Author Archives: Rachel Farmer-Reay

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About Rachel Farmer-Reay

Freelance writer and communications professional

missing numbers, trains and phones

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“A woman walks into a bar wearing a mask. She goes up to the barman and asks, have you got a phone I could use?” It sounds like the start of a joke, but yesterday this was me, after I found myself very much in need of a stranger’s help.

How have we become so dependent on our mobile phones? It wasn’t so long ago that we went to a phone box to make a call and searched for someone’s number in the paper phone directory hanging on a chain from the shelf… not anymore!

Yesterday afternoon the sun was shining, it had been the end of a lovely day spent with my daughter and her four-month-old baby. We’d walked by the sea, enjoyed holiday story catch-ups and iced coffee. I was smiling as I waved goodbye to them both in the station car park. 

Trotting up the steps I rummaged in my bag for the dreaded face mask and increased my pace as I heard the station announcer and the approach of my train. Mask in place, I unzipped my bag to take out my phone, which also had my tickets on it. The zipped compartment was empty. I stared down at it as the train slid alongside the platform. In my head I could picture the phone plugged in and resting on a radiator in my daughter’s house – my heart sank. The carriage doors were squeaking open and I hesitated. Should I risk getting on the train without a ticket and get my phone another day? I decided against it.

Back in the station car park it began to dawn on me that I had no way of contacting anyone without my phone. My daughter would be on her way back home – a 10 minute drive from the station – but quite a long walk through the New Forest. Glancing down the street I was looking for inspiration and saw people sitting in the sunshine outside a pub with glistening pints in their hands. I hadn’t got a plan, but thought if I could find a phone maybe I’d be able to reach someone.

Hesitating at the beer garden entrance, I began to put on my face mask, was I supposed to wear one to go into the pub? A member of the bar staff saw my confusion and asked if she could help. I explained I’d lost my phone and needed to use one – she directed me back to the station where she thought there were phones on the platform. A post work group of men sitting at a nearby table, had heard my dilemma and one of them leaned towards me (in a socially distanced kind of way) and slid his mobile across the table. 

“You can use mine if it helps!”

I felt very relieved. The barmaid disappeared and the three beer drinkers, expressed sympathy about the missing phone which I explained had also contained my train tickets.

“We can’t manage without them,” one of them chipped in.

I stared at the stranger’s phone and realised this was very true. I had the use of a phone, but I didn’t know any of the numbers I wanted to call – they were all in my phone!

It seemed I‘d hit another dead end. 

“What about your husband’s number do you know that?”
I shook my head. “It’s his work phone.” I’d never taken much notice of the numbers.

“Can you google his company?”

No that wasn’t possible either. The army wasn’t good at giving out their numbers … We tried looking up my son in law via his company and sent him a message. No response.

I was on the verge of going back to the station to catch a train back to Lymington. In desperation I searched in my bag for any numbers I might have written down – nothing!

“I know my own number!” I said in exasperation. And seconds later it dawned on me, that was the solution.

I keyed in my own number and all of us listened in while the ringing continued until it went to voicemail. The friendly beer drinkers all took another sip and shook their heads. I wished I’d ordered a pint too – they were making me thirsty.

“It isn’t on silent is it?” the phone owner asked.

“I don’t think so,” I answered.

He pressed the redial and moments later a voice answered. I’d made contact at last!

“You left your phone here, Mum!” said the voice at the other end.

Some hours later I was back on the station platform with my phone heading home a little later than anticipated. 

Things hadn’t gone to plan, but it’s been good to know that ‘Good Samaritans’ still exist and even in this world of pandemics, face masks and social distancing, some kind people are prepared to risk helping a stranger and even lending them their phone. 

It’s also made me think about writing down the odd essential family phone number on a piece of paper and keeping it in my handbag – after all what use are handbags if they can’t offer help in an emergency?

I hate seagulls

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I hate seagulls. No, I really hate them. Even more so because I’ve realised they’re just like the coronavirus. You’re walking along in the sunshine enjoying life when all of a sudden you get knocked for six and seconds later you realise you’ve been robbed!

Seagulls have mugged me twice in the last year and almost in the same spot.

The first time I was tucking into a very tasty Cornish (West Country – because it was in Devon) pasty on a bench looking out to sea. Out of the blue something hit me on the head and a large chunk of pasty was being whisked into the air. Yuk! Ouch! I tried covering the rest of it over with my hand as I munched, and then another swooped in for a bite. I retreated to a shelter to finish eating, but I’d lost my appetite and the pasty didn’t taste right after being pecked at by the flying bandits. They’d spoilt the treat entirely and I also felt a little traumatised. 

Yesterday I hadn’t given the gulls a thought, but they must have recognised me. I was enjoying a double ice cream – mint choc chip and Turkish delight – odd combination but I couldn’t decide what to have. As we walked in search of a suitable bench I was relishing my first few licks, anticipating the rest, when suddenly, whack! Something hit me on the head and when I looked down the two balls of ice cream were splattered on the pavement while a seagull pecked at them. I didn’t even know they liked ice cream. They’d struck again… all that was left was a dry empty cone with a trickle of mint ice cream smeared down one side.

Coronavirus has felt a bit like that seagull attack. Much anticipated joyful moments for our family have been thrown into disarray, and special things we were looking forward to have effectively been stolen away, knocked out of our hands. The arrival of our first grandchild was a delight, but couldn’t be celebrated or enjoyed in the way we’d hoped. Our son’s wedding has had to be postponed, with all the emotional trauma, disappointment and uncertainty that involves. And the many precious family times around both these events have also been hijacked.

It’s been hard to put into words how I’ve felt these past few months, but the seagull ambush made me realise that most of us have been robbed by the coronavirus. For me it has been the loss of precious moments with family, for many thousands it will have been far worse as they mourn the death of loved ones, for others lost jobs and for some isolation and spiralling mental health issues.

Now as we try to ease out of lockdown,  it isn’t like turning back the clock. Everything has changed, even walking into a shop is not an enjoyable experience anymore. We’re awkward, anxious to do the right thing, worried about touching and moving around in smaller spaces. We know the seagulls of coronavirus are hovering above waiting to swoop, so it’s hard to relax.

Staring at the seagull pecking at my ice cream was a reminder that it’s easy to let precious things slip through your hands. I want to hold onto the moments I have with my family and treasure times together even in the midst of this uncertainty. We can’t let the seagulls win – the virus has been sucking our joy away, replacing it with fear and anxiety. 

But we need to keep eating ice creams while taking sensible precautions. Next time I visit Dartmouth I will take my umbrella – I think that should do the trick! 

I wish there were such simple solutions for coronavirus.

Standing on a rock

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Twenty-nine years ago to the day I was sitting in church in a small Cumbrian town. It was Maundy Thursday and my husband was leading the service. It was a bright spring day, just like today. I was 29-years-old and expecting our second child. Another twinge in my tummy made me shift in the wooden pew and wince. Could it be starting? I wondered. 

Some hours later we welcomed our beautiful daughter into the world in Barrow-in-Furness hospital and it wasn’t long before her brother and her grandparents arrived to seal that very special Easter weekend event.

Today I wished our grown-up daughter happy birthday via Whatsapp video. She is expecting her first child and the due date is tomorrow. I can’t believe my baby is having a baby! 

But the world our grandchild will be born into looks vastly different.

When our eldest son was born, it wasn’t the easiest birth and I was grateful for very personal care and visits from my midwife and sometimes a health visitor. Having a baby brings enormous change. We didn’t make it easy for ourselves, of course, as two weeks after his birth I drove across the country from Nottingham to Carlisle for his father’s ordination and within another couple of weeks we moved house for a new job and life in Cumbria.

But all this stress and change pales into insignificance beside what is happening today with the Coronavirus.

It’s a daunting time too for anyone to be giving birth and caring for a tiny new person.

Yesterday I heard that midwives will no longer visit new mums at home, as all home care and checks have been suspended. They really are on their own once they leave hospital. No neighbours or friends will be allowed to call by and family aren’t even allowed to visit. I am worried about how isolating this will feel.

Our daughter is a paediatrician. She should be well equipped to keep an eye on the development of her new baby, who we pray arrives safely very soon. She has a loving husband who will take care of her. But I know she will struggle with not sharing this special time with friends and family or enjoying the practical love and support of her community.

Apart from the awaited new arrival, the virus is a challenge for us as a family in many ways with special events in jeopardy and all of us facing hidden fears of what might happen next.

This morning I read an article from an Italian writer talking about what we will face in the coming weeks. Francesca Melandri wrote: “At some point, you will realise it’s tough. You will be afraid. … That boat in which you’ll be sailing in order to defeat the epidemic will not look the same to everyone nor is it actually the same for everyone: it never was.”

But there is one thing that is the same. And it was the same 29 years ago in Cumbria, when I burst into tears on arriving at the hospital – I had my own fears to conquer.

I knew then, and I know now, that these words from Psalm 46 are true:

“God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.”

When the world seems to be crumbling all we can do is remember we are standing on a rock and God is a the rock that can’t be shaken.

saving date night

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A ‘date night’ had seemed like a good way to put a bad day behind us. Last night we decided to catch a late evening film at the cinema and treat ourselves to a meal out on the way… that was the plan.

This morning I set out on a rainy mission to see if I could redeem something small from what turned out to be a less than perfect date.

We all like a bargain and some more than others. I’ve often heard myself say, “and it was in the sale!” or “and we got 20 per cent off” or even “and it was free!” Somehow these special offers make the product even more attractive to us, we feel we’re getting better value for money, or at least we’re saving while we spend.

Meerkat offers have been giving us the perfect excuse to go to the cinema more often lately with their two for one deal on tickets. There is even a two for one on meals out but finding a restaurant that takes them can be tricky. 

Last night we resigned ourselves to a simple two for one pizza, but decided to try out a new village pub on the way. ‘The Sailors Return’ was a delight, with its stone flagged floors, tables in cosy nooks and very friendly staff. The local brewed cider was also delicious. The evening had started well, despite the rain, and we promised ourselves we’d return with friends for a meal out another night.

Half an hour later, with half price cinema tickets in our hands, we headed into a Pizza Express, where a few weeks earlier I’d enjoyed the two for one deal with great success. We would just have time to eat our pizzas before the start of the film. No need to check if they’d take the discount code – it had worked fine last time! It was therefore slightly annoying when we came to pay and the waitress told us they had stopped being part of that deal just three weeks ago and the pizzas were full price. That wasn’t what we wanted to hear.

Settling into our cinema seats, I was thinking ‘Never mind, at least we’ll enjoy the film’. The recently released version of Jane Austen’s ‘Emma’ had been billed as a “hilarious feel good comedy” by one of its stars Bill Nighy. His comments on the radio had persuaded my date it would be funny and the trailer looked quite quirky also. I confess to laughing throughout the film, but apparently it wasn’t funny at all. The opening credits warned about “natural nudity” but only one of us appreciated the lingering shots of Mr Knightly akka Johnny Flynn, having stripped off his riding gear at the start of the film. It was definitely a step up from Colin Firth as Mr Darcy.

After leaving the cinema as quickly as possible, the drive home was not cheerful. The rain had soaked into our jackets and not only had we been robbed by top price pizzas, the film had turned out to be one of the dullest he’d ever seen and the seats weren’t even comfortable for sleeping! I felt the opposite, but that didn’t really help. And there was something else bothering me…

Before leaving the house that night I’d snatched up a favourite Cossack style faux fur headband without putting it on. Somewhere between getting in the car, the pub and the cinema it had disappeared. I was fairly sure I hadn’t had it going to the cinema and I was really hoping I would find it in the car in the morning. That night I didn’t mention the missing item. I feared it could prove the final screw in the coffin for date night.

This morning I drove through the wind and rain and twisting lanes to ‘The Sailor’s Return’ carpark. Climbing out I spent several minutes chasing our military car pass down the road, eventually fishing it out from a hedge. I scoured the beer garden and car park and nearby gardens, trying to be inconspicuous in a yellow waterproof. There was no sign of the sodden headband. My last hope was the pub, which looked shut. A dog was barking inside as I approached and the landlady pulled him away from the door shaking her head. It really was a longshot that anyone might have picked it up in the dark and the rain and handed it into the pub. But I moved closer and calling through the wind I asked if anyone had handed in a head band, making a circle round my head with my hand and feeling a bit silly.

“A furry one? Hang on,” she said.

A minute later she opened the door and handing it over apologised that it was still a bit damp, although she’d put it on the radiator to dry. How kind – I love that pub even more today!

All was not lost and it was a happy ending to the date night disaster for me. After all that would now save me the cost of a new headband.

Sticks and stones and broken bones

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The sound of a wailing siren growing louder was some kind of relief last Monday, as I shivered on the steps beside our hotel. An hour earlier I’d been posing for photos in the cable car and toasting a great day on the slopes with a beer and apple strudel at the top of the mountain. Now all I could think about was the pain in my back and how much it hurt to breathe.

After almost 30 years of injury-free ski holidays, it seems my luck had run out. I had managed a spectacular slip on the way to the ski lockers which, while skis and poles went flying, had somehow thrown me against a concrete wall beside the steps and it felt like my back was splitting open. When the men in red arrived from the ambulance, there was an amusing moment (if I’d been able to laugh) as they asked if I was wearing something to hold up my chest. All done with sign language. “Ah, you mean a bra? Yes I am! But I can’t take it off!” Luckily, my shocked ski-buddy was able to help them out, although undoing my bra didn’t stop the pain.

I remember a very tricky transfer onto a stretcher and being manoeuvred into an ambulance. Up above I saw two fellow hotel guests we’d shared a meal with the night before waving sadly at me from their balcony – I tried to smile back, knowing it was the end of my skiing for that week. In the ambulance I tried to answer questions about levels of pain between 1-10 and my address and date of birth, when all I could think about was how much each twist and turn and bump down the mountain roads was hurting. I knew I was breathing too fast and eventually the oxygen mask they’d fixed to my face began to help.

I’m not a fan of hospitals. I have a tendency to burst into tears when I walk into one – pathetic I know! This time it was full of people speaking Austrian, with occasional spurts of English. There were a lot of men in white coats and clip boards and worst of all my special person was sent away to the waiting room while I was wheeled off for a scan. Sometime later I was told I’d broken four ribs, plus a little damage to some bones on my spine, but that was nothing to worry about, apparently. I wasn’t going home yet.

On the ward the nurses were friendly and kind and spoke great English. Throughout the first night I was looked after by a nurse who reminded me of Villanelle from the TV series “Killing Eve”. She even had the same accent. Thankfully, she was there to help me recover and get to the bathroom, not kill me! But when she smiled and leaned over me I was a little unnerved.

The next morning the men in white coats returned bright and early and the ‘big dog’ doctor told me I could go home as soon as I could manage my own pain. I was thinking, ‘just give me loads of painkillers and I will manage it fine!’ It wasn’t quite that simple, as it seems I had to manage on limited painkillers in order to be released. I was looking forward to going back to the resort and our cosy hotel, all I needed was all the hospital paperwork and a ‘fit to fly’ certificate. That afternoon I was feeling better (mainly due to the morphine) and told them I’d like to go home please – ASAP.

A very tall bearded doctor found me in the day room, to tell me that unfortunately I couldn’t leave until the next morning and even worse, he couldn’t give me a ‘fit to fly’ certificate either. Err.. how would I get home then?Train or bus perhaps he suggested. Apparently, the injury had a slight chance of leading to a collapsed lung if I was exposed to the higher pressure in a plane – they wouldn’t want me to take that risk.

So began several days of complicated planning, discussions and phone calls to our wonderful medical insurance company. I became an inmate of room 305 – which felt a bit like room 101. I made lists of things I’d get rid of including concrete steps, boxes of tablets with very long names, low soft beds that were almost impossible to get out of and shag pile carpets that ate up earrings for supper. I watched lines of skiers snowploughing down the nursery slopes until the sun sank behind the trees and the lights of a piste basher flickered on the hillside. I looked forward to the evening meals and the banter with our new-found friends, Steve and Ann, who poured wine and ordered beers while discussing routes home and making us all laugh with their tales of past holiday misadventures.

On Saturday night we heard that British Airways had agreed to fly me home, despite Austrian medical advice. It was a relief, but also a little scary. What if the Austrian medics were right? What would happen if my lung collapsed on the flight? I reasoned that I had two, so maybe the other would be enough… it was a bit of a guess.

Staring out at the aircraft landing and taking off between the mountains, I didn’t mention my fears. I thought about sending three WhatsApp messages to each of our children – just in case. But I decided to send a photo of their father eating a frankfurter instead and tell them I’d see them all soon. As the plane taxied down the runway, a hand slid into mine. My chest felt quite tight and I could feel the pain in my back as I breathed in. Here’s hoping, I thought. Thank goodness for ‘in flight’ meals – once they were over, I began to relax. We were half an hour in and the lung seemed to be holding out.

When we landed at Gatwick I braced myself for the bumps, but was delighted and surprised by the softest landing ever. As passengers filed off the plane, the captain, in his blue peaked cap, was shaking everyone’s hand and blushing beneath his beard as they complimented him on the landing. “Did you know you had someone on board with broken ribs?” he was asked. He smiled slowly, “Of course we did and we did our best,” he said.

It was only on the taxi drive home that I realised I wasn’t the only one who was worried at the start of the flight. “I’d googled it,” he said. He’d also found out from a medical friend the night before what he should do if the lung had collapsed… something to do with thrusting a massive needle or a biro into my chest if the worst happened. “Where were you going to get that from?” I asked. We’d both seen something like that being done on ‘Doc Martin’, but I’m not sure about trying it for real. Thankfully, we didn’t have to. 

Now safely back home I am learning how to pick things up with my feet and walking and sitting like a puppet, without bending, keeping my back straight. The only thing that frightens me now is unexpected sneezes or getting a fit of the giggles, which hurts sooo much I end up crying, which also hurts. I know I’m fortunate not to have done more damage and that I will be able to ski another year, if I dare.

Who is writing your story?

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Do you believe in fate? Or maybe you prefer to look for ‘Godincidences’?

Last weekend we visited two homes where a certain Victorian architect once lived and whose novels are enough to make anyone wonder if there really is such a thing as bad luck.

As I wandered round the comfortably furnished rooms and gazed through windows onto lush lawns and dappled autumn trees, I tried to imagine why this talented and wealthy writer believed we all led such fateful lives.

Thomas Hardy was a Dorset lad and he was also an author I can’t help but admire.

‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles’ was one of the set books for my English A level and was the first in a long list of novels which I read one summer. I will never forget sobbing quietly in bed as the unfortunate heroine Tess, received yet another awful trick from the hand of fate for the umpteenth time. In my mind she was a victim, her tragic life steered down a road to destruction by a hidden force. But it wasn’t Tess who annoyed me, it was Hardy.

Some of the twists and turns of the plot left me shouting at him. As the letter slid under the mat at a crucial moment, or characters missed each other by a few hours, changing the whole course of their lives, it was hard not to feel frustration. How much bad luck can a girl have?

Last Sunday, stepping inside the little cottage where Hardy grew up, I took a step nearer to gaining an insight into what drove him to write brilliant, but largely unhappy novels. Apparently, it had a lot to do with his mother.

A National Trust guide inside the low beamed sitting room welcomed us in and offered to give us some background on the house and Thomas Hardy, if we were interested. “Yes please,” we said. There was no rush and so we settled down for what felt just like a ‘Jackanory’ session on chairs and stools around a roaring fire. What a great idea for a chilly autumn day.

The knowledgeable guide soon had us gripped. Pointing out photos of the whole family, including Hardy’s mother and father, sisters and brother, who had all lived at some points in the tiny three-bedroom thatched cottage. We found ourselves spellbound as the story of his life was unfolded, from childhood illness to moving to London and falling in love with a vicar’s daughter in Cornwall.

And here we go again – a chance meeting in a church where he was doing some work was how it all began. Sadly, this marriage didn’t fair well and his first wife turned very religious and let her cats eat off the dining table, finally becoming a recluse in the antic rooms at the end of her sad life. Hardy seems to have had a rough time with the women in his life. His mother, who from the photographs in the cottage looked positively frightening, forbid all her children to marry. Hardy was the only one brave enough to disobey her.

His second wife, Florence, who was a writer and also his secretary, might have brought more happiness into his life with her wide eyes and deep admiration for this famous author who was 40 years older. What promised to be a happier situation didn’t turn out so well, in the end. The separate bedrooms said it all – unless that was a Victorian thing. Hardy spent his last years writing streams of poetry, often looking back wistfully on his first marriage.

Wandering round Max Gate, the large home he designed and which his father and brother built on the edge of Dorchester, there was evidence of his friendships with other authors and academics and even a letter from Lawrence of Arabia lying on a dressing table. 

The guide in Hardy’s childhood cottage described him as a bit of a misfit – he didn’t quite fit in. Although he had settled in Dorset, he highly valued all his influential London friends including politicians and aristocrats, but his health had prevented him from living in London. 

Perhaps this was part of the reason why he wrote such a lot of sad stories? Or was it just that he observed that real life was tragic for many ordinary rural people at that time? 

He was wealthy, with many resources at his disposal, as well as having the admiration of the public for his top selling books. When he died his estate was valued at around £100,000 the equivalent of £7million today. Even in death there was something not quite right as his ashes were interred in Poet’s Corner at Westminster Abbey, but his heart was buried, where he had requested to be laid, with his family in Dorset.

Apparently, Hardy was very uncomfortable with his first wife’s religious fanaticism. And yet he did like churches and went along to services at his local church. Before architecture he had even been thinking of a ‘career’ in the church. If he did believe in a supernatural power, it certainly wouldn’t have been a benevolent one. 

I do believe in God and I suppose that’s the reason I don’t have much time for fate. In Hardy’s novels the characters never seem to have a choice – bad stuff just keeps happening and there’s nothing they can do. He writes as if we are all pawns in some Almighty game of chess. Perhaps that’s how he felt.

Is real life like that? And we will never know what might have been!

I don’t think so. We all have choices – sometimes we make good ones and other times they might not be so good. But we aren’t puppets dancing to a story that has already been written. We are our own authors and the next chapter is up to us.

From the Rockies to the ‘top of the Rock’

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Hooters and sirens, the smell of car exhausts mingled with hot dogs and Chinese food, blue sky glimpsed between endless towerblocks – it was a world away from mountain air and the scent of pine trees we’d been breathing in a few hours earlier.

We’d landed in the Big Apple and it took a bit of adjustment.

“Which part of England are you from?” drawled a friendly hotel receptionist.
“Dorset… in the south.”
He nodded and a slow smile slid across his face.
“Have you been there?”
“Never, but I heard it’s nice.”
I think he was just pleased to have correctly identified an English accent.

New York was steaming that afternoon. It was a humid 30 degrees and every other person was wearing trainers. My boat shoes didn’t quite fit. This was a flash trip to the city we’d planned to visit in 2012, but Hurricane Sandy had blown away our plans that October. I was looking forward to soaking up all that the city had to offer.

It was almost my first time in New York. The very first visit was just before Christmas when I was 17. I was on route to South America and had landed in a snow storm. My mother and I had used our best English to direct the taxi driver to what we thought was the right location. It wasn’t. After a second hefty taxi fee to the correct bus terminal we found we’d missed our connection and had to wait all night in a Greyhound station. With our luggage stacked around us, we whiled away the hours watching long haired characters picking through the bins and being chased off by patrolling police. It wasn’t the best introduction to America – things could only get better.

We’d been sent tips of “must see” places from friends who had recently moved back to the UK from New York. I compiled a list and tried not to look at the ticket prices. We had four days and a credit card. Our days were packed and varied but there was one constant – the walking! There was usually a slower start, to let breakfast go down, and at the end of each day we’d arrive back at our hotel with sore feet, so grateful for the air con and the enormous comfy bed.

My personal highlights were: 

  • Approaching the Statue of Liberty by boat and thinking about the mice on The Rescuers
  • Walking beside a sparkling Hudson River and trying to picture ‘Sully’ landing his plane
  • Seeing The Vessel at Hudson’s Yard for the first time which took my breath away and made me even more proud of our architect son who was part of its design team
  • Soaking up the city lights and a sparkling Empire State Building from the top of the Rockefeller Centre (Top of the Rock) at night
  • Cycling through Central Park which had a lot more hills than Hyde Park
  • Walking across the Brooklyn Bridge and humming ‘I’ll be there for you!’
  • Listening to ‘You’ve got a Friend’ in the Carol King musical on Broadway
  • Taking a ride in a yellow cab driven by a taxi driver called Jean, who asked us to pray for him and his family

I wouldn’t want to move to New York mainly because:

  • The traffic – there’s too much
  • The noise – also too much
  • Too many tall buildings
  • The pound – you don’t get much dollar for it at the moment!

But I love the fact that… Manhatten is surrounded by water and you can glimpse the blue of the Hudson river at the end of lots of streets. I also like the wide pavements and occasional green oasis like Bryant Park punctuating the high rise buildings… the fact that you can wear whatever you like and no-one will care. Everyone is relaxed and people don’t seem to walk as fast as they do in London… but maybe this was because it was July 4th weekend.

In the middle of our stay we visited Ground Zero and the 9/11 memorial museum. I didn’t include it as a highlight because it wasn’t a comfortable experience. However, the architecture and the tone of the whole area respects the thousands who were killed and the many hundreds who sacrificed their lives to try and save others. I found myself staring into one of the two black pools where water flows into a dark central opening and where the names of those who died are engraved around the edge. It’s a solemn place and the museum itself takes visitors on a journey through the unfolding story of 9/11, almost minute by minute. An interactive graffiti wall allows visitors to add their doodles, comments and reflections. While I watched someone who stated they were from the Muslim faith wrote a poignant message which mingled with one by someone whose father worked in the World Trade Centre and was among those who had come home that day. I left hoping and praying nothing on that scale ever needs to be built again in response to a terror attack.

New York is still a bit crazy, but full of surprises and definitely worth visiting again. In any case, it was so much better than a night spent in a Greyhound station;)!

5 bears in 4 days

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Canadian bears are a bit like buses. You wait for hours with none, then four come along all at once.

It was our seventh day in Canada and I’d begun to wonder if the bears were just a tourism ploy to lure us in with false hopes. We’d seen plenty of wonderful sights including thunderous water falls showering us in spray from impossible heights, deep rocky canyons where ice blue water gushed through narrow channels, turquoise lakes glistening in the sunlight and many more spectacular sights from hiking trails with panoramic views. I’d given myself the shakes standing too near the edge of a rocky outcrop on the Bee Hive above Lake Louise. We’d crossed snow covered paths on steep shale slopes and eaten numerous bananas to get us the last few miles back on some long hikes up and down mountains and beside crystal lakes which changed colours under the passing clouds. 

Now we were heading north to Jasper and the number of times I was banging my head in the camper van were decreasing. We stopped for lunch where the roaring Athabasca river meets Kicking Horse river, which reminded me of a scene from a cowboy film where horses cross just before an ambush. It was just after this that we spotted the bear. The sharp eyed driver saw something black moving up ahead and as we drew up we could see the bear bumbling along happily in the greenery beside the road apparently munching anything in sight. We were the only vehicle there, so we had him to ourselves. Disobeying the well laid down rules someone jumped out camera in hand and started snapping away. The bear, and it was a small very cute looking black bear with a brown nose and lovely eyes, continued his foraging and turned helpfully to gaze towards the camera at one point. From the safety of the van, I was fretting about the mother being in the area, as he was clearly quite young. By now we had caused a bit of a jam, so we moved up to a pull in. As the bear began crossing the road behind us, the Parks Canada patrol pulled up with words of warning to the driver/photographer who was asked politely to get back in the vehicle. This little reprimand couldn’t destroy our joy at seeing the bear so close to us and capturing our best photos so far.

Parks Canada staff patrol the park vigilantly in white trucks with a green stripe. They are a bit like school prefects. You know you’re doing something you shouldn’t… Ah, look behind, there is a Parks Canada truck just on cue! It happened each time we saw a bear – well almost. Anytime we were contemplating a slight deviation from the rules, one would appear! How did they know? It’s a mystery.

Our next bear sighting was the following day as we drove into our campsite, where we were warned a bear had been ‘hanging out’ an hour earlier, so be careful. We drove slowly round and suddenly spotted a large black bear munching grass by a picnic table in an empty camp spot. He stared straight at us and it was probably his size and proximity that made us stay in the van at first – he was only a few feet away. Just as he began moving away and we thought about getting out, yes, you guessed, the Parks Canada truck appeared behind us and started hooting at the bear to encourage it to go up the hill away from the campsite. The photos weren’t quite what we’d hoped for.

The next day en route south two more bears were spotted along the roadside, munching. Another large black bear and at last a young ginger coloured grizzly. We felt quite happy that we’d enjoyed a few sightings and captured some snaps to prove it. The following day we saw another black bear with his back to us, sitting on a grassy bank in the sunshine. Unfortunately, the Parks Canada patrol put a stop to photos that afternoon and we all left the bear to enjoy his picnic in peace.

Seeing the bears had made me a little more cautious about hiking in ‘beary’ type habitat. But we’d been in Canada well over a week and reckoned a path along the side of the lake was somewhere we wouldn’t need bear spray. We were wrong. Half an hour in the path veered into the woods where a large sign said hikers should travel in groups of four or more and carry bear spray as this was a place where grizzly bears lived and ate their lunch. We both hesitated and looked up at the track ahead. It was a fair way to go back for the bear spray… Luckily for us another hiker appeared and we asked if he would be happy for us to tag along, explaining about the lack of bear spray. Jeff was a jolly Canadian ‘postie’ (postal worker) out for a day hike.

“Sure, I’ll hike with you. I don’t have bear spray, but I have dog spray!”

I was thinking flea spray and wondering if it would do the trick. But he fished an aerosol can out of his pocket. Apparently, it was of a similar kind of ‘defensive weapon’ and should do the job in an emergency.

“I tested it in a paper bag before I left and I couldn’t stop sneezing, so I know it works.” He assured us.

I had a picture of a bear blowing his nose into an embroidered hankie and shaking his head, saying, “You made me sneeze… why did you make me sneeze?”

Jeff filled us in on his bear encounters in Lake Louise when he was working on the gondola lift during a ski season. He hadn’t seen any today, just some long horned sheep on the road coming in. On the way back, pepper spray untouched, we spotted some long horned sheep who crossed the trail ahead of us. There were several sweet looking lambs and what looked like a large ram who hovered on a rock above the path. Cameras were clicking and this obviously made the ram nervous. Seconds later he was trotting towards us very purposefully with his head down. I skipped further up the path followed by my fellow hiker, stowing his camera and saying, “I thought he was coming for me.” Meanwhile, Jeff had scrambled to take cover behind a large tree, pepper spray to hand. As he caught up and we were all striding away down the track, with a steep drop bedside us, the ram continued to follow us. Every few metres he would stop and turn his back on us, as if to say, “Run and hide – I’m coming to get you!” Jeff showed us the red scrapes from the tree on his arm and said the story of a ‘killer sheep’ on the Minnewanker (yes, it is spelt like that!) Lake trail would be told around the campfire that night, with some embellishments.

Tonight will be our last in the Rockies as we head back to civilisation tomorrow. It has been a blast – living in the outdoors and enjoying all kinds of weather and sights. Most wonderful has been the wild life, especially the fury kind. I wish I could smuggle a little black bear home with me – but I know they’re for the wild, not really for cuddling. 

Photo credits: Simon Farmer

Bear essentials in Canada

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“Now this is bear country!”

I’ve become very familiar with this phrase over the past few days. On the one hand it fills me with excitement, especially when we’re travelling in the safety of a vehicle, but in different circumstances it makes my heart race and my eyes scan left and right of the track for any movement. Inevitably I move closer to my hiking companion, who has already told me to “keep up” because I might have to reach for the bear spray!

We arrived in Canada four days ago and after kind friends welcomed us at the airport, we took possession of a camper van. This is a first for us Farmers. We nearly didn’t make it after our bargain flight back was cancelled and then our flight out delayed by 24 hours, but finally we’re here, all set to take on the Canadian Rockies and head into ‘bear country’.

We are camper van virgins so there were things to learn. For a start they’re called RVs here and there’s quite a bit to take in. A tour of the van in light drizzle revealed new lingo, such as ‘grey’ and ‘black’ water, all kinds of shelves and doors containing cupboards and a toilet, plus endless places where even someone my size could bang their head at least 3 times a day – ouch!

After a bemused food shopping trip and a tussle with a faulty air tyre machine, we set off. Only to be assaulted by cupboards flying open and shedding food all over the van as we rounded the first corner out of the carpark! Remember to slot in the bolts – we’re trying!

Bears are something you are constantly aware of in the Rockies. The bins for a start are all bear-proofed to stop them pilfering and there are signs and photos of them everywhere. And I really want to see one… but I’m a tiny bit scared if it happens when we’re out walking.

The first day the sun was trying to break through and we decided to take a stroll up Sulphur Mountain in Banff. I say stroll – it wasn’t. Our hiking pace that started off enthusiastically soon ground to a sensible pace, before moving to a crawl. Older couples with tanned skin and floppy hats strode past and we rested frequently on stone ledges – to let others pass of course!

I wondered about seeing a bear, but all we spotted was a chipmunk (or Canadian Pika). When we reached the top of the cable car we were in desperate need of seats and coffee, but the panoramic views of snowcapped mountains, blankets of forest and winding ribbons of a duck egg blue river made it all worth it.

Having caught our breath we headed down the other side of the mountain and found ourselves the only people on the trail. Going down was a bit of a relief – I honestly don’t think I could have climbed another step at that point. Half an hour down the winding track my fellow hiker announced, 

“Now this is bear country.” And a then few minutes later. 

“Keep your eyes open for movement, if we see one you might have to reach for the bear spray.”

The bear spray looks a bit like a small fire extinguisher and as far as I’m aware doesn’t harm them. It’s pepper so they can’t see to come and gobble you up! Of course they don’t eat people… do they?

“What? what did you see…?”

“Ssh – over there!” It was one of those heart stopping moments.

“It was something orange… not a bear… I just saw it move up ahead.”

Ok so not a bear – no reason to panic yet! Seconds later I also spotted something ginger/looking with a tail slide off a rock ahead. I kept glancing back. There was no one in sight, but I had that feeling I was being watched and maybe followed. Bear eyes glared out from every fallen tree and odd shaped bush.

Suddenly we saw a little face peering at us from behind a rock. It blinked. It had Teddy bear ears and a glistening black nose.

“What is it?”

It was definitely not a bear… it let us move in a take few snaps. It turned out to be a Hoary Marmot- quite large, almost the size of big badger or maybe a tiny bear. But it wasn’t a bear.

The bear watch continued for the next couple of hours and both of us paused frequently to scan the open terrain for signs of movement or listen for munching. In the end the only other wild life we saw was a group of very elegant elk – who gave us the time of day and posed for a photo before resuming their lunch.

It had been a ‘bearless’ day – but I’d loved every minute of it.

Yesterday I spotted a mountain goat on the side of a road, we both said hello to a red squirrel and I stared into the bulbous brown eyes of a white tailed deer a few feet away from me along the banks of a canyon.

But still no bears. Let’s hope they make an appearance before the end of the trip and I survive to tell the tale!


All at sea

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Have you ever been in one of those crisis moments when you say to yourself, we’ll look back on this tomorrow and think, ‘what a great adventure that was…’?

That was 24 hours ago…*

“I’ll just do it then, shall I?” It was one of those questions I didn’t need to ask, because there weren’t any other options left.
“Boom!”
Another huge waved crashed across the bows of the boat which were immediately rising to the crest of a second wave. I had butterflies in my stomach as I turned to inch my way along the deck, the lines of my safety harness scraping along the tape secured to the boat.
‘Be brave’ was the only thing I could think.
Half way along the deck I sat down gripping the metal stays with one hand as I unfastened and refastened the clip to the next set of tapes. My body was tense and my fingers trembled, mainly with cold. Up ahead at the bows the next wave was pounding down showering me with spray and I kept low edging my way towards the ‘pointy end’…

It had already been quite a day at sea. We’d set off, just the two of us, at 6am to catch the tidal stream. Daybreak sails are some of my favourite. As the sky begins to lighten and sun’s rays are soft and golden, full of unspoken promises of what lies ahead. The wind had been a bit stronger than forecast and we’d made good progress hoping to push through to Dartmouth – our final destination. But after a change in wind direction and with the tide turned against us, we decided to divert to Salcombe till later in the afternoon when the tides would be in our favour.

Always expect the unexpected in sailing. As we attempted to furl the genoa (pull in the sail at the front which wraps around a wire) the rope snapped. It wasn’t an easy fix, so sadly, we found ourselves returning to where we’d come from – more than three hours sail west. Four hours later, furling line temporarily fixed with a bit of help, we headed back to sea. We’d made reasonable time and decided to try and make Dartmouth that evening. The voyage took us through the notorious Start Point where the sea can be quite rough. Neither of us had sailed there before. We’d got into big waves about an hour earlier, but now they were getting higher and there were white horse breaking all around us.

We were more than two or three miles off shore, as we began to round the light house, and watched the blue curve of Start Bay emerge in the distance. 

“I don’t think we can make it…we’re going to have to turn back.”
It was one of those moments. You could call it mutiny.
Waves were breaking across the front of the boat. The sun would be setting in an hour. The wind was coming from where we needed to go. We’d been sailing pretty much non stop for more than 12 hours. But there was one other option… to me this was better than going back again.

This involved one of us going to the front of the pitching boat to fix the tangled line and help wind in the sail by hand. Meanwhile, the other steered the boat through the waves while juggling two other ropes to enable the awkward sail to be safely pulled in. We’d planned to be in calmer waters for this procedure, but we couldn’t risk the furling line breaking again.

So, there I was, kneeling at the front of the boat on the biggest and scariest white water roller coaster ride ever. In between each fresh wave, which broke across me, I attempted to untangle the rope, while the stressed skipper shouted instructions above the waves. Apart from being scared of slipping in, the biggest problem was my bobble hat which insisted on sliding down over my eyes. I thought the rope was untangled and then saw it wasn’t. As I gripped the metal stanchion to steady myself while the boat slammed down onto yet another wave, I did think, ‘Hopefully, we’ll be laughing about all this tomorrow.’

The best thing about moments like that may not be the moments themselves, but it’s the contrast of looking back and being glad you got through it.

An hour or so later as our little boat nudged its way between the rocks and the castle guarding the entrance to Dartmouth, the sun was beginning to sink behind the hills. A mooring buoy was beckoning and the boom of a canon up above at the Naval College signalled that the day was over. 

We both sighed and smiled. What a day it had been! Some 88 nautical miles travelled since first light. Now the dangers were past, we were in calm waters and a safe harbour for the night. There is no better feeling. And it’s one of the many reasons why I love sailing.

*at the time of writing