Author Archives: Rachel Farmer-Reay

Unknown's avatar

About Rachel Farmer-Reay

Freelance writer and communications professional

Oh for a sign

Posted on by
2

Snooping round other people’s homes. That’s what I’ve been doing lately. I’m not going to apologise because most of the time they knew I was there and even told me to have a good look. I tried not to be too nosey. I didn’t open too many cupboards or peep into their drawers, but I did look in the bathrooms and checked out the neatly piled towels and noted their reading material beside the bed and in the toilets! I breathed a sigh of relief at a jumbled food cupboard and nodded understandingly at a room of partly packed boxes and paintings with nowhere to hang.

House hunting. It’s a time consuming business – especially for the seller. All that rapid hoovering and tidying up, after the phone call saying someone wants to view. Put the kettle on in case they want a tea – although the scent of coffee will make them feel more welcome… We’ve enjoyed tea a couple of times with friendly owners – what is it about a mug of tea that makes us relax? We clasp the steaming brew and sigh… You can’t beat a mug of tea towards the end of a day of house viewings and even better if you can hover in a warm kitchen smelling of freshly baked bread or gaze out from a terrace across unending hills and valleys. That was one view I wanted to fold up and take home in my pocket to unwrap another day.

We’ve met some very interesting and friendly people in the past few weeks. Of course they’re bound to be friendly because they want us to buy their house! Still, some of them went the extra mile… Like venturing out in the rain across a slippery lawn to show us the garden, despite a recent hip operation, or taking time to educate us about lichen on trees (a sign of pure air – don’t you know?) …and ground source heating systems… and the best route to the pub…

Picking the right house isn’t easy though, however pleasant the owners are. I had the idea that when we saw it, or walked in we’d know… that there’d be a sign or something. I talked about this with my fellow decision maker. Had there been any signs so far? Well, apart from him hitting his head on the doorway, I meant. There were connections – surprising ones at a rather stunning property where tea was also served. Then there was the rainbow. A complete rainbow which stretched from one side of the river to the other like an arch over the house and garden. Oh, yes… I remembered the rainbow. I’d admired it and thought how pretty it looked after the shower had soaked the grass. Should we see that as a sign? Do I believe in omens? Does God speak through signs like this?

Really I’m not sure.

So back to scrolling down Rightmove. I’m hoping we’ll know the right house when we see it – or perhaps it will know us? Maybe God will send a sign, only it better be bigger than a rainbow!

thumb_IMG_2301_1024

Which shoes?

Posted on by
3

The big question is which shoes? You may smile, but it’s an important one for today.
Today I have to be smart. I have to be professional, but not flashy. I have to be comfortable, able to walk without tripping over or dying to slip off my heels. I also want to feel good.I’ve spent the past two years mainly in flip flops or no shoes at all. Court shoes and heels practically never made an appearance. I remember trying a pair on in preparation for a big posh day and thought my feet would explode. Lately, I’ve been alternating between slippers and wellies or walking boots. 
Yesterday I enjoyed a very muddy wet run to the beach and back. My trainers have never looked so black – but I loved it. It was a fantastic feeling splashing through standing water in the tracks, jumping between mini lakes and the banks and finally giving up on trying to stay dry I ran straight through the flooded marshes to the shoreline, cold water creeping through my socks and squelching (delicious word) in the bottom of my shoes. There’s something invigorating about running through mud and water and laughing or singing and looking forward to the shower when you get home.

But today it is suede court shoes on my feet – now much cleaner than they were yesterday. Today I must be careful not to ladder my pale stockings and I must sit in a more ladylike way – no tucking my feet up under me or stomping through puddles – these must be given a wide birth. Today I am on a top secret mission to the big city.

The interview looms. Ssh! The outcome may dictate which shoes I’ll be slipping into in the months ahead… 

   
 

lost and now found

Posted on by
2

You know that awful feeling when you get off a train or a bus and realise, as it shunts out of the station or pulls into the distance, that you’ve left your bag/wallet/diary/top secret files/jacket on the shelf above the seat? We’ve all done it. That was exactly the kind of feeling I had last week.

Something was missing. I’d been telling myself they were in a box in a wardrobe for sometime. Then after a thorough search of all the boxes in the house, (because there are still some lurking filled with things that belong in an attic or a cellar) I had to admit what I was looking for was not in the house. As I lay in bed that night, I suddenly realised where they must be… the garage or one of the outside stores, of course. The next day it was raining so I put off the search until it stopped. The garage proved only to be hiding wetsuits, golf clubs and boxes of other ‘stuff’ – not what I was looking for. The outside stores also failed to deliver. There was still one other place to look and later that evening I persuaded someone to help me explore another room of stacked furniture where I assumed the missing boxes must be. After half an hour it was obviously a hopeless cause. I returned home heavy-hearted and offended by the twinkling lights on a neighbour’s Christmas tree…

Somewhere between Nottingham, Cyprus and Thorny Island two boxes of Christmas decorations had disappeared and that meant no olive wood crib scene, no wooden centre piece with candles and no pretty baubles and snagged stockings hanging over the fireplace. I felt so sad I almost wished I had left something important on a train instead.

There was still one small crumb of hope. Setting aside the possibility that they had been thrown out with the rubbish, I wondered if they were in someone’s attic. Strange idea perhaps, but we had left a few bits and pieces in the attics of family and friends… and there was a list. A list I had carefully made with items in the roof. If I could find the list and spot ‘Christmas stuff’ written down, there may be hope yet. But where was the list? Another hour or two of searching through papers and boxes and files delivered another big fat nothing. We were living with the uncertainty that the boxes might be up in Nottingham, but we had no evidence and no list to assure us. A few days later I rifled through another stack of papers on the desk and flicked through an old notebook. There was the list – written in fairly illegible scrawl – but it was the list and amazingly, ‘Christmas stuff’ was the fifth item on the second page! Hallelujah!

nativ

I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard the boxes had eventually been found at the back of the roof and I was more than happy to help unload them from the car yesterday after they had been picked up en route. Now Christmas can come and I can ice the cake and scrape crumbling mince pies out of their tins without that sinking feeling that something isn’t right because I’ve left my decorations on a train. I know ‘Christmas starts with Christ’ – but it also kind of begins with decorations… if that’s not too heretical?

 

a watch and a ticket

Posted on by
3

It’s only Tuesday and it’s already been a week of awkward moments. This is largely due to not thinking it through and the fact that I’m not at my brightest first thing in the morning.

Yesterday I woke to a beautiful blue sky and the sun streaming in through the gap in the curtains. Someone was busy dragging a suitcase down the stairs and bustling in the kitchen…where is my cup of tea I wondered? It wasn’t long before it arrived and I was duly kissed farewell by a man in combats saying, “see you in a week.” I snuggled further down under the duvet, glad I didn’t have to get up quite yet. But as I heard the back door bang, I glanced across at the other bedside table (not actually a table, a tall piece of wood which balances a lamp and half a cup)… but there was a large black watch on its back in place of the cup.

His watch. He’d be needing that this week. Moral dilemma: do I dash down and try and catch him with it or ignore it and say sadly, “Oh dear,” when he calls later and says, “I’ve forgotten my watch”? It was sunny, so I decided to at least try and see if he was still in the car. Jumping out of bed I snatched up the watch and ran down the stairs. The car was running but it was still in the drive. I yanked open the backdoor and half ran, half tiptoed towards the car. The pavings were cold on bare feet. The next second I banged straight into a tall man in uniform and heavy boots.
“What are you doing?” he was half laughing though.
“Your watch – you forgot your watch!” I said and then looked down at what I was wearing. Small pants and a strappy top. It might have been fine in Cyprus, but a frosty November morning in England? I don’t think so. Dashing back inside, he followed me in still laughing and asking if I’d seen the group of schoolboys walking down the road past the house. The final scene in Bridget Jones’ Diary popped into my head. “Crazy girl!” The trouble was I hadn’t thought it through.

This morning was another case in point. I had timed the trip to London carefully, allowing time for traffic and buying a ticket at the station, as well as collecting my train ticket from the machine. I parked the car at the far end of the car park, away from other cars because someone is worried it might get scratched (it’s newish). I was hoping I would have enough change for the parking machine, which was back into the centre of the car park. I stared hard, hunting for coin slots…card slot? Then I read the sign – pay on line or with an app or by phone. Great. Would the other machines take cash? The time was ticking. I hadn’t allowed time for this. The other machines were a lot further down the car park so I decided to phone the number to pay for parking by phone. How hard could it be? I listened while a nicely spoken robot man asked me for information. Next I needed to tell him the car registration number – which I didn’t know. Phone at my ear, large bag and a carrier bag full of advent calendars (the Real one ofcourse) in each hand, I trotted back down to the other end of the car park towards the car, reading out the number just in time. IMG_0727But now the demanding but polite robot man wanted the car park location code… which was on the machine. I scooted back towards the parking machine, rushing past a bemused school boy  in a half jog with my rustling bags and a phone still pressed to my ear. I was desperate to reach the machine in time to impart the next piece of information and glanced up nervously as I spotted a train had just slid in beside the platform. “Crap, I’m going to miss my train at this rate…” and other such sentiments were going through my head. But I was now being asked to key in numbers from my credit card and I hadn’t even picked up my train tickets yet. The voice was still talking to me…”press 1 for ‘yes’ and 2 for ‘no'” but I’d completely forgotten what he was asking! After another tricky moment with the train ticket machine and more codes to key in, I eventually received a text to confirm I had paid for parking and train ticket in hand, I headed for the platform. Miraculously I did catch the train.

Apologies to all schoolboys who may have been disturbed by these morning mishaps – as ever, I didn’t think it through.

Remember Remember

Posted on by
Reply

Damp sparklers and soggy rockets! That’s what the weather forecaster said last night and it looks like it might be true. The skies are grey and the kind of fine misty rain that England does so well looks set to stay. It’s a day for sitting beside a log fire (if you’re lucky) and making soup and mugs of hot chocolate after a walk with the dog – or cat in our case. He proved himself ‘more dog than cat’ by joining us on a walk beside the sea the other day. The problem is he’s pants at fetching sticks and won’t swim out when we throw stones in the water.

Although it’s November 5th and the mantra is “remember, remember”, I’m trying hard not to remember balmy clear nights with fireworks and entertainment in Cyprus last year with no rain to dampen the party spirit. Instead I am cheering myself up with thoughts of train journeys and pop-up cafes.

The other week I discovered a little gem at the local train station in Emsworth. Arriving with time to spare at this quaint Victorian station, which has a Railway Children look about it from the platform, I thought it would be too small to have a café. But a blackboard just inside advertised coffee and cakes at Carriages. I wandered in to the former waiting room which has been transformed into a Cath Kidston style café with spotty plastic table cloths, bunting and pot plants, all in pastel shades of pale pink, yellow and duck egg blue. I was so surprised about it not being ‘Costa’ or another chain that I wondered if they’d even have takeaway cups. No fear, there was a smiling barista happy to help and a row of tempting cup cakes lined up along the counter. We chatted about her new venture to acquire the empty rooms and start up a traditional café on the platform. I was only sorry there wasn’t time to sit at one of the pretty tables to soak up the café charm – another day hopefully. Standing on the platform a cup of latte steaming in my hands I felt so pleased that there was somewhere like Carriages and that a couple of people could still start up a ‘business with a soul’ in this little community. I’m sure it makes commuting a happier experience.

IMG_2145

IMG_2147

I met another bit of beautiful British entrepreneurship a few days later after a walk along the cliffs in Dorset. It had been a sunny afternoon, one of the last warm autumn days as it turned out, and we’d enjoyed a picnic with a panoramic view of Harry’s Rock with Poole and Bournmouth in the distance. We decided to wander down to Studland beach before heading home and I was wishing I’d packed a thermos of tea or coffee. I needn’t have worried. At the bottom of the lane just beside the beach was a little shack with it’s blackboard sign for tea and coffees propped up outside. It was almost 5pm but the café was still serving tea and not just tea, but tea in proper mugs that you could enjoy on the picnic benches overlooking the beach. At the top of the slope leading onto the sand beside a beach hut was a large container filled with buckets and spades and beach toys. Instead of a price for hiring or buying, there was a little notice which said, ‘please borrow and return – we like recycling.’ I was impressed and touched all at the same time. This seemed like a local family offering a brilliant service for visitors and locals alike. A young girl from the cafe was tidying up the buckets and spades to pack them back in the beach hut and I helped pick up a few left on the shore. There is something special about letting people borrow things without a charge and it was incredibly refreshing and simple. It made me want to live somewhere like that, where it isn’t all about money and charges.

IMG_2162

Although we may have to contend with soggy sparklers and a smoking bonfire tonight, at least there’s plenty of tea and other charming seaside cafes to seek out in the future. I’m looking forward to sampling many more. There should be a ‘rough guide to UK seaside cafes’ – now there’s a thought…

 

sea addict

Posted on by
Reply

I have to confess. I’m addicted. I can’t go a day without it and I’m afraid I may get a little shaky if I don’t see it. I didn’t realise it could be so addictive or I’d have been a bit more careful. Photographs don’t do it justice – they don’t capture the smells and sounds that make it such a wonderful ‘drug’.

I never imagined moving to live beside the sea would be so delicious and leave me craving for a sight of it every day. This afternoon I ‘ran’ to the beach (not the kind of running you do when being chased by hungry lions – just the kind that keeps pace with a slow cyclist). I knew it was going to be beautiful when I noticed golden blades of grass casting sharp shadows on the sand in the dunes. A bright white sun was starting to slide towards the horizon across the channel lighting up the ripples in the muddy coloured sand as the rays danced across the water. There were shallow dark pools on the wide expanse of empty beach. In the distance a solitary sailing boat bobbed mid channel and high up in the distance a flock of migrating birds swooped and swirled in a cloud, before disappearing out to sea.

IMG_4243

This is a special place. The only sounds were some strange sea bird noises and what I think might have been baying seals on the sandbanks. This afternoon it was as quiet as a nature reserve. I had the beach to myself. The light was unreal in a golden ethereal way. It felt like it was going to be the kind of night for smugglers to pull up their boats and haul their contraband up the beach…the kind of night for stories and secrets to be shared around a fire on the cool sand while the waves creep closer.

IMG_4244IMG_4231

I’m not sure how or why I’ve developed this addiction to ‘see the sea’ over the past few weeks. I could also describe it as a love affair because no matter what the state of the water – dark and stormy, grey and choppy or calm and blue – I can’t help but love the view. I even love it when the tide is out and messy dark green sea plants are left exposed, with the channel a remote blue strip beneath the boats. There is a reassuring rhythm to the tides. I’ve been waking up trying to remember what state the tide will be at – we can’t go far around here without noticing if it’s in or out. Now we’ve stuck a tide chart up in the kitchen and most days someone checks out the tide times and heights.

The sea here gives me a sense of space and freedom as its wide-open skies wrap around the island. It’s a sea of possibilities. A reminder that there are so many stories out there as people set sail or launch into open water – a lone fisherman inspecting his nets, an anxious sailor battling against a retreating tide, or a man on a motorboat heading into the deep. It’s a place of inspiration too. There are mysteries here to unravel and stories to be told… even crimes to be solved. I’m going to indulge my addiction for now. After all it’s not expensive or unhealthy and I have a suspicion the sea has something to tell me. And most of all – we live here…

IMG_4229IMG_4241

Blackberries and a beach

Posted on by
2

What makes you smile, even when things go wrong? For me, this weekend, it was unending hedgerows of blackberries and a beautiful beach.

Moving house and moving countries was always going to have its moments. We’d anticipated some of the problems including parting with the wrong stuff for 6 weeks going by container ship, collecting the cat from Heathrow, buying a new car and sorting out phones and internet. It turns out there was more…

No sooner had we set off on the journey south, in a packed car to our new island home, when the phone call we all dread came saying our daughter had been in A&E after miraculously surviving being hit by a bus. Still, it was an emotional call as everyone was in shock and suddenly life felt very fragile and the worries of removal vans and packing boxes seemed less significant. What you need most in those situations is just to be able to give someone a hug – distance and circumstances have meant the hugs will have to wait till this weekend. Just before we left for our flight back to the UK we also heard the sad news that a friend who had been ill had died quite suddenly. It made me realise our lives are in God’s hands and each day is precious – none of us know what’s around the corner or what the next day will hold.

And just as we were settling in, amassing our list of ‘army quarter’ deficiencies – from a faulty cooker to windows that don’t close – the next little hiccup occurred. The cat, who has already survived being abandoned as a kitten, being hit by a car and now flying 5 hours from Cyprus to Heathrow with other orphaned pets, worked out how to unlock the newly installed cat-flap. Our plan to keep him in at night had failed and he was on the prowl in the dark in a strange new country. We thought he had worked out how to find his way back to the house after his first night escapade on Thursday, but the next day he didn’t appear or the next. A weekend that should have involved relaxing and exploring with the family became a search and rescue mission. Search parties were dispatched from dawn to dusk, armed with cat treats and torches. ‘Missing’ posters were printed and distributed door to door. On Sunday afternoon we were beginning to feel as if something bad had happened and we might have to adjust to life without our strange sandy cat. So we headed for the beach around the corner on paths lined with blackberry bushes and I thought about baking a crumble on a happier day and basked in the sun in the shelter of the sand dunes.

IMG_4199

A little while later there was an urgent call that a sandy cat had been spotted near the road by a wood. We raced to the spot and tramped through undergrowth spotting a pair of wary eyes and a sandy tail hidden in the long grass. Was it Simba? We couldn’t be sure. The cat didn’t respond to our calls and moved further away. We couldn’t get close enough to be absolutely sure it wasn’t him and wondered what had made him so frightened. We tried to approach from the other side of the wood and as I crunched through deep undergrowth and trampled down waist high nettles, I thought about snakes and what might be underfoot. But this is England now – not Cyprus! The abandoned cat eventually disappeared deep into the undergrowth and we had to abandon the quest. We decided to leave food and water and a box… just in case and return the next day. At dusk we made a final sortie along the beachside path, through the boatyard and back by some large houses at the edge of the airfield. Our voices were growing hoarse with calling out and listening in case he was trapped somewhere. Just as we were about to cross the road back to our house we heard a faint cry. A fluffy bundle appeared from the bushes and the cat that was lost was now found.

We’re not sure what has happened to the cat in the woods, but people say he lives in a nearby barn. So we’ve retrieved our food bowls and box and left him to it. I’m hoping our dramas are over for a few days. Our cat is sleeping safely on a chair by the window and apart from nursing some giant mosquito bites we’re all in one piece. This weekend the whole family arrive, our ‘walking miracle/accident victim’ included. We’re looking forward to blackberry picking and I’ve even found an old apple tree nearby so blackberry and apple crumble is on the menu. That’s something to make me smile.

the end of summer?

Posted on by
1

Today feels like coming towards the end of a very long summer holiday and the approach of September has a ‘back to school’ aura about it. The sand between my toes and now collecting in corners on the floor of the car is a tell tale sign of days spent at the beach. Damp towels, sandy snorkel masks and a striped beach bag in need of repair will soon be packed or thrown away, having served us for over two years.

It’s always sad feeling the summer come to an end. The past two years, although not a complete holiday, have felt more like a vacation than any other period of my life. Sitting watching the sun sink towards the horizon across the water tonight could hardly be more idyllic… as the sun sets on our time here. Even now there’s a warm breeze fluttering against my face while the sea is shimmering gold, and miniature waves lap with calming rhythm against the sand below us.

This week has been filled with ‘last times’ as we have revisited favourite haunts from cafes and umbrella lined bazaars in bustling Nicosia and the buzz of Kyrenia’s harbour at night to the remote wilderness of the Karpaz peninsular and its idyllic golden beaches.

IMG_1889IMG_1903IMG_1917

I don’t want to say goodbye to these places I’ve come to treasure and which are filled with happy memories of time spent with family and friends. Today we went to a different part of the beach and had a drink at a different cafe. This was partly for a change, but also on my part, I wanted to avoid the feeling of having to go somewhere knowing we’re not coming back any time soon. I decided I’d rather remember the last time there and hope we will return one day. I don’t like goodbyes.

Although we have been revisiting what I would call our ‘top spots’ on the island, we’ve also ventured out on a new experience.

On Friday we were guests on board an 80ft yacht with a Turkish captain and his mother. http://www.velayachting.com It was an unforgettable time from the moment we stepped aboard and removed our shoes to the fond farewells at the end of the day. Yacht ‘Vela’ was a treat. A beautiful old sailing boat with wood lined decks, neatly coiled ropes and relaxing navy cushions everywhere became our home for a few hours. A handful of us enjoyed a jaunt down the coast of northern Cyprus for the day stopping off at bays for swims and snorkelling along the way. This time it was a relief to know that while I lounged on a deck cushion the responsibility for dropping and picking up the anchor was someone else’s nightmare. It was a kind of treat not having to heave ropes or jump across jetties to secure lines, although one member of the party couldn’t resist lending a hand! I wasn’t even required to go below and rustle up rations as ‘Mama’, (we had been instructed to call her this), had already prepared a sumptuous feast of Turkish dishes spread out on the table when we returned from our swim.

IMG_1928 IMG_1931 IMG_1960

Meanwhile, Captain Serhat was doing his bit precariously barbecuing fish and lamb at the bows. Peaceful music tinkled all around and during the lunch we were serenaded by what sounded like snatches of an opera. It was a surreal yet lovely experience and Capt Serhat had some good banter with the other skipper on board, as they exchanged plenty of old sea tales. He also impressed us with a tight 360 manoeuvre below the castle walls… although someone kept muttering, “bow thrusters are cheating”. During the day there was ample time to watch the coast go by, muse on the identity of a flock of birds and natter with friends who had joined us, while we sipped strong Turkish coffee from miniature China cups. It was in fact a perfect finish to our Cyprus adventure as we sail into unchartered waters and life back in the UK.

IMG_1973IMG_1958

Last night was also topped off with a mini ‘night exercise’ along the beach. Having swum with turtles and seen their carefully marked nests on the beaches here, we were hoping to catch a glimpse of some baby turtles making their way to the sea by moonlight. Torches in hand we followed a path and steps onto the darkened beach where the crashing waves drowned out all other sounds. We were alone on the beach checking the sand for signs of mini turtles or broken shells, even the tell-tale pattern of fin prints in the soft sand. Although we saw a few of these and some scuttling mini crabs, there were no turtles in sight. Gradually a silvery moon appeared from behind a cloud and we took a break on a couple of empty sun loungers. Sometime later I woke with a start realising we had both fallen asleep. We’d probably slept through the turtle-hatching bonanza and missed everything. Either way it was too late, as we drove back along the cliff tops a little while later, I wondered why the light seemed bright in the car and realised the driver still had his head torch turned on, adding a third beam to the car headlights on the dirt track… time to call it a day. The quest for hatching turtles will have to wait for another summer – maybe on a return trip?

Home sweet home

Posted on by
3

Gazumped! It’s an ugly word and being gazumped feels ugly too. But that was last week. Now it’s time to think again about where we will be moving and what it means to have a ‘home’.

I knew buying a house in the UK was fraught with ups and downs but we’d never had it this bad before. After taking months to decide what we wanted and where to buy, we thought the hard part was over. But there was worse to come – pitching bids, countering higher bids and finally that sickening feeling of being gazumped at the last minute. It was at times like this that I wished SNP MPs had more power and could bring in the same rules about purchasing houses as they have in Scotland. No fear of gazumping there as once your offer is accepted it’s legally binding.

After a dreary few days of mourning the loss of our prospective new home in the UK and watching the dreams and ideas we had been building sink to the bottom of the pool, we are picking ourselves up. There are consolations. We have an army quarter to move to. It’s got a roof and heating. I can’t vouch for the colour of the carpets or the state of the kitchen or even the age of the cooker….but it is on an island off the south coast and within a minute’s walk of the sea. It’s not right next to a main road either. In fact it’s part of an illustrious ‘gated community’ and you’d need photo ID to get there!

So, we will have a place to call ‘home’ again in the UK, even if it’s a temporary one.

So what makes a ‘home’? The perfect kitchen, open plan living, a fireplace, the tranquil garden and that climbing rose over the doorway? Trawling through estate agent house images on screen I find myself asking, what would this house be like with us living there… our pictures on the walls and our African carvings in the corner? In some places it’s hard to imagine, while others seem to fit. One of our children has told us “There’s no perfect house – there’ll always be something wrong.” And it seems very true, because with looking at so many different properties for sale the problems almost immediately jump out. I know ‘home’ is a million things more than bricks and mortar, or even stone and wood. It’s what we make it. It’s the welcome when you arrive. It’s the enticing smells from the kitchen, the familiar objects that have been with us for years and the permission just to relax and be yourself. The home I grew up in smelt predominantly of washing powder, because my mum often had clothes airing on a dryer high up above the Aga in the kitchen. That smell welcomed me into our rambling, often untidy home, whether I was returning from school or later back from university. It didn’t matter about perfection, what mattered was that my mum and dad were there and ‘Phew!’ I was back home – I could relax and I was safe.

Whichever house we end up buying in the future and wherever we settle, I want to make it feel like ‘home’ for all the family and friends that we welcome in. Time to put the coffee on and the bread in the oven – I feel in need of some ‘home cooking’ smells! And at least our Cyprus sign will still make sense in the next house for now…

door1

a turtle for company

Posted on by
1

It was 6am and the sun was creeping up the horizon with a smudge of pink appearing behind the trees lining the bay. Yesterday, I was the lone swimmer crossing the calm waters to the far side… well I thought I was. As I peered down to the ripples of sand on the sea bed I was very happy to spot a friendly turtle munching his way along just below me and a few moments later I watched him pop his head up for air as he checked out my front crawl style. Ploughing on from one salmon pink buoy to another it was comforting to think that there was someone or some thing out there with me.
   
 It’s that time of year again, when a few mad swimmers prepare for the island’s Bay2Bay swim. Friday morning will be a 4am start for those of us travelling from the other side of Cyprus for the open water swim of 1 nautical mile around from one cliff lined bay to another. We’ve been told to take breakfast and a pillow. I’m worried I will be even slower than last year, despite mastering front crawl, I find myself needing to break into breast stroke to calm my breathing… so ‘mastered’ probably isn’t the right word. But whatever my ‘time’ I’m determined to enjoy it – it will definitely be a lot warmer than swimming in the English channel or even the Solent. Something I will have to adjust to very soon.
The imminence of our move back to the UK this September was brought home today as I passed the first set of folded packing boxes at the top of the stairs along with some giant reels of sellotape. I remember this well – my life of ‘packing boxes’ – which is exactly where this blog began more than two years ago. Now the next adventure begins.
It’s not quite as exciting as a foreign posting, but I am looking forward to coming ‘home’ to be nearer friends and family and moving to our very own small Island… which we will share with a few hundred other army families and personnel!

As much as I love the UK I know I’m going to miss:

  • looking up at the stars while floating in a sun-warmed pool
  • never worrying about the weather for a BBQ
  • clothes – not wearing many
  • living life outside
  • mediterranean food – especially bags of free oranges and grapefruits
  • palm trees in the garden and crystal blue waters in the sandy bays
  • our view of the mountains
  • the sound of crickets buzzing day and night
  • visits to the numerous cafes, bars and restaurants we love
  • But more than all this I’ll miss the friends we’ve made, some of whom are moving on too, but others who we hope will give us the perfect excuse to return and visit in the future.

So packing boxes can wait a few more days because the sun is shining, the crickets are singing and there’s swim training to be done!