Happy Valley? Happy Valley? Happy Valley my ****

Hello – Happy Bank Holiday Weekend.

It’s a new school term and as usual I have started it full of vim and vigour, so I actually did walk every morning this week before school. This has prompted me to share my ‘adventures’ during a walking course last year.

You see, the thing is, I’m not naturally a ‘joiner’ and was often shoved into rooms with other little girls by Mother accompanied by the hissed instructions to ‘be nice, make friends, smile’. Many years later I was to make the same mistake with MC. I decided she wanted to learn ballet (she’s currently training to be a weapons engineer)

Having purchased enough ‘balletania’ to rival Saddlers Wells MC was ‘shoved into a room of little girls and told to make friends’. This is where she and I differ. At the end of whatever torture I was forced to endure (party, Irish dancing class, elocution festival) I would emerge, give Mother a watery smile and say I had a lovely time. MC marched purposefully from the room and calmly announced that she wasn’t going back. In answer to my rather strangled ‘Why?’ (I was thinking of the many many pounds spend on tights, and bags, and skirts……) ‘Because there is no-one there who I want to hold hands with’ – and that was that.

Paradoxically, I’m wild fond of a ‘club and society’ – I was in loads of them at school. I even like their notice boards, they are often found in the older parts of schools with peeling gold lettering – all very non threatening. I was in the Chess Club, the Public Speaking Society (I know – but you aren’t really you when you are public speaking), the Recorder group, the Choir…… What these all have in common is a shared interest which the members can talk about, even better, in the Chess club it was preferable not to talk at all. I’m also very fond of a course – especially if there’s a certificate (serial overachiever). Last year it was the Ottoman Empire, next week I start Ancient Greek.

All this brought me to the point last year when a colleague asked would I be interested in taking a hillwalking leadership course.

This is not as strange as it sounds. I have been involved in the Duke of Edinburgh Award since it began in our school. I even did an abseil from the dome of the local arena to fundraise while I was pregnant with YC. I may not have mentioned this on the risk assessment. I also find walking wonderful therapy when I’m feeling black doggish.

What could possibly go wrong? The fact that I was 13 years olderthan the last time I did a walking qualification, my bod was a playground rather than a temple (Rustler burgers and Pino Grigio rather than anything more risqué ) and I had spent the previous three years eating sausage rolls genuinely didn’t strike me as an issue.

One Friday evening after a long week at work I headed to a Fieldwork Centre in the heart of the Mourne Mountains. I was armed with everything on the kit list (and my knitting). On arrival we were herded into a classroom and required to perform an icebreaker (I should have left at that point) We filled in a slew of forms, most of which could be translated as ‘if you die, it wasn’t our fault’. There was also a medical disclosure form which I completed without much thought.

There were two leaders, one was a large avuncular chap, bordering on geggy – the other was a small, wiry angry little creature (actually quite sexy). |He gave off an ex-special forces vibe and as a result was an Angry Former Soldier (AFS)

The compass, still attached to my pocket as a reminder of my limitations

AFS was teaching navigation. I’ve been a Geography teacher for over twenty years, so do actually know about this stuff. But this guy was something else. He would leap on a bench (demonstrating his pleasing lower body strength [just saying]) point at you and yell, ‘ you are walking for 10k, climbing a total of 50m in windy conditions – how long will it take??????’ ‘I don’t bloody know!!!!!!! – you’re shouting’ He also had something of an obsession about pointing. For 44 years I believed that the index finger of either of my hands was sufficiently pointy – apparently not. He suggested that a ‘thick fingered point’ could lead to a navigation inaccuracy and certain death. I now point at maps, with almost evangelical enthusiasm using the corner or my compass, which is secured to the pocket of my coat (do you know how many people die because their compass falls out of their pocket? – me neither).

We eventually got to bed with a detailed list of instructions – reveille was to be very early. I arrived at the rendezvous point the next morning ready to head to the hills. AFS checked our rucksacks and scrutinised our packing. After this ritual humiliation was complete he did a quick ‘have all the asthmatics got their inhaler’ check, then in a confidential fashion summoned me from the room.

‘I need to talk to you about your medical form’ ‘Oh?’ ‘ There’s one of the drugs we need to explore (explore!!). At the time I was taking anti depressants (and still am). At that point, I was also taking a drug for extreme anxiety (it happened to be an anti-psychotic – but I don’t suffer from psychosis). Fair play AFS, its always better to check. However, even after I had calmly explained my illness and the need for each of the drugs he required more convincing, even questioning if it would be suitable for me to be undertaking this type of course. I was getting to the point of offering to ring my GP for a ‘sanity’ reference. As you can imagine this conversation and the subsequent ‘wary looks’ from the other participants did wonders for my self esteem and wellbeing.

Eventually I was permitted to board the mini bus and driven to a remote car park. It was grim – we walked for hours in the pissing rain. AFS clearly did not subscribe to the mantra that the group moves at the pace of the slowest member (me). Each time I reached a meeting point wheezing like a bulldog, he would immediately head off again at a brisk pace. Bastard! Allegedly we reached the top of Carn Mountain. I couldn’t tell you I was too busy crying with exhaustion and frustration and trying not to die.

Just at the point where I was considering using my credit card to order a helicopter AFS announced we were on our way back. He explained there were two options. A – was shorter but steeper (how could we be on the way back and still going up hill??) B – though slightly longer was flatter and took us through Happy Valley. There are some advantages in spending your days wrangling teenage boys – at the utterance of the word ‘flat’ I took charge of the map and headed purposefully towards Happy Valley – no one else got a say.

If your image of Happy Valley is like mine, sun baked Kenyan Plains, totally unacceptable racism and a young Charles Dance in an evening frock – this Happy Valley is not like that. It was wet, marshy, and long. The only mischief I was indulging in was enduring the chafing caused by my rain and sweat soaked pants – not fun!

After what felt like an interminable walk we reached a fence. In my mind it has been built up like the WALL in Game of Thrones (Charles Dance is rather yummy in that too – even though he must be about 105). In reality (because I have been back since) it is a rather small, innocent, really quite an inoffensive fence. The problem was I couldn’t organise my legs to climb over it. I simply stood bewildered trying to work out what configuration of limbs could get me over. When this became evident to the group – all of whom had simply hopped over – they took pity on me.

If you have ever seen the film ‘The Mission’, imagine that bit near the beginning where the indigenous tribe hoof the Jesuit over the waterfall tied to a cross – just before Jeremy Irons arrives. I simply lay back Christlike and they crowd surfed me over the fence. Scundering.

After a very disturbed night’s sleep we got back into the minibus. We were due to go to the Eastern Mournes this time – someone had observed the previous day that they were flatter. In my dark night of the soul I had translated this to flat (because obviously a mountain leader course would take place on the flat, duhhhhhh). We were divided into two group. I found myself, not unexpectedly, in the group that would be given the fatter pencils and ‘filling in the blanks’ books if we had been at school. We gathered round, led today by Geggy Uncle, and consulted our maps. Even a person with the most rudimentary understanding of cartography could see this route was not flat.

I was done. There was no way I could complete this walk, I had neither the physical nor mental capacity.

I approached Geggy Uncle and explained this. He laughed – he actually laughed. He may have also made some ‘take a chill pill’ type remark. I restated my point – while still laughing he said ‘ we can get you off the hill in 15 minutes’

Through clenched teeth and tears I suggested we save 15 minutes and get me off the mountain now. After a brief standoff I decided to play them at their own game. If they were so concerned about my mental health medication – lets lean into that. I adopted my best ‘Here’s Johnny’ pose and growled that I needed to leave – a minibus was hastily fetched. I am not at all proud of this action. I spend my life campaigning for better understanding of mental health issues and the right of depressed people to recover and not be judged. But on that particular day I really couldn’t see another way to get off that fecking hill. You will note from the photo above that the Field Centre is all boarded up – shortly after my ignominious departure, it closed. Probably better if I don’t comment on that.

Even after this horrible experience I still go walking, in fact I’m heading p the hill with JY as soon as I finish this blog. But I know where my skills lie, and spending time winding yarn for a shawl with a mesmerised dog is much more my cup of tea. I think I’ll focus on stuff like that.

Next week I’m trying something completely different……ohhhhhhh

And then there were sausage rolls…..

It’s been a lovely week – spring has definitely sprung! During the week MC passed an interview which takes her a big step closer to his chosen career and I was away on a fieldtrip. It was great, I got to spend two days fannying about in the Mournes measuring ‘stuff’ in rivers and the sea. It was made even better by the fact that the students we had with us were fabulous.

My romantic history was summarised very succinctly a few years ago by EC, ‘ Face it Mummy, first there was Conall (first boyfriend age 17 -20), then there was Daddy (age 20 -39) and then there were sausage rolls (age 39 to present)’

I had thought by now that I would have been married to Dick Strawbridge or Levison Wood ( I definitely have a type). However, in the interim Dick got married putting him out of contention. The last I heard (i.e. Googled) the Lovely Lev is still on the market – so if anyone has his number, do pass on my details. I think we would be perfect for each other.

Given that my social life revolves around knitting, Mass and solitary walks with Judgmental Yorkie chances for romance are thin on the ground.

JY looking wistful on the Holywood coastal path yesterday.

In addition my limited efforts in flirting in person were not hugely successful either. I did meet a lovely author one night at an event with Mother (see, out with my Mother – the glamour!) who I fancied the knickers off. However too much gin nervous gin drinking led me to discussing ‘times past’ and that put paid to that. I did order his books off Amazon and mooned over his tiny picture like I used to with ‘The Edge’ in the Jackie in the 1980’s – but eventually I wised up.

Having bored all my friends with my lamenting and keening I accepted their pleading to ‘get online’. Several had them had tried this and had a great combination of horror stories and happy endings. The one common thread was that within seconds of logging on I would be ‘inundated’ with smiles / winks and offers.

I did my research, checked my bank balance (true love doesn’t come cheap) and elected to definitely NOT pick anything which would involve a swipe!

The next stage of this epic was filling in the questionnaire. Holy God, getting my degree was less stressful.

I decided honesty was the best policy. As a result I launched myself into cyberspace as:

a) ‘Malcom Tucker meets Jean Brodie’

b) Radio 4 fan

c) Witty & Intelligent

d) Requires well read man who understands nuance and looks good in Gortex.

Now how hard should that have been? I also added hillwalking – everybody says hillwalking but in my case it is actually true. Mind you, given the number of people who write it, the hills should be littered with eligible men. The two days I spent in the Mournes this week should have been like shooting desirable, attractive fish in a barrel. Alas this was not the case and there was a definite scarcity of opportunities.


I added my picture and sat back and waited for the offers to roll in, and waited and waited and waited…..

Cue stock pictures of tumbleweed, calendar pages ripping off and swirling newspapers with appropriate seasonal references.

It seems that Radio 4 listeners who enjoy hillwalking, fibre arts and intellectual snobbery are not as readily available as the saucy tales of my friends would have suggested.

However, one day in late summer a ‘smile’ landed in my in box and my American adventure began……

This is me .….

Hello,

A couple of weeks ago on the eve of my 46th birthday (that sounds as if someone called Bronte should be writing it – although I can’t promise the same level of literary quality here) I was reflecting on the year which had passed. All in all it was pretty crap – two house burglaries (same housed robbed twice, I don’t have two houses), car accident, stresses at work, and the Stroke, Horse and Hot Water Bottle of the title (more later). In order to break out of this Eyeore inspired reverie I decided to write a blog focussing on things and people which make me smile. Nothing more complicated than that.

I live and work in Belfast and share a shambolic semi with my three children. There was a husband but I disposed of him some years ago, don’t panic, I didn’t kill him. He has, and I quote, ‘put all that unhappiness behind him and moved on with his life’ he’s living far away with wife number two, so you won’t be hearing about him again.

My three children are well along the road of growing up. My eldest child (EC) is a son, age 20, who lives at home and goes to university. My middle child (MC) is a daughter, age 18, who is studying at the local Further Education College, and youngest child (YC) is another daughter, age 15, who is at Grammar school. I had given them amusing nicknames which reflected their personalities. However their reaction to this was sufficient in its profanity to bring Mary Whitehouse back from the dead. We are a rather sweary bunch. There is one other permanent resident – the Judgmental Yorkie (JY) – we adore her and she is the only creature we never fall out with, even when she farts on your face in bed.

Judgmental Yorkie

To explain the strap line….Middle Class and Middle Aged are fairly self explanatory – I listen to Radio 4 and am forty six. The moist does not, refer to a state of permanent erotic readiness, rather, I’m forty six, I’ve had three children and these days even the most gentle exertion can have damp consequences!

In terms of ideology – I can be found to the right of Opus Dei and to the left of Kier Hardie – sometimes at the same time. It really depends on the issue. So at some point in the future I will probably insult everyone, apologies in advance.

So that’s us! Hopefully over the next weeks and months you will join me in my musings and enjoy the journey. Before I go, i’ll share the names of a few dramatis personae who will crop up in future messages (in alphabetical order )

  • BE girls
  • Mother
  • Rosa
  • School Pals
  • The Bolter, Mr Bolter and the Bons
  • The Knitters

I have also set up a Twitter account to go with the blog – unfortunately it has a slightly saucy handle because I didn’t read the bit about how long it should be. I can be found at @Thestroketheho1 – which sounds significantly more risqué than it actually is! Please feel free to get in touch or leave a comment below.

Next week I shall share the story of the Stroke and the Horse……..