Spain. I can’t pick a single one of them, but these are the countries I’ve travelled, cooked and eaten in the most and have the greatest influence on the things I cook.

Jack is always on the look out for new challenges. If he feels like he’s standing still he gets stressed and begins to question his life. So a couple of years ago he was getting itchy feet and his bosses agreed he could go to Italy for a month to get it out of his system and then came back to become Head Chef of Jolene which they were about to open.

One of the places he stayed was Trattoria Caprini in a hamlet called Torbe, near Verona.

According to a review from the Lonely Planet: “Family run Caprini serves heart-warming fare you wish your mamma could make. The homemade menu includes the delicious lasagnetta with hand-rolled pasta, and a ragú of beef, tomato, porcini and finferlo mushrooms. Downstairs, beside the fire of the old pistoria (bakery), you can sample some 200 Valpolicella labels.”

Jack was welcomed by the Caprini family and when I asked him what he learnt while he was there, he said, “how to hand roll pasta with a massive rolling pin.”

Collecting cookbooks is one of Jack’s passions. Whenever he comes home he can always be found with his nose in a book, scribbling out recipes on his note pad as he devises combinations for new menus. He has over 1000 cookbooks. I know this because once when he was between houses and staying with friends, he asked us to look after them. When he moved into his new place we brought them up to London and they filled the whole back of the car!

I remember Jack telling me about one of the highlights of the trip which was arranged for him by the Caprinis. Early one morning an old man turned up in a battered up ancient Land Rover. He had a small dog and walked leaning heavily on a walking stick. He took Jack to some woods and as they walked the dog snuffled and sniffed out truffles which they dug up. As the man couldn’t speak any English and Jack only had a smattering of Italian their main communication was through sign language and lots of smiling. Afterwards they returned to the trattoria and ate fresh pasta with black truffles which, according to Jack, was fantastic.

What do you love most about being a chef?

This sounds like quite a generic answer but feeling a connection to the land and the changing of the seasons is quite special in a world where you can have whatever you want when you want it. Unfortunately, it is something we are losing much to our detriment!

Favourite dish you have ever made?

A barbecued mackerel on a beach in Cornwall about 6 years ago.

How old were you when you started cooking? And how did you learn?

I started cooking stuff from Jamie Oliver cookbooks when I was pretty young. After that it was with a lot of help and encouragement from Dad, Mum, my Nan and a family friend, Eric. I very vividly remember Dad showing me how to make a roux and cheese sauce for cauliflower cheese. He taught me lots of other things too but for some reason that sticks in my mind.

We always had a roast dinner every Sunday and sat and ate together as a family so there was a lot of opportunity to learn those skills. I feel like Jack and Jason learnt a lot together through experimenting and they have a strong bond as a result of this.

My mum always encouraged Jack too. When he stayed over at her house she would buy ingredients and he would cook for her. They had, well Mum still has, a special book named Dinner Dates where they wrote down each of the recipes and rated them.

Our family friend, Eric gets a mention because he introduced Jack to shellfish at a young age. He would often bring huge shell on prawns or mussels to cook. I remember Jack’s eyes lighting up the day he arrived with a whole lobster.

When Jack was 22 and Will was 10 we went on holiday with Eric to Brittany. The whole holiday was about food because of the wonderful markets there.

Each day we went to a different tiny village and bought fresh produce which jack asked for in French. The most memorable market was the one where we bought two enormous spider crabs which made Jack’s year I think, although Will wasn’t so sure!

Who is your inspiration in the culinary world?

I don’t think I can pick anyone specific, but I’ve read a lot this past year: Elizabeth David, Alice Waters, Marcella Hazan, Jane Grigson, M.F.K Fischer and Simon Hopkinson have all been helping me get through.

What have you been cooking recently?

It’s been absolutely freezing during the past few weeks so lots of comforting things! Lasagne, Shepherd’s Pie, Goulash. Rich, mouth-watering wintery things!

What are you cooking currently?

I’ve just been given a new barbecue as a present so this weekend as it was lovely weather, I cooked scallops, langoustine, Red Mullet accompanied by a fennel salad.

What is your favourite dessert?

Tiramisu. No explanation needed!

Best cooking experience?

I started working at Primeur when I first moved to London. I had just spent 6 months working somewhere I really didn’t enjoy and was feeling pretty demoralized; to come into such a fun, busy kitchen cooking beautiful food with some really brilliant people was a complete tonic and totally reignited my love for being in restaurants.

Tell me about where you work now

I’m working at a bakery and restaurant called BIG JO. We are part of a movement to promote regenerative farming practices. I really believe in the positive changes we are helping to bring about. And we are baking delicious bread, pastries and Roman-style pizzas.

Opening during a pandemic was a proper challenge and having to change what we do multiple times has been quite tough. Luckily, I work with a wonderful group of people who have made it (mostly) fun and hopefully we’re on the homestretch!

Jack has been working for Dave and Jeremie who source their grain for the flour they use from France. Andy Cato, former DJ and half of Groove Armada moved to France with his family and began growing ancient grain in a traditional way using horses rather than tractors which harm the soil.

You can have 6 dead or alive guests for dinner, who do you invite and why?

George Orwell, Elizabeth David, Anthony Bourdain, Zadie Smith, Roald Dahl and Alice Waters.

These are all people I very much admire and I would love the opportunity to talk and eat with them. I think some strong personalities and opinions would lead to great conversation and they are all people who like to eat (I think)!

What would you cook for them?

Something simple and delicious so I can spend as much time as possible at the table.

Asparagus and Hollandaise

Boiled Langoustine with lemon

Roast chicken, new potatoes and a green salad

Custard Tart

Cheese, wine and a game of cards.

What advice would you give to someone considering a career in cooking?

If you properly love food and cooking – do it. You meet a lot of people who get into it for the wrong reasons now, thanks to Instagram and TV cooking shows. The reality is a lot of hard work, working weekends and late nights. Personally, I love it as it’s a chance to be constantly learning, developing and it’s a lot of fun.

When Jack first got into working in kitchens I was worried as it’s such a stressful and exhausting job where you burn the candle at both ends. What I can’t deny is his passion. Whenever he comes home despite being worn out he still wants to cook and never seems to tire of making food, reading recipe books and writing menus.

Am I a writer? This is a question I ask myself daily. What I mean by that is am I a real writer? I don’t feel like one. Yes – I have published a book; but I feel like an imposter – a fraud.

Sharron, my friend, and colleague at the school I work in, was listening to my woes one day and suggested I write down and explain to others how difficult it is to be a writer and the process I went through to publish my novel. I decided to do it as a record of my experiences before I forget and it becomes a hazy memory. Also it’s an opportunity to thank everyone who has supported me. It seems to me that most writers are tortured souls and full of angst and having researched this I found that Imposter Theory is quite common amongst the writing fraternity.

According to Brianna Bennett: “The important thing to remember is that all writers feel this way at some point. It’s a fatal flaw. You know that thing that your characters are supposed to have as well? It’s what makes them, and you in turn, human.”

This is comforting to a degree; however, when the doubts come crowding in like wasps at a picnic, I don’t want to be a human.

I have always loved writing. I remember enjoying writing stories at middle school and, being an avid reader, I must have decided at some point to try to emulate my heroes and want to become an author. Over the years I wrote bits and pieces – mainly poems – but having a busy life and lots of kids I didn’t have much time.

I went to Exeter College to do an access course and had a wonderful English teacher, Mark who asked the class to write a poem about something that cared about. I wrote mine about my grandmother, Margaret and my fond memories of staying with her as a child. At that point, I had no idea that this was the start of her becoming my muse and I would spend years of my life writing about her and trying to imagine her younger self. A few days after handing it in I was walking into college with a friend when Mark stopped me and surprised me by saying, “I loved your poem!”

His words that day changed me. As a result of things going wrong in my life and suffering from depression, I left school at the age of 14 with no exams to my name so had never had feedback on my writing before. This is why I feel I’m an imposter; had I followed a mainstream route through education perhaps I would have more confidence. As a child whenever anyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I was adamant I wanted to be a teacher. I was fairly sickly and often absent from school which resulted in me never getting a handle on maths properly and as I don’t have a Maths GCSE, I can’t become an English teacher. A positive of being off school was that I became a keen observer. In our house we had a bay window with two winged armchairs covered in soft mustard coloured velvet. My mother would turn them around to make a small bed for me and I would sit in the window under a blanket watching the world pass by and make up stories about people’s lives.

Mark’s kind words woke a latent desire in me to write and once I started it felt like coming home and gave me the confidence to write more poetry and pass the course. Now it is so much more than that it has become essential for my mental health. Below is the poem.

Reminiscing

The smell of baking bread

Synonymous with her.

My delicious comforting

Wonderful Grandmother.

The mornings then, a happy ritual

Never changing. My privilege to see,

Ensure the long table was laid ready with knives,

And plates with saucers balancing cups of tea.

Carefully opening the sideboard door,

I would cautiously, reverently bring out

The heavenly, heavily laden Lazy Susan

And give it a gentle twirl about.

A wheel housing honey, marmalade, jam.

Beautiful wooden object, round.

Smooth turning table keeps on

Spinning slowly around.

The centrepiece elevated on the table.

We sit round and anticipate the food;

The arrival of the toast holder, carrying

Perfect golden triangles that taste so good.

Served with love, spread thickly.

The yellow butter, her plum jam would

Make me feel no breakfast since then,

Has ever tasted as good.

She was a giver, not a taker.

Strong, capable, caring for me.

Always nurturing, loving,

Feeding her family.

A fabulous cook. I picture her

Standing, holding aloft proudly

Sumptuous, crispy roasted duck,

Which was her speciality.

After breakfast one day, my Grandfather died.

A heart attack. We watched it together

The past we had known, loved and lived gone.

Hopelessly clinging to it and one another.

Her smile faded, went, and the pain

Became etched in her face, deep lining.

She stooped and began to shrink,

Her eyes dull and red from crying.

She changed completely before my eyes.

I changed but did not want to at all.

She asked me to hold her arm, when we

Went out as she was scared she would fall.

I held her up and learnt to make tea

Helplessly trying to make her happy.

Bewildered wanting to turn back time

Both my Grandparents were lost to me.

The smell of cooking toast

synonymous with her.

My delicious comforting

 wonderful Grandmother.

It’s not the best written poem. Some of it doesn’t scan very well but what I think Mark saw in it was the love with which it was written and it is important to me as it is the gateway to my writing journey.

After college I was thrilled to be offered a place to study English Literature and History at Exeter University; however, when I went there I felt more of an imposter than ever. Being surrounded by clever 18-year-olds who made everything seem effortless filled me with anxiety. What I did enjoy were the creative writing lessons, although they told me poetry shouldn’t rhyme anymore and I realised I needed to learn to write in a contemporary way to get good marks. The first assignment was to write a short story entitled: ‘An Inherited Animal’. On the train on my way home I came up with the idea of how to write about Margaret as her early life had always interested me. Prior to meeting my grandfather, she was married to a man named, Leslie Mallows. Unfortunately, according to family folklore, their marriage was not a happy one as he was somewhat odd in the fact that he had a foot fetish which resulted in their marriage not being consummated. Consequently, Margaret had to obtain a divorce which was not easy back in the 1920s. This had to be done in a complicated way. In an elaborate set-up, Margaret had to be ‘found’ by a maid at a hotel with another man, my grandfather, so that adultery could be cited as a reason for the marriage annulment. The inherited animal for the assignment became an onyx brooch of a panther with a diamond eye that she wore to the hotel pinned to her coat. I was very close to Margaret when I was a child but she died when I was in my 20s and I didn’t get a chance to ask her about her life unfortunately, so I had to join the dots myself. The short story I wrote at university was the prelude to my novel Love, Life and Lemons.

One of the things I loved while writing was researching. Towards the end of the novel there is an Italian folk story called The Merla Days. Initially I wanted there to be a robin in the book to represent and give solace to a character who has lost their mother. I soon realised this wasn’t going to work when I discovered that they don’t have robins in Italy. What they do have though is blackbirds – the males are called merlos – and the females merlas. Then I found this story which I rewrote in my own words but I had no idea before that I was going to put it in. An important thing I learnt at university was to always have a notebook with me in case inspiration hit. I ended up with three full ones at the end.

They are full of ideas and descriptions of people, places and parties. The book evolved so much over the seven years. The characters became my friends and I spent hours and hours working out their lives imagining them, especially at night when I had insomnia. Their names changed; people died, married and had children. The story began to write itself.

Writing the book was seven years hard slog. For the first two years I was still at university; then I had a couple more when I didn’t have a job so wrote most days. It’s strange though, because as I said at the start, I spent the majority of the time wondering what was the point thinking it will never be finished or published. Once I started working at school in 2016 I found it much harder to write but used to get a lot done during the holidays. The real turning point came when we went on holiday to Italy and walked into the square in Civita. It was exactly as I had written it. After that things began to fall into place. We bought the guide book which charted its history and from that the lemon tree stories were born based on real historical figures from the area.

The writing process was a rollercoaster of emotions. Without Jason I couldn’t have done it. He kept me going when I wanted to give up. He listened to my worries and read bits of the manuscript. He helped with the plot especially with the Lemon Tree stories injecting humour and thinking outside the box to make them come to life. We went on long dog walks every day and he helped me unravel the problems I was having with a character or crisis of confidence.

It must have got very tedious for him but one thing he enjoyed, and so did I, was when I wanted to describe certain foods and the processes of making them he cooked them. One of the recipes is Lemon Tart which is one we love so it was great fun writing the description of him making it. Our son, Jack, the chef was the go to for recipes and this was his favourite.

Jason is also excellent at making pasta and bread so when Corrado is cooking in the story it is based on watching him kneading, rolling and shaping. I call him the dough man!

Fast forward to 2019 – seven years after that first short story – and I thought I had a finished book. My friend from work, Nikki, kindly proofread it for me and gave me sound advice particularly about one of the characters. I was on holiday with Jason, my husband and we were celebrating our wedding anniversary in Polzeath in Cornwall, where we had our honeymoon, when she texted me and said she’d finished reading it. She gave me a compliment and real hope when she said that she had been reading it prior to having to go out but didn’t want to as she was at a crucial part of the story. When she got back home she stayed up until 2 am so she could finish it and messaged me to say she loved it.

During writing it, and once it was finished, I sent it to several publishers and agents trying to get someone to represent me. You might think this would be straightforward but it’s an absolute minefield. Every publishing house wants something different or parts of your story in a variety of formats. I researched how to write letters the correct way and spent hours composing a different one for each agent or publisher. Then it’s a long wait to either get a rejection email or more often just to hear nothing. I became very disheartened and was at work one day talking to my friend Sharon (a different friend and colleague). She told me about her friend who had experienced the same problem and decided to publish his book himself on Amazon. We were in a homework lesson with a couple of students and one boy, who I had a good relationship as I often worked with him, kept asking about it. He was really interested in the idea and told me I should publish mine too. I went home and talked to Jase about it but didn’t act on it. At school every time the student saw me, he would badger me saying, ‘Miss have you published your book yet?’ As a result of his drip feeding into my brain and challenging me, I started doing some research and it kind of snowballed from there. At that point I thought the real hurdle I’d overcome was writing a 500+ page novel if only I’d realised then how many more were to come…

My computer skills are basic and when I say that I mean pretty dire. I’ve learnt a lot over the years and I can get by at work but it seems I have this knack of managing to screw up anything I touch that is technological. I’m often found crying at a screen saying things like, ‘this computer hates me’ which drives Jase mad and leads to him telling me they have no emotions; however, there have been points in this process where even he has had to admit that things have gone spectacularly wrong on occasions and it’s not always been my fault.  Once I had finished writing it as I wanted to print it out so Nikki could read it I took it to a computer shop on my data stick and asked the man in the shop to print it in A4 for me. So far so good I thought until I went and collected it. He gave me this enormous booklet and told me that because the book had been saved in an odd format it meant each page was mainly blank with a small square of writing in the middle. I sighed as I handed him £40 and my contempt for computers and my incompetence deepened. You might think at this point, Jane why don’t you do a course and teach yourself to be proficient and this won’t be a problem any longer? Well unbelievable as it is, I’ve actually got a GCSE in computing, although I’m still not sure how I achieved it and none of the information seems to have stuck in my brain. Consequently, I’m incredibly grateful and indebted to poor Nikki who spent several nights sitting up in bed undertaking her biggest marking marathon ever with this monster of a manuscript and her red pen getting rid of all the comma splices and Englishing it up.

While writing my novel, after explaining the concept, I asked my mother, who is an artist, to paint a picture for the cover. When she gave it to me it was perfect, exactly what I had hoped and it is something almost everyone who has bought the book has commented on as it is inviting, beautiful and vibrant and I believe encapsulates the contents.

As I was unsure of how to get it into a printable form, I went back to the computer shop and asked the man’s advice. He was great and made it digital so we could transfer it into the document ready to publish. Jase tried to do it and it wouldn’t accept it due to resolution issues – as so often in my life it was a ‘Computer says NO’ moment. We tried everything but nothing worked. I was impatient and frustrated but fortunately in the end a colleague of Jase’s managed to sort it out so a few days later the cover was in place. Then Jase had to work out how to write the title and include the blurb and a photo of Civita where it is set on the back. By this point Sharon and Rae, another friend from work, had also read it in manuscript form and along with Nikki wrote reviews for the back. It was starting to happen and my excitement was building.

When you publish your own book there are all sorts of decisions that need to be made like the size and colour of pages and weird things that we had no idea about, so we went with the Amazon advice about the size suggestion of standard expecting it to be the same as a normal paperback. So once I had the finished manuscript we (I say we and mean Jase!) had to transfer it into a document compatible with the Amazon publishing template which unsurprisingly proved incredibly complicated. Fortunately, my cousin Stevie, who’s a computer whiz, was staying with us. We were trying to upload it on the day that he was leaving to drive back to Manchester, so I asked for his help. He took over formatting it and I was so excited that it was going to be published that I rushed it and didn’t check the uploaded version properly.

The 6^th of July 2019 is a day I’ll always remember. I was at work and an email came through from Amazon saying the book had been published and was available to buy. My work friends all bought a copy and so did I and then had to wait excitedly for two days until it came. The night it was published we drank champagne to celebrate an end to seven years hard work. I put a link on Facebook and got lots of lovely congratulatory messages. When the book arrived, we were surprised as it was huge – not what we’d expected or been led to believe. It was glossy and the cover looked fabulous.

I loved it until I looked inside and realised to my horror that I had given Stevie the wrong version to format and this was an older version with masses of mistakes. I cried then and the whole euphoria of seeing my book in print for the first time disappeared. I was acutely embarrassed as so many people had bought it and it was absolutely shit! It had repeated paragraphs, typos, strange, and different fonts running through it and and gaps all .over the place. It was a disaster and I spent a whole weekend crying and reading it and making copious notes on where all the errors were. Once I’d done that I had to go through and change everything on the digital version and message everyone who had bought it explaining what had happened. To add insult to injury Amazon said I had to charge £12.50 per book. Each book costs around £6.50 to print. I receive about £1 and Amazon pockets the rest! Love, Life and Lemons is also available as an e-book and I get about £1.20 when someone buys one of them. It’s an absolute rip off but there it is. I’m still sad about it all going wrong as I know quite a few people have read it in that state and it detracts from the story, makes me look unprofessional and although those that have read it have been polite it gives an impression of me that I don’t want anyone to have. It’s hard enough baring my soul by sharing my writing without that. My work friends were very sweet and said things like, ‘it’s a first edition one day we might be able to sell it for thousands of pounds’ to try and cheer me up. Unfortunately I don’t think this will be the case.

Another of my friends from work, Roz, suggested that her daughter, Annabel could help me as she was hoping to change career and go into marketing. Promoting my book became her project and was an absolute Godsend as she taught me so much. She was brilliant and set me up on various social media platforms and made me a WordPress account and website which is what I use now. She wrote a long list of things to do which I still have. It was down to her recommendation that I started writing blogs. She suggested that I write one a month which is what I have tried to do. This opened up a whole new world of computer stress for me as I had to learn how to navigate the site and she must have got fed up with me texting her with help messages. Even now a year later I’m still fairly mystified by most of it and each time I write a blog I’m pleasantly surprised that it works. Thankfully, Annabel was patient and kind and without her I wouldn’t have achieved half as much. Poppy, my daughter also helped with my social media by creating Love, Life and Lemons Facebook and Instagram accounts. A friend, Katy, put me in touch with another Jane who is also a self-published writer which was so helpful. She gave me loads of advice about blogging and I looked on her site for inspiration. She also interviewed me as one of her blog posts and I did the same for her. Similarly, I was interviewed by Honiton Nub News a local paper. It was all extremely exciting.

Payhembury, where I live, is a wonderful village full of community spirit. The shop is run entirely by volunteers who are always looking for opportunities to support community projects. On hearing about my book, Mary, a friend asked me if I would like to sell my novels and do a book signing in the shop. It was a wonderful experience. A lady called Toni, who used to work in a book shop, helped organise the day and several other friends from the village gave up their time, made cakes and served tea. I was nervous but did a short reading and felt like a celebrity. Especially as the last person to do a book signing there had been Kirstie Allsopp!

After the initial excitement people began putting great reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. It was weird and gratifying to realise that complete strangers had enjoyed it. Of course, my friends and family were going to be biased but reading reviews such as this one by D. Dobbinson who gave it 5 stars and wrote:

“Excellent and inspirational. Brilliant read, loved every minute of it”, made me believe that perhaps it is a great story.

Friends Ali, Becky and Michelle from work wrote lovely reviews too. It was a real buzz when each day someone would be telling me where they were or what they were enjoying about it. Several people said it made them hungry! It was an amazing experience despite all the setbacks. My parents both loved it. Mum kept phoning me and saying things like where did you learn to do this. The way you write bears no resemblance to how you talk! My father and I have had a troubled relationship over the years. I was a difficult teenager and a lot of water has gone under the bridge. My sister, Liz, bought it for him. Once he’d read it he called me and we were on the phone for about an hour discussing it. Margaret was his mother so he was pleased that I was writing about her. He is a published author and has written several books. My abiding memory is of him being in his office tapping away at his typewriter. During that phone call he made me cry because for the first time in my life he told me he was proud of me!

In hindsight I should have got someone to proofread the digital version for me. Afterwards, when I explained what had happened, lots of people offered but I felt like at the time they weren’t that keen and it’s quite a big ask. Next time I will. I shouldn’t have been so impetuous – a big failing of mine. Through all these experiences, I have definitely learned a lot for the future. I didn’t think I would have to go through all that stress again; however, I was wrong.

A few different friends at work were reading Love, Life and Lemons during the Christmas holidays so I decided to reread it too. Prior to this I couldn’t bear it after having to keep editing it and all the problems. I enjoyed it but was annoyed to still find some errors. I decided that I would edit the whole document and ask Jase to help me upload it again. During this time our friend, Monica, from Italy texted me to say she has just started reading it and was excited and loving it already. She offered to translate it into Italian for me. Although pleased that she is reading it I was also filled with misgivings. There are several Italian phrases in the book some of which I translated from Google Translate which often gets things incorrect.

She immediately came back with three things that were wrong. Firstly I had spelt Mamma which is the Italian way as Mama and Riccardo with only one c. The funniest one was how I spelt Papa because, Monica told me, apparently Papa means Pope! Who knew? In Italian it’s written Papá, so I had to work out how to put an accent on and go through the whole thing again correcting these three words which are written loads and loads of times. It took me a couple of weeks edit it properly and last Sunday when I was happy I’d finished it I sent it to Jase to upload and it wouldn’t work. It was an absolute nightmare. So there was no book available to buy because it had been replaced by this one that was all wrong! We had to go through all these processes and alter things and it still wouldn’t fit on the page properly without cutting words off. We had a massive row – Jase was fuming that we were spending hours on a precious weekend wrangling with Amazon and its stupid parameters. After four long and frosty hours he eventually managed to do it although we’re not really sure how; but at last I’m happy with the words but we still can’t get the layout right. Once it uploads it moves it about. I’m going to have to put it down to this book being a huge learning curve and next time get more help but right now I just want some closure.

Since publishing my book I’ve lost count of the people who have said to me ‘I’d like to write a book, maybe I could publish it myself.’ Although it’s quite tricky if I can do it anyone can.

Things I’ve learnt

1. There is always a solution
2. Stay calm and keep smiling
3. If people offer you help take it
4. Google anything you can’t do
5. Believe in yourself
6. Listen to advice from people who love you
7. Get advice from professionals re marketing and technology
8. Enjoy the writing process
9. Don’t rush to publish
10. Proof read several times
11. Buy yourself a copy and proof read before telling anyone you’ve published
12. Celebrate once it’s finished

Love, Life and Lemons was a labour of love but, as is shown throughout this blog, I couldn’t have done it without the help of my family and friends who have been amazing. To everyone who has listened to me going on about it for years and supported me by buying my book and reading my blogs – thank you.

While entering the dying days of this strange year I have been reflecting and reminiscing. Generally, when I write a blog I do it in one day; however, this one has taken three weeks and has become quite long! I suggest you get a cup of tea and put your feet up…

Work has been exhausting and I have been tutoring a lot after school so sadly writing has  taken a back seat. As I have a lot of trouble sleeping and tend to lie awake, either thinking about everything I’ve ever done wrong in my life or worrying, I’m trying to train my brain to think about positive things and map out plans for the next piece I am going to write. Sometimes I’m completely engrossed in a chapter of my new novel but in the early hours of this morning, as Christmas is just around the corner, I’ve been working on this new blog, thinking about past Christmases and remembering happier times.

At school, in one of the GCSE classes I am in, we are reading A Christmas Carol. This is perhaps the fifth year I have studied it, so it is becoming a tradition in itself. My favourite stave is the one when the Ghost of Christmas Past takes Scrooge back to his old school and to a party held by his generous employer, Fezziwig, and his wife. They are joyous characters who love to dance and eat and have fun. Each time I read it I wish I was at their party.

Dickens is responsible for changing the face of Christmas and creating many of the traditions that make Christmas what it is today. We, like every family, have our own and I enjoy hearing about how traditions have evolved in other families. One of my friends, Jane, always buys the whole family matching pyjamas which they wear on Christmas Eve – while drinking hot chocolate – and watching a Christmas film together. Her reasoning behind the new nightwear is that on Christmas morning everyone looks good for the photos. From November, Carl, her husband who hates heights, perches precariously on top of a ladder to ensure that their house is festooned with hundreds of outside lights and in December she changes all the beds and replaces the sheets and duvet covers with Christmas bedding. What a woman – Mother Christmas!

Each year, our family has admired their lights, but we have never had any of our own outside, although I’ve always been secretly envious. This year, ironically the first year we no longer have any kids living at home, we splashed out and bought some to decorate the outside of our new shed. They are red, pretty and twinkly and make me happy. In Payhembury, the small village where I live, a kind and generous couple have given away thirty sets of outside lights. As one of the lucky recipients we now have hundreds of lights all over our sheds, fence, the rose arch and apple tree. Their reason for giving lights was that after this awful year they wanted to light Payhembury up as a sort of metaphor for chasing away the darkness of Covid. When we went for a walk the other evening it was wonderful to see the whole village illuminated like never before; the bridge over the stream looked particularly beautiful with the reflections of light in the water below.

One of our family traditions is that each child – although this has now stretched into adulthood – is allowed to open one present on Christmas Eve. I agreed to this initially in the hope that it would keep them quiet for a bit while they wait for the big day. I miss having little ones at Christmas. Without them the magic is muffled. It’s like celebrating and seeing the day through a net curtain. When I was a single parent it was a battle to get the three of them to bed on Christmas Eve. I would always read them Christmas stories in the vain hope that they would go to sleep; which of course they didn’t as they were far too excited. I can remember when I was a child my mum would read me a book called Teddy Robinson meets Father Christmas.

Written in 1953 it would perhaps seem old fashioned now, but it was special because we shared it every year and I loved it because in the story the bear gets to ride in Santa’s sleigh. Before Mum kissed me good night, we would look out of the window at the starry sky to see if we could see his sleigh. In the morning my sister, Liz and I would creep quietly down the stairs and stare in wonder at the enormous pile of presents underneath the tree. I didn’t read my daughter that book – Poppy’s favourite was called Christmas in Exeter Street.

It is the most wonderful story which encapsulates the Christmas message of goodwill and charity, when the owner of the house, Maggie Mistletoe, ends up with hundreds of unexpected visitors to stay on Christmas Eve. There are people sleeping on bookshelves, in the bathtub and a baby in the kitchen sink. I miss reading that and the other traditions that have evolved as the years have gone by.

Although my kids are older I am lucky to still have some little ones in my life. Last year we had a mini Christmas when my grandson, Frankie and his brother, Tyler came for the day. They opened their presents; we did some Christmas cooking, had dinner and went for a walk to Hembury Fort.

They played on the rope swings and ran through the trees enjoying their freedom. It was a lovely day and one I’ve placed in my memory bank.

I also have three godchildren. Dan, the oldest is my best friend, Val’s son and they come as a family for a big dinner just before new year which is something we’ll miss this year. Roxy and Lola are my goddaughters, Jane and Carl’s girls, so very much in to Christmas. In the past, when Roxy was younger, she would come one evening after school in December and make Christmas cards and mince pies. Then a few years ago Lola came too.

Last year Roxy decided she was too old, now she’s at secondary school, so Lola came on her own and we had fun. One of our family traditions is normally my daughter, Poppy, goes and gets the tree with Jase, we put the Frank Sinatra Christmas album on and she and I decorate it. While getting all the baubles and tinsel out we reminisce and laugh about past Christmas memories. This year, Poppy isn’t around as she’s moved to Kent, so I asked Roxy if she’d like to decorate the tree.

We had a great time – she did a fantastic job – it was lovely to spend some time with her and have a catch up too.

Then it was Lola’s turn. She arrived wearing a white Christmas jumper with a pug on it, a Christmas tree headband and a big smile. We made crackers and mince pies and had a lovely chat although all unfortunately socially distanced.

Back when my kids were small, and I’d eventually got them to sleep, usually after 9 on Christmas Eve, I would sit down with a glass of wine and start the gargantuan task of wrapping the presents for their stockings. Every year I planned to do it earlier but it didn’t happen. A tradition of mine is to listen to Christmas carols and sing along while parcelling everything up. Then, as I didn’t have much money I would get them lots of little things which were fiddly to wrap; life was simpler and they were so happy with a little car or a packet of pens. Once that was done, generally getting close to midnight, I would creep upstairs and listen outside their rooms to make sure I could hear they were sleeping. Then I’d tiptoe in and silently place their stockings on the end of the beds before crawling into bed knowing they’d be up in a few hours. It was all worth it when they woke me up shouting, “He’s been!” and jumped into bed with me to open their presents.

When Joel was 10, Jack 7 and Poppy 3, Joel began to suspect the whole Santa story and he must have convinced Jack as they devised a plan, which I was completely unaware of, while I was busy doing the usual wrapping on Christmas Eve. They were both mad about Lego and had big toy boxes full of it under their bunkbeds. One year, Jack got a pirate ship and Joe a huge castle. They were overjoyed but it took hours and a lot of my patience to put them together. On this particular night, I packed up the stockings and went upstairs. When I listened outside their rooms it was all quiet. I put Poppy’s stocking on her bed then carefully opened Joe and Jack’s bedroom door. I couldn’t see a thing; it was inky black as I had turned the landing light off so as not to wake them. I walked in and fell over the huge Lego trap they had left for me. Standing on one piece of Lego is painful but on loads is sheer agony. I shrieked and they leapt up triumphantly and put on the light shouting, “We knew it was you!” I had to beg them not to tell Poppy as she was still so little; unfortunately, I don’t think she believed for too many years after that thanks to them.

As a mum of four children I have had the pleasure of seeing more Nativity plays than most over the years and I never tired of them. They were traditionally held in Payhembury Church which is beautiful. When its enormous oak door opens the smell of wood collides with the scent of history and you instantly feel part of a larger narrative. I imagine the feet that have trodden the well worn steps before me and wonder who has walked in the graveyard which boasts one of the oldest Yew trees in the country – a giant – at around 1500 years old. When the church is adorned with Christmas flowers and the rood screen is decorated with greenery intermingled with fairy lights it is a picture. One of the most memorable nativities I have been to was when Will was a shepherd many years ago.

Here he is with the obligatory tea towel on his head! This particular year it was freezing and we sat shivering on the tiny pews made for much smaller people many years ago. Teachers were shepherding children to their right places ready to sing the opening hymn. As latecomers entered they had a light dusting of snow on their coats which made the evening even more wonderful. I watched through the window as the flurries got faster. Proud parents sat waiting to see their child perform; there was a buzz of excitement in the air when the lights went down and the children sang ‘Away in a Manger’ by candlelight. The angels looked celestial with their silver tinsel and wings poking the people behind them. Mary looked beatific holding the doll tightly as if it were as precious as baby Jesus while Joseph looked on. Will did his bit and remembered his lines. As we clapped I imagined the hundreds of plays that had been performed there in the past and how wonderful it was to sing ‘Silent Night’ all together before going out into the snowy night. The children were thrilled to see the snow and it made the whole evening perfectly magical.

Last Sunday morning a blackbird singing crept into my dreams and woke me up. Listening to its sweet song and the rain drizzling down I enjoyed the warmth of my quilt before getting up for the run I go on every Sunday, with my friend Becky, come rain or shine. The previous Sunday was more fun as the weather was the opposite. As we ran to the top of the hill, we met the sun peeking over the horizon, painting the sky flamingo feather pink.

We were both in awe of the beauty surrounding us. The stresses of the week before and the worries about the week ahead faded as we ran past sheep and cows in fields covered in mist where a hard frost decorated the hedges like icing sugar on a cake.

Later that morning I went for a walk with my husband, Jason, and our black labrador, Otis. We decided to go somewhere we’d not been for a while to some woods near the river. The sun was higher by this time and as we walked, we were dazzled by glimpses of gold in the interstices between the trees where it gilded their trunks and splashed the leafy path that crunched beneath our boots. We first walked there twenty years ago when we had not long met. Then the kids were young (although Will wasn’t even a thought), we had our old dog, Ella and were falling in love. Stopping in front of a broad old oak tree we laughed to see that our initials – carved into the bark all those years ago – were still there.

This set us off talking about memories and I asked him about his Christmas ones. Prior to being part of our family, Jason’s Christmases were quiet affairs consisting of eating, drinking, watching television and no children. Being with us couldn’t have been more contrasting! He says he prefers having crazy loud Christmases and thankfully the first one we spent together didn’t put him off.

Jason is an amazing man and when he met me, he wasn’t fazed that I had three kids and embraced the madness which was my family. Fortunately, he was naïve and ignored the people who told him he was mad for taking us all on! I can’t really remember the Christmas day, except that the boys got skateboards and Poppy got roller blades, so they spent a lot of the day falling over and off them outside. I do remember Boxing Day though. In the morning, Jason got up to make us a cup of tea and bring it back to bed. Half asleep, he went into the kitchen and slipped on one of the skateboards that was by the door, fell over and trod in the present of poo that the cat had left for us. Hearing shouting, we all ran downstairs to investigate – I struggled to keep a straight face – and the kids were rolling around laughing. Also, later that day they persuaded him to play Monopoly which, as usual, got completely out of control and ended up with Joe and Jack having a punch up.

Welcome to the family!

I think at that point he started questioning becoming a stepdad, but I’m relieved he stuck around. Neither of us have played Monopoly since though.

We reminisced about other Christmases like the one where Poppy, our very own Mrs Christmas, bought all three of her brothers Nike trainers. Her face was a picture of pure joy as she watched them open them and saw how happy they were. I remember when Joel was 14 and had his first job working at Otter Nurseries. He bought us all presents with his own money and proudly gave them to us.

My mum normally spends Christmas with us and brings something that makes us laugh. One year it was moustaches for everyone!

We all do our part in cooking the roast dinner and Will makes delicious desserts.

Traditions wise, an important part of Christmas is the food. Jack, the chef, loves coming back and thankfully, still has passion left for cooking despite doing it constantly at work. Last year he tried to start a new tradition that we are not adopting. He wanted to make a traditional Italian Christmas meal. As Catholics, Italians – like many Europeans – celebrate on the 24^th. We got all the ingredients to make these tiny pasta shapes filled with a special meat concoction which took ages to make. Will, Jack, Jason and I sat round the kitchen table while Jack informed us that we needed to make fifty each! It was fun although extremely fiddly so this year, we are going back to our traditional fare. Jason makes the best sausage rolls I’ve ever tasted and on Christmas Eve we eat them, roast gammon cooked in orange marmalade, prawn cocktail and cheese and biscuits. Changing food habits is one thing; however, stockings are a tradition that can’t be broken, although Jason thinks I’m mad to continue with them. One year I tried to stop and there was uproar; the kids told me that without them, Christmas was ruined. So, at the ages of 33, 30, 26 (plus Sam) and 18 I’m still doing it; although for the first time I’ve done all my wrapping early so I’m looking forward to relaxing a bit before the big day. Although I miss the old traditions from when they were young, as they have grown up we have made new ones. On Christmas Eve I’m normally the first one in bed now! As it’s generally the first night we all get together we make food in the kitchen and everyone takes a turn to put their favourite song on YouTube. It’s great fun – we drink cocktails, dance and laugh into the early hours of Christmas Day.

This year is going to be strange for so many people. I won’t get to see my eldest son or Mum as they are both vulnerable and isolating. Will is home from university which is a relief. I gave him a huge hug and have enjoyed catching up on all his news. The dog is delighted to have him back too.

He has changed, which I knew he would. It was inevitable, he and all the students that went to uni for the first time this year have been through a lot. Despite all the stress, he loves Liverpool and is looking forward to going back.

Jack and Poppy were supposed to be coming back too, plus Sam, Poppy’s girlfriend, but as we have just found out they have all been put into Tier 4 that won’t be happening. Jack said that four of his colleagues have Covid and he was feeling ill so had a test which unfortunately was positive. Everyone around Poppy and Sam are catching it too so it will be a very low key Christmas this year. I can’t bear the thought of Jack being completely alone on Christmas day. I would do anything to give him a hug and have him here so I can look after him; however, I know this is the same for so many people and things could be much worse. Many people will be facing this Christmas without their loved ones and never see them again, thankfully that isn’t the case for my family.

A positive I can find in this darkness is that although Christmas isn’t going to be anything like we had planned we still have a celebration to look forward to next year. So those stockings and presents are going to be here for when we can all get together. Hopefully now we have a vaccine that won’t be too long and in the meantime thank goodness for FaceTime!

I would love to hear about your family traditions. If you’re interested in telling me, please write and let me know. I hope whatever type of Christmas you have it is a wonderful one and let’s hope and pray that 2021 is a much better year than 2020 has been.

Merry Christmas xx

It was a wet Wednesday when we set off at 4.30 am to take Will to university in Liverpool. The map on the phone said it would take four and a half hours. We were wedged in like sardines as the car was overflowing with his belongings. Fortunately, there were no hold ups, and the traffic was a constant flow, so we arrived in plenty of time for our 10 am slot to move him in. The trip up there, although much smoother, was a microcosm of the long journey leading up to getting there.

Back towards the end of February Will fell ill, around the time that the Coronavirus was beginning to get a hold on the country. A week or so before my husband, Jason, and I had the flu. We both felt dreadful, with awful coughs and were struggling to breathe which now makes us wonder if we had it without knowing. Will had such a high temperature that just by being close by I could feel the heat emanating from him. Consequently we had to isolate for two weeks. At that point we had no idea that he would never return to school. When we went into lock down it was a shock and I felt for him and all the other kids who didn’t have any closure after spending fourteen years of their short lives, since they were four years old, learning, and constantly being assessed in the build up to their A-Levels.

Once the fiasco surrounding the exam results began to unfold Will became anxious, particularly as he hadn’t done very well in his mocks. Like many kids, he didn’t have an inkling that he wouldn’t have the opportunity to actually take his exams. The government properly threw A-Level students under the bus with their decisions, U-turns and bullshit. The news kept on changing up until Results Day. When that morning finally came Will nervously tried to get on the UCAS website, but it continually crashed. Frustrated he headed to school to discover he had been awarded B B C (not what his teachers gave him and lower than he was predicted). Also, to his huge relief, he found out that he had got into his first choice course at Liverpool despite not getting the grades they had originally asked for. As we celebrated with fizz I saw the remnants of worry, fear and stress that had been plaguing him melt away, replaced by excitement.

He waited and waited for the university to get in touch and give him a moving in date which eventually transpired as the 30^th of September, a month and a half later, and we began collecting bits and pieces together and stacking them up ready. During this time, news reporters were constantly reporting on Covid spikes in various places, particularly up north. This became increasingly worrying as the advice kept changing around rules and lock downs. Every day during the final week before we left there was doubt about whether he would actually be able to get there. There was a possibility that the government were going to put a stop to students going as Liverpool had rising numbers of cases.

Amid all this uncertainty Will had applied for his accommodation. He had chosen modest halls, in the city near the university, with no frills; where he would share a kitchen, lounge and two bathrooms with six other people and live like a normal student. He couldn’t wait after being stuck at home for six months and barely seeing anyone. He had carefully budgeted and worked out that after paying for his room he would have £150 per month to live on for the rest of the year, which obviously wasn’t enough, but he was hoping to get a job up there to supplement this. Once he knew he was going, he joined an employment agency and got a job in a warehouse, working nights, and managed to save £1000. I am extremely proud of him for doing that as he didn’t enjoy it, and although we didn’t know it then, without it he wouldn’t have been able to go. Unfortunately instead of the money he had saved being extra so that he could have some meals out and fun he was let down by the university. It took Will over a week, after the site went live, to get the information about where he was going to live as it kept crashing. When he eventually managed to get on it he was upset to find that the halls he had applied for were not available. Instead he was offered a place in a newly constructed student village a forty five minute walk from the city, meaning that he would need a bus pass costing £350. He was dismayed to work out that after paying for these halls all that was left from his student loan would be £100 for the whole year as they cost £3000 more than the ones he applied for.

I urged him to send an email explaining his situation which he did. And when he didn’t receive a reply I telephoned them to complain. After I explained his predicament, they basically said there wasn’t much they could do as there simply wasn’t enough of the cheaper accommodation and that unfortunately this happens every year. My reply was that surely if this is happening year after year then the university need to put something in place to change it. They said they would put him on a waiting list as students usually change rooms so he could probably get a room in a different place. Consequently we had more uncertainty and waiting but absolutely nothing happened and we never heard from them again so he had to accept the expensive one. It was sad as it soured the experience and Will began to feel anxious again.

I am furious about this. Universities are such big businesses now there seems to be no thought for student welfare. Instead it’s all about the money. I suspect that this year, due to the virus, there will be fewer foreign students coming from overseas so they are forcing first years into the more expensive halls to recoup the money they have spent on building them. When I asked the accommodation people on the phone how he was expected to live on £150 for the year they said they didn’t know and suggested that he went into private accommodation. I argued that he should have the opportunity to have the halls experience and was being penalised for being poor. They did not have any answers.

Since March it has been a series of ups and downs and we have been on an emotional roller coaster so to finally be driving through Liverpool was thrilling. Having never been there before I was unsure what to expect and was pleasantly surprised particularly as we began driving through Toxteth which I’d heard of on the news many years before as there had been riots back in the 80s. Will’s degree is in Town Planning, so we had a conversation about regeneration of areas. This was a perfect example of somewhere that had been severely run down; three storey Georgian houses sit back from the road partly hidden by leafy trees lining the wide avenues. Turning off into Greenbank Road we finally arrived at our destination. His halls are only two years old. Positioned in the grounds of the Greenbank Estate, the large house rests proudly in front of ponds where water from fountains form arcs over the water lilies.

The setting was stunning despite it pouring down as we loaded his stuff onto trolleys and wheeled them along a wide path flanked by lush green lawns. Will was given a key card and I could tell how delighted he was to be finally seeing his new flat for the first time. Everyone was wearing masks and we had to queue to get into the foyer and wait for the lift. The buildings are situated around a large courtyard and have been tastefully designed, so that although they are modern, they still look pleasant and fit in with the surrounding gardens.

The entrance hall smelt of fresh paint as we manoeuvred the trolleys round corners holding on to boxes and bags that were threatening to fall and spill the contents. Upstairs Will opened the door to his new life and we entered a long hallway with seven bedrooms leading off it. He found his room and we began to unload everything while he went into the kitchen and met his new flat mate, the only one who had moved in so far, although all seven of them had been talking on Facebook. His room was small, but he was happy because it had a double bed and its own en suite bathroom – a novelty. It was painted white except for the wall behind the bed which for some unknown reason was the most disgusting shade of luminous, lime green.

We all went out to get the rest of his bits from the car, but I realised that I had forgotten my coat. Will turned round to open the door and a look of panic crossed his face as he realised he had left the key card inside. I shook my head in despair. We’d only been there ten minutes! Fortunately, there was a kind cleaning lady outside called Annie who came to our rescue and let him back in. She was lovely and chatty with a strong Liverpudlian accent. She reassured Will that he was going to love Liverpool. I’m hopeful that he’ll remember his key card every time now as he’s had that initial shock. There were no more dramas, so we went shopping and bought him food to last a couple of weeks. Then we wandered around the docks, admiring the architecture, shivering in the drizzling rain. We watched the ferry cross the Mersey before sheltering and having a delicious lunch in a small Mexican restaurant.

Back at his halls we parked, and he got out of the car. Leaving him there was strange. I had mixed feelings; partly relief that he was finally there after all the doubts about him going but also not wanting to let him go. We hugged and as I watched him walk down the road I cried. Although he’s six foot he suddenly seemed small and vulnerable. This was a poignant moment. As parents we bring our kids up to the point where they become independent – because that is what we want for them – to become their own person and be an adult. But once they’ve gone they’re never quite the same. He’ll still be Will, but the dynamics will be different. I know this because of his brothers and sister leaving before him. When they come back for Christmas they are the same people, but different. The time they spend making their own decisions, living their lives, and having to deal with diversity changes them. I have no doubt it makes them better people, but it is odd to no longer be needed in the same way. Having been a full time parent for 33 years I feel bereft. As I was a child myself when I had Joel, I have grown up with my kids and being a mother is all I’ve ever known.

 I also cried because we dropped him off in a city dripping with Corona Virus. Liverpool is one of the worst hit cities in the country. We went to an Asda on the way home to get petrol and use the toilet and wished we hadn’t as it felt like the virus was everywhere. In Devon most of the supermarkets are taking some precautions around social distancing in some way but that definitely wasn’t the case in the shop we visited there. It was heaving, and although people were wearing masks, it was so packed we had to weave our way through a crowd. I was panicking about touching anything and back in the car Jason said he felt the same. It was a relief to get home. The whole trip took fourteen hours.

When I began writing this I decided to do some research on where Will is living. I discovered that Greenbank House was once the summer dwelling of the Rathbone family and was built in the early 18^th century. Alterations were carried out in 1809 resulting in a substantial part of the house being rebuilt as a Gothic villa in the style of ‘Strawberry Hill’ – a house built by Horace Walpole in London in 1762. Greenbank house has a cast iron screen which formed a veranda and housed a balcony above. It remained the family home for generations of Rathbones until 1944 when it was bequeathed to the University of Liverpool. Interestingly, William Rathbone, a member of the family, worked with Florence Nightingale and regarded her as a close friend. And he created the system of district nursing, the very first in the world. He was also one of the founders of Liverpool University.

He had a daughter named Eleanor who, like her father, was a social reformer. She was also a suffragette and she campaigned against the Nazis. She worked tirelessly as a pioneer to ensure that Family Allowance money was paid directly to women in order to give them a modicum of control. She was also a councillor for 25 years.

I feel that these two mavericks would be turning in their graves if they knew how little regard the university seems to have for the health and well being of their students. Particularly for this cohort who are studying in the middle of a world pandemic. After being given the generous gift of this huge estate the business managers made the decision to build hordes of flats, no doubt at a great cost to them. Consequently, they are extortionately priced; and they can argue that they can charge this amount of rent because the setting and flats are attractive, they all have en suite bathrooms and there is a huge gym available to use which is included in the price – although this is shut at present due to Covid restrictions. I don’t believe students need ponds and fountains and en suite bathrooms. If they choose to have them and can afford to pay for them then that is a personal choice; however, Will did not choose to live there and cannot afford to. Fortunately, Jason’s parents very generously rewarded Will for working hard prior to leaving and saving up the money to live on while he’s studying. They kindly matched the amount he had saved which is not a small amount of money to them, nor us and it’s a lifesaver for Will.

Apparently every one of his housemates also put in for cheaper accommodation and were stitched up by the university. I am fuming because really it means that university is not accessible to anyone whatever background you come from. Universities are always trying to promote the idea that they are appealing to those from deprived or poorer social backgrounds but it’s a lie. In fact what they are doing is screwing over 18 year old kids and raking in huge amounts of cash in the middle of a health crisis. There is no thought for their mental health. Will is being charged excessive fees: £9000 to sit in a small room that is costing £6000 and have lectures online. They are told to go into online break out rooms, where everyone is too self-conscious to speak as they’ve never met, and discuss questions. At least they’re all in the same boat I suppose.

Back in Devon we’ve been keeping in touch with Will through FaceTime. Two weeks in, and socially, he seems to be having the time of his life. People keep asking me what it’s like for him up there as restrictions on going out are being put into place by the government. The rules say that you can’t go into a pub and drink; however, according to Will, the majority of pubs have enormous seating areas outside. His favourite place where all the students hang out is called Concert Square. After living in a sleepy Devon village for his whole life, Will has adapted to city life with ease. He was desperate to leave, particularly as he had spent seven months not going anywhere because of lock down. He really likes his housemates and it sounds like they are all getting on well. He is the only one from down south as they are all northerners. One of the guys is a local so has shown them round and introduced them to all the best spots. As a result of the restrictions, all the pubs have to shut at 10 pm. Will sent me a photograph as he was leaving which made me do an Edward Munch ‘Scream’ impression when I saw it. It reminded me of New Year’s Eve in Trafalgar Square. As a consequence of the pubs shutting everyone was leaving at the same time. Flocks of drunk people spilling out on the street standing cheek by jowl. It was as if no one had ever heard of Corona Virus or social distancing or masks.

It has now been three weeks since I started writing this. The first week was strange and I found passing his empty bedroom difficult. I went to the supermarket one day and while walking down the orange juice aisle I got a lump in my throat and my eyes filled up because I didn’t have to buy any for him. It hit me then how far away he is. As the days went on we began to get used to the house staying tidy, the quietness and having food in the fridge.

This week – week three – has been trying. For Will, the euphoria has worn off as Liverpool is back in lock down and he was feeling ill with all the Covid symptoms. He phoned to say his throat was hurting, he felt hot and fluey and couldn’t taste anything. The following day he was worse and had a Covid test. When he sent the photograph of the positive test result I was shocked. I thought he probably did have it but actually seeing it written down was horrible. Despite knowing that he’s young, fit and healthy and logically he will be all right, I went to pieces. It’s times like this that make one realise what good friends they have. I was overwhelmed with messages of support sent to me as well as wine and chocolate delivered to my door. The following morning at work I was all over the place and crying in the staff room because I felt so helpless. I just wanted to go up and see him, give him a hug and look after him. My colleagues were wonderfully supportive and helped me through the day, so I feel incredibly fortunate to have such positivity in the midst of all this turmoil.

Will has now been in Liverpool for three and a half weeks and when I spoke to him yesterday he said he’s feeling much better. Today he is allowed out of quarantine for the first time. He sent me a picture of Sefton Park which is enormous and a two minute walk from where he lives. He said it was fantastic to breathe fresh air again.

I’m hoping that things will calm down now and he can begin studying. I’m also relieved it’s half term as I am emotionally exhausted and need to recharge my batteries for work next week.

There have been many milestones for our family this year which meant, like many other people, we made a lot of plans that have been thwarted by Covid. Starting in January, Jason’s parents, my in-laws, celebrated their golden wedding anniversary and we had organised to go on holiday with them in the summer to mark the occasion. In April it was our son, Jack’s 30th birthday; fortunately, because of lock down he spent it with us. In May it was our youngest son, Will’s 18th and then in June it was Jason’s 50th. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not complaining – as drinking Champagne in the garden and eating wonderful food featured on all these occasions. I actually feel very fortunate that compared to so many people we haven’t been too badly affected by the Corona Virus. In fact, for us, it has been a positive experience in many ways.

To mark Jason’s 50th we were booked to watch England play cricket and float around the Aegean Sea on a boat, island hopping. On top of all that we are celebrating our 20 year anniversary this summer so because everything else had been cancelled I did something I’ve never done before. Without Jason knowing I went on Air B&B and booked us three days in a camper van. Afterwards I panicked, especially when our son, Will, was rather disparaging saying I could have booked somewhere much better. I’m sure this was partly due to him being unimpressed that we were leaving him at home to look after Hilary, our chicken. Fortunately, it all worked out well as Jason was surprised and excited when I told him we were going wild swimming and staying on Dartmoor as it’s something we’ve often talked about, but never got round to.

We left home in brilliant sunshine heading for Sharrah Pool on the River Dart. Arriving at the car park was a shock because it seemed that everyone else in Devon had the same idea as us. We managed to squeeze into the last parking space. Behind our car a dappled pregnant mare stood next to her tiny black foal completely unfazed by the car park chaos, and several people stroking them both. She made me laugh by hopefully sticking her nose into the ice cream van. She has obviously worked out how to make the most of tourists visiting where she lives!

Prior to going away we borrowed a map from one friend and another gave us directions. We began walking with Otis, our black lab, excitedly zigzagging from one scent to the next along the paths. Walking through shady woodland was a relief after the intense heat and we found a waterfall where he had a splash and a drink. What struck me while walking was just how many different shades of green there are. The leaves in the shade were bottle green so different to those with the sun gilding them and the grass was the colour of gooseberries. It’s at times like that when I wish I was a painter and could try to capture the different hues on my palette and paper. Unfortunately I can only paint with words and take photographs.

We followed the river for a few miles until eventually we found the pool where it widened out and there were rocks to sunbathe on. We found one away from everyone else and laid down our blanket to have a picnic of sandwiches, crisps and strawberries and read our books. All we could hear was the gurgle of the river and birdsong. I’m one of those people who has to be absolutely boiling before I get into cold water. Once I’d sunbathed for a while and began overheating I took the plunge. It was utterly freezing, but very refreshing.

The pathway back was decorated with lacy pools of light where the sunlight pierced through the gaps in the trees and onto the ground. We were excited to book into the camper van and find out where we would be staying. Situated at a farm on the edge of Drewsteignton, we received a warm welcome from Tina, our host, a lovely Irish woman who was very impressed at how relaxed Otis was. She showed us round and gave us her insider knowledge around the best wild swimming spots. The van was perfect – particularly as it was set in a paddock that we had all to ourselves. Outside was a table and chairs, a fire pit and our own toilet in a shed. On one side we were flanked by a fence smothered in fragrant pink and white roses. The other was open to the view of rolling hills surrounding us. In the adjacent field were friendly horses.

We booked to have dinner at The Ring of Bells, in North Bovey, a tiny village centred around a large green. Sipping my gin and tonic in the sunshine was a high point. The pub dates back to the Middle Ages and is a long, low building, painted white, with thick oak doors. The windows are small and between each one are hanging baskets dripping with summer flowers: violet and indigo lobelia fight for space among pale pink and scarlet geraniums and ivy cascading out in all directions. Positioned in a courtyard surrounded by old thatched cottages it was picture perfect and Otis was welcome too. The food was delicious – not your average pub grub – we ate well and were full up when we returned to the van where the horses whinnied in welcome. We sat and drank wine under the wide cornflower sky before it turned gold and then pink and the sun disappeared behind the hills.

With no light pollution it got properly dark. It was romantic to watch hundreds of stars emerging from the inky sky. And heaven to fall asleep with the curtains open.

The following morning dawned bright and clear and after bacon butties we made a packed lunch. Following Tina’s advice we drove for five minutes, parked on the side of a road, hoisted our rucksacks onto our backs and entered the grounds of Castle Drogo. The River Teign was on our right, wide and sparkling in the light – looking very inviting. Unfortunately a huge herd of cows were cooling off and blocking our path. Nervously we inched past them keeping Otis to heel as we’ve had some bad experiences of being chased in the past. At one point they got spooked and all started moving towards us which made us quicken our steps. Jason is a magnet for farm animals. They seem to find him threatening; either that, or they can sense his intense fear! I think probably the latter; however, we managed to pass unscathed and found ourselves in some woods.

As we walked we were getting hotter and hotter and began to look for a swimming spot. The trees were so high around the water that the sun couldn’t reach in wherever we found an accessible bit of river, so we kept walking in the hope of finding the perfect sunny place. Exploring those woods was exciting as we had never been there before. It felt magical – like we were in a fairy tale – especially when the path turned into a steep flight of steps hewn from the rocks. It felt ancient and untouched. Whenever I walk in old places like that I imagine the people who have been there before me over hundreds of years. I feel an affinity with them and, in doing so, feel I become a part of its history too.

The steps were gravity defying. Stopping at the top, on a narrow stone ledge to catch our breath, we watched the river rushing over rocks far below us. At the bottom three ponies stood on the path staring at us as we passed them. It is one of the most tranquil walks I have ever been on – a really special moment in my life that I shall always remember.

Climbing the steps and walking for over an hour had made us sweaty and keen to swim. I was beginning to give up when we turned a corner and there it was: a little beach in a clearing with no trees where we made a camp with our blanket and towels. It even had little natural steps leading down to the water.

The sun was at its height and had warmed the water as well, While we swam, fish darted past us and we tried to persuade Otis to join us and go in further than his legs. He refused, as usual, making a couple walking on the other side of the riverbank laugh at the idea of a Labrador who doesn’t like swimming. Further down the river, in the distance, were large rocks where people were practising yoga in the sunshine – idyllic!

We were fortunate to have the beach to ourselves for a while while we dried off, read our books and ate lunch. More and more people kept walking past glancing enviously at our set up as it was gloriously hot. A large family came and started splashing around so we decided to leave them to it and keep walking along to Fingle Bridge where we had agreed to meet Will for lunch. I invited him as he was sounding a bit lonely when I rang him to check he was all right. From the peace of the woods we entered into madness – people everywhere – in the river – and at the pub. Luckily we got a table and he found us.

I’ve never been there before and although it is absolutely stunning, from a picturesque perspective, there was far too much going on. It was lovely to see Will and we enjoyed eating lunch before he headed home.

It took us over an hour to get back through the woods. We were relieved to find that the cows had moved away by the time we got back to the field where we started several hours before. Before going back to the car we were so hot that we found a tiny stony beach and had another dip while Otis chased some sticks and splashed about.

Back at the van we cooked a barbecue and drank wine. It was incredibly peaceful and relaxing – just us alone – living in the moment (which I’m generally not very good at). We reminisced about when we met and how much everything (including us) has changed so much in the past 20 years. Some things for the better some for worse. We made plans for the future as we are about to enter a new phase in our lives – one without children – as Will, the last one, is off to university in September.

While watching another stunning sunset we discussed where we were going for our third and final wild swimming adventure the following day. We decided that after breakfast, we’d pack up the last bits of food we had left over, check out of the van and and head towards Okehampton.

We were looking for a place called Cullever Steps, a natural pool. It was roasting as we turned off the main road and began driving through the moor – alongside crumbling dry stone walls – past shaggy sheep and ponies munching grass. Once we got out to walk great rocks of granite stood like sentinels and the road became narrower and steeper. After walking through shaded woodland for two days it was wonderful to walk on the open moor under the most enormous blue sky where buzzards wheeled and cried overhead. Steep craggy tors surrounded us as we climbed a huge hill. Reaching its peak we felt like we were on top of the world.

At the bottom of the hill below us we could see the pool shimmering in the sunlight. Walking down was hard going through rocks and high ferns. Once we sat down we couldn’t believe we had it all to ourselves. Little black fish kept leaping out of the water making a loud plop as they fell back in. Out of all three wild swimming spots we discovered, this was my favourite. Floating on my back looking around me I felt like the luckiest woman alive. The water was still, clear and cool, the scenery was stunning and our only neighbours were sheep and ponies.

As we started walking home we heard lots of noise and saw some kids with swimming things and lilos. We made a short detour and followed them to investigate. Turning a corner we saw a large natural pool full of kids with rubber rings, swimmers and people paddling dinghies surrounded by people sunbathing. We were shocked as it was so close to where we had been and such a contrast to the peaceful experience we had just had. That was obviously, Cullever Steps, the place with the pool on the map, that we were initially looking for. I’m so pleased we didn’t find it and found the smaller one instead. About five minutes away from our car, mist obscured the tors, the sky turned steely and clouds started rolling in. The weather changed in an instant, the heavens opened, great drops of rain making us run for cover. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect as it coincided with the end of our holiday.

We had a fabulous adventure on Dartmoor which wouldn’t have happened if we had done all the other things we had planned for this summer. I feel very lucky to have such a wonderful place on our doorstep and can’t wait to go back again… 2020 has been a very strange year and definitely a time to appreciate the benefits of getting closer to nature.

Last summer I was half a century old. I decided to properly embrace this fact and do fifty things to celebrate #50@50.

My husband, Jason, and I went on holiday to southern Italy to a place called Salerno. He loves to make plans for things to do while we are away and for my birthday present he arranged for us to go on a boat trip for a day. There were five other couples, us and the driver and hostess. I love the sun although when we were there in August it was ferocious – 30 degrees by 9 am – so sitting on the back of the boat in the breeze was wonderfully refreshing. The first stop we made was to have a swim. I couldn’t wait to climb down the rope ladder. Jase just dived straight in. The water was aquamarine and so clear. We were fairly near the shoreline and I could see some caves so I swam over to explore; Jase followed and climbed out to stand on the rocks thinking he was King of the Cave. I wasn’t sure at the time why he did this but he seemed very happy so I didn’t say anything. Back on board I suggested we sit at the front on the sunbathing deck to dry off and get a bit of a tan. It was properly luxurious. The whole deck was covered with cream leather cushions – fabulous I thought as I lay there for one second and noticed that Jase was bleeding all over the cushion he was on. While conquering the cave he managed to cut his foot to pieces so we quickly went back in the shade after I mopped up all the mess and apologised profusely.

The hostess, Allessandra, was lovely and helped with plasters and things although none of them would stick and Jase had to keep using tissues to stem the flow. She said, ‘I know what will help!’ and pulled out an ice cold bottle of Prossecco and some chunks of honeydew melon which I had to feed to Jase as he wouldn’t stop bleeding.

The rest of the trip consisted of going to various places along the Amalfi Coast so beautiful they hardly seem real. We sailed past stunning lemon groves on the side of the cliff and small ports packed with people.

We stopped off for coffees and cocktails at various spots where we wandered around with the other million tourists. It was quite an experience. There were lemons everywhere which made me smile.

We also swam off the boat again with snorkels. The turquoise sea was full of silver, yellow and black fish darting one way then the other – a synchronised shoal dancing as one – surrounding us. Arriving in Amalfi was an experience – the pretty houses, like little boxes, hewn from stone jut out above the sea – a rainbow pallet of pastel shades clinging to the cliff. I was trying to imagine what it would be like to live there. The view would be sensational but all those people! The air was filled with Italians chattering excitedly and gesticulating wildly, other European accents drifted in and out too. The sun was searing. Pale British people were huddling together in a tiny patch of shade. I could smell coffee, sunblock and cigarette smoke. The sea looked incredibly inviting but there wasn’t a spare inch on the beach which was covered in stripy parasols shading nut brown bodies lying on loungers. We became part of the throng of visitors wanting to explore. I found it fascinating and exhilarating and unnerving as it was just so intense.

The cathedral, like most of the churches in Italy, was ostentatious with sweeping steps that led into tiny cobbled streets like something out of a fairy tale. Everything is built up so high it’s shocking when you look up as you don’t expect to see towering walls above you. I longed to discover what was behind thick wooden doors set into the stone walls and taste the Gelato. And as I am nosy I wondered who lived here in this strange and incredible place and if they hate the tourists who make walking impossible and clutter up every nook and cranny.

After following the crowd we found ourselves in a tiny narrow street full of shops. I bought a powder blue linen dress which I changed into as I was so hot. I began to get into the flow of Amalfi and enjoy being part of the intensity because I love shopping, although Jason doesn’t so that didn’t last long. Suddenly I turned round and everyone was flattening themselves to the walls as a car was driving up there; careless of any obstacles in his way, the young Italian driver casually leaning on his horn. After that there were a few mopeds weaving in and out. Looking up at the apartments above the shops I saw lines of washing fluttering in the boiling breeze like coloured flags.

It was a relief to board the boat and feel the wind in my hair. We were expecting to just head back but Allessandra said they had a surprise for us. The Captain, who I don’t think spoke once during the whole trip, started heading for the shoreline but not to habitation. ‘We are going to a special place only accessible by boat. It is called Pandora’s Cave and everyone who enters must make a wish.’ she told us. The boat seemed to be travelling fairly fast towards a small gap. The captain obviously knew what he was doing and expertly manouvered us inside where it was deceptively large. It felt odd going from brilliant sunshine into the gloom of the cave the walls were sharp stone and a rainbow of shades from purple, orange, green, yellow and grey.

As we entered there was an eerie silence and stillness. It was full of secrets. Everyone who enters makes a wish so it felt pregnant with each person’s hopes, desires and dreams.

Of course I was caught up in the moment but as I ate the lemon biscuit I was offered washed down with icy Limoncello, something stirred inside me, a longing to write again. On the way back we passed two enormous rocks jutting from the water side by side. Allessandra informed us they are called The Two Brothers. They both fell in love with a mermaid and fought over her so much that Poseidon turned them into eternal stone. Back at the apartment I started doing some research into the Pandora myth. I already pretty much knew the story – that she let the Seven Deadly Sins out of the box. What I didn’t know was that what was left inside was Hope. Hence making a wish when entering Pandora’s Cave. This is now the title of my new novel. Next blog post I’ll share some snippets.