News from Nowhere

The good news: we are at the Plough Inn in Hathersage, have met and drunk tea with the family party that brought us here, and will later reconvene for dinner. It has been a frustrating couple of days, and I am very glad to be here, and ready to enjoy myself. Naturally, the first way I enjoy myself is to complain.

I have wasted a lot of time trying to be sensible and efficient. It is possible that the things I wasted time trying to do will work out, and I will end up being glad I did them, but we are not yet at that point, and I have steam to let off.

( Kvetching )

On the other hand, when we were almost here, I demanded at stop at an interesting-looking circular building which turned out to be The Round Building, David Mellor's cutlery works: there's a David Mellor-related design museum, with a lot of cutlery (some of which I could certainly covet) and outside, an arrangement of street furniture (a bench, a bus shelter, a postbox, some bollards) and why not? The shop had some lovely, expensive, ceramics, but what I bought was a lemon zester (silly birthday present and a problem if not solved at least reduced). So that was good.

Time for a chapter or so of my book before dinner.

At the dentist's this morning (just a checkup, thanks, and all is well) I noticed for the first time a picture behind the reception desk. It's a slightly generic painting of a stone bridge over a river, with the title in bold capitals: Victoria Bridge. It looks like a pub sign, and come to think of it - yes, says the dentist, we just brought it inside when we converted the pub (which I remember well from when we used to live up that way).

Things change, but the past is not effaced.

For the benefit of all those who told me, in this journal and elsewhere, that I was worrying unnecessarily about renewing my passport, and that all would be well: you were quite right. My new passport arrived this morning (which is to say, not in the post, and not by any identifiable courrier - is it possible that local passports are simply delivered by hand?), which also goes to show that I was right not to pay extra for the special accelerated service. I had forgotten that it would be one of the new illustrated ones - oh, look, there's the Angel of the North!

Like most people of my age, I have a number of low-level aches and pains which come and go, and which mostly I either ignore or suppress with painkillers. Sometimes if I'm tired, or if I've been sitting for too long, my back aches. So? Everyone over 40 gets backache. This is just context, not a plea for sympathy.

A recentish addition to my catalogue has been a pain in the sole of my left foot. It felt as if I'd trodden on a small stone, except that I hadn't, and it could be persistent. It's never been painful enough to be a problem, and it's always gone away as mysteriously as it appeared. Until Monday, when suddenly it was very painful indeed, can't put foot to floor painful, hobbling around the house painful, using a walking stick painful. "If it's no better tomorrow," said durham_rambler, "we'll make an appointment to see the doctor." And I agreed, because I was confident it would be better tomorrow. Only it wasn't, it was worse, and we rang the doctor and - to our surprise - got an appointment for that afternoon. It was one of the shortest sessions I've ever had with a doctor: he prodded my foot, observed that it hurt, prodded to either side of the same point and established that this hurt too, but not as much, and told me I had plantar fasciitis, and that it would get better, but not until it was good and ready.

In fact, as with all the best magic systems, naming the monster - better still naming it in Latin, because surely all that Latin name means is 'inflammation of something in the sole of the foot', which I knew - went a long way to defeating it. He also gave me the useful information that the pain is always worse after inactivity and first thing in the morning, so that's not the time to judge.

On Wednesday I was still hobbling, and wasn't ready to walk to the Elm Tree and back, but was fine for quizzing, with a lift there and back - just as well, because the quiz included a round about puffins, and I'd have been cross to miss it.

And on Thursday we spent a day on Hadrian's Wall, with J and J, who were holidaying (that should probably be 'short-breaking', but I don't like it as a verb) in Hexham precisely so that J could fulfil an ambition to see the Wall. Warned that I was not as mobile as I might be, he had spent the previous day using the shuttle bus (route number AD 122) to explore Housesteads (and that very spectacular stretch of wall over Cuddy's Crags) and Vindolanda. So we took them to the Mithraic temple at Brocolitia, lunch at the Twice Brewed (which is now a bright smart pub with blonde wood furniture and tartan carpets: I remember it as very dark, and full of peaty smoke), to the quarry at Cawfields and up to Milecastle 42. I was quite surprised to manage this last, and declared that I wasn't doing any more scrambling - besides, the afternoon was passing, and if we were going to visit a fort, we should do so now.

( Pictures of Chesters fort and museum )

We drove home in the dark, which felt strange - and then puzzling: why did it feel so strange? It couldn't be as long as that, surely, since we were out in the evening? Then realising that we weren't late, it was the darkness that was early. Summer must be over.

From time to time I have backache; of course I do, I'm a grown-up, who doesn't? By now I know how to handle it: take painkillers, keep moving, wait for it to go away. I have no idea why it struck this last few days...

Three nights ago, I had twinges: lying in bed, a position that ought to be comfortable was - not. But I could find a comfortable position and go back to sleep. Two nights ago, no position wwas really comfortable and some were seriously painful - within definitions of serious pain that are, I know, pretty trivial really. I slept badly, was still stiff when I woke up, spent yesterday treating myself gently: this wasn't all bad. I started the day with a hot bath (because at last we have fixed the bath tap, and it delivers hot water at a reasonable speed). I opted out of the street party (part backache, part general misanthropy), and pottered around at home, making some progress with small tasks. Had an early night, slept carefully. Considered whether we should defer swimming until tomorrow, and decided not to (because then we'd hace to swim on Thursday after a late night Wednesday) - but I'm not sure this was the right decision: I was still short on sleep, and although the back was much better, the cold water didn't help (I know this because the hot shower after was so wonderful). Now, within three days of the first manifestations, I'm almost back to normal and wondering, what was that about?

At the cinema this evening, I was maybe feeling more need to stretch than usual, but nothing worse. The film was Love and Friendship: should that be 'Freindship'? The Guardian gave it a rave review, including an attempt to justify giving the title of one book to an adaptation of another. I liked the use of captions to introduce the characters, and I was entirely entertained and amused. It's probably unreasonable to feel that this leaves something lacking.

Just leaving a wet and rainy Northallerton, and I have a large tumbler of sauvignon blanc ("they don't teach them about portion control," says durham_rambler, and how right he is).

Anything we have left undone is going to have to stay undone - no, wait, I wish it were that simple. If there is anything the builders need us to have done which we have not done, they will either have to do without or do themselves. I wish I found this reassuring. Boss builder saw us off with a cheery "Don't worry about anything!" surely among the most alarming words in the English language, second only to "We are pleased to announce an upgrade!"

But we are on our way, and not sorry to be leaving building and decorating behind us for a bit. We have a week in London, with a curious double focus: it just so happens that GirlBear's birthday coincides with the anniversary of the Battle of Jutland. It always does, of course, but this year we will be celebrating a significant birthday and commemorating the centenary of the battle. Actually, the main activity around the Battle of Jutland will be taking place in Orkney, and I can't claim that I wasn't tempted, but it wasn't really possible, because, on the one hand, birthday! and on the other hand this is what we will be doing tomorrow.

There is a project to install a paving stone at or near the home of everybody who won a VC in World War One, and one of these is Jack Cornwell, who was durham_rambler's grandfather's cousin. Wikipedia version here and Charles Causley's version of the story on Google Books. It's clear that the ceremony is going to be in patriotic mode, and any reflection of the 'Who puts a 16 year old boy in the line of fire?' will be kept strictly to ourselves.

We spent the afternoon at Sunderland Eye Infirmary, mostly waiting ("Haven't we waited long enough? / Haven't we waited beautifully?" asked Julia Darling).

Because the appointment had been initiated by my optician and confirmed online, I wasn't sure whether I was waiting to be assessed for laser treatment to clear the cloudy membrane which is blurring the vision in my left eye, or for the treatment itself. On the one hand, what was there to assess? On the other, surely they wouldn't go ahead without having seen for themselves? And no, of course, they wouldn't. The doctor asked me all the usual questions, and shone bright lights in my eyes (this is the bit I really hate) and then told me precisely what the optician had told me two months ago.

So now I am on the waiting list.

We drove home from Sunderland in the twilight. Quarter past four and not dark yet doesn't seem much to be grateful for, but the mornings are still dark, and getting colder, so it's good to be reminded that the days are getting longer. The sky was streaked with pink clouds, until we descended into a bowl of mist and darkness at Houghton-le-Spring.

Last night we took ourselves and our coughs to the Sage to hear Aly Bain, Ale Möller and Bruce Molsky: a Shetland fiddler, a Swedish multi-instrumentalist and an American old-timey musician ("from a little village south of New York - it's called the Bronx"). Three fantastic musicians, and a rich mix of traditions. Sometimes it sounds like this:



The video (of a show at Lerwick's Mareel) seems to be using a fixed camera; last night Aly Bain was wearing bright white trainers which shone in the spotlight, as if they were dancing of their own volition while he listened to the other two playing. But you can tell from the video that they are really enjoying playing together, and responding to each other's input. Which is why, for example, Bruce Molsky, very apologetically ("it's just a pop song - something I'd been singing in soundchecks - but Ale said I should sing it..."), sang Abraham, Martin and John, and why they paired it with a tune from Fetlar, because it seemed to be a good fit.

So, anyway, the music was great, and I wasn't. I felt less guilty when I realised, from the amount of coughing all round the audience, that I wasn't the only person there who had decided that they weren't going to miss this show, cough or no cough. But it wasn't pleasant, and I did seem to be coughing constantly (more than I am tonight, for example, though tonight is still not good). As we left the hall, durham_rambler suggested that the drying effect of the air conditioning had been adding to the problem, and that's quite plausible, both on the face of it and because of how it accounts for symptoms of which I'll spare you the description. And although I felt a bit better as soon as we were out of the building, I had a pretty rough night.

Which is why durham_rambler phoned S. and invited her to accomkpany him to tonight's Ewan MacColl tribute concert in my place. I had been looking forward to it, and I'm naturally disappointed, but right now I'm just glad I can cough if I need to, and take some cough linctus, and go to bed when I'm ready -

- which would be now, actually.

On Friday we drove to Derbyshire for the funeral of our old friend Richard.

The forecast was for snow, and we were heading for the uplands, so we were a little apprehensive, but the journey went very smoothly. It was a good funeral, as funerals go. The church in Tideswell - "the Cathedral of the Peak" - was Richard's church: he rang its bells and played its organ, and if he sometimes disagreed with its teachings he was nonetheless a member of its congregation, and the people there knew him. This always helps.

( Remembering Richard )

We had arrived in damp grey weather, and cutting cold, but during the service the sun came and went beyond the windows. The final piece of music was completely unknown to me, by Louis Vierne, possibly this one, but I'm going to have to update my Flash player before it'll let me watch, and it reminded me so strongly of Richard that I was smiling as I emerged from the church into brilliant sunshine and a fine blanket of snow covering the churchyard.

One final ceremony, the committal in Eyam Churchyard, where Richard's grave is next to that of his parents. We stood between the church and the hills that rise immediately beyond, as the handbell ringers played one last piece, chiming so sweetly that it took a moment to realise they were not playing a tune but ringing changes, and as the cold seeped in and the flurries of snow began to fall, I thought that this was one last authentic Richard moment.

ETA: David's obituary of Richard in the online Guardian.