Help refugees – Calais

Volunteers sorting bedding in the warehouse

Now, before I write anything about my week volunteering in Calais for the charity Help Refugees, I want to stop for a moment and do a little mental exercise. Hold up in your mind the word refugee. Hold up the images clustered around that word built by newspaper articles, the internet and television. Add to that the words migrant, illegal and homeless. Now gather up all those nouns that separate us into imaginary boxes; Syrian, Sudanese, Afghan, Eritrean, Muslim, on and on. Hold them between your fingertips like a delicate white dandelion clock, then take a deep breath and blow.

Now we’ve scattered those I’ve got some new words for you, words with far more meaning and significance. Words like mother, daughter, son, father, grandparents, sister, brother, friend, husband and wife. These are words with meaning, words worth holding onto.

When I was younger I heard a story by a World War II survivor. Late one night he saw a plane go down, into a lake near his house. It was a German plane, no doubt returning from a bombing raid. Without hesitation he grabbed his jacket and headed for his boat, calling his friend to come help him save the drowning men. ‘But they’re the enemy’ spoke his companion. He didn’t pause. ‘Those boys out there are somebody’s sons,’ he replied and together they went and pulled the terrified young men from the water.

I say these things because I too have been guilty of dehumanising the people caught in disasters. There’s a famine in Ethiopia, Ethiopians are starving. There’s a war in Egypt, Egyptians are dying. These words distance those in peril from ourselves and separate them and us so we don’t have to cope with the idea that, somewhere, families just like ours and people just like us are being subjected to horrors beyond our imaginings. Which is why I ask that you turn this button off and think only of people, not labels, not stereotypes or anonymous groups. Just mothers, daughters, fathers and sons. When it comes down to it this is what we all are.

Of all the firsts I planned to undertake this year I must confess this one brought the most amount of sleepless nights. I have volunteered before, largely for conservation charities but also with people charities. However, I have never volunteered for the refugee crisis (for ease of writing I will unfortunately have to use our taboo words. Just keep in your mind the people behind them). I’m ashamed to say I paid minimal attention to this crisis in the beginning. Yet another war, more refugee camps, more pictures of bombed out buildings and people trudging through the countryside searching for a new home. I support several charities who are giving vital assistance in these situations and often give a one-off donation as the appeals come round, but beyond that I’ve never known what else I can do, so I shut myself off to it, as it’s easier than feeling the true weight of the tragedy.

What finally grabbed my attention was the camps in Calais. Refugee camps on our doorstep. Like famine, like war, to me these camps were always a far off thing, happening in other countries to other people. But here was one within a stone’s throw. And more than that people were dying. For most of those in Calais the ultimate aim is the UK. I was surprised to learn that for many, once they reach our soil and hand themselves in to the authorities, they actually have viable reasons to stay here. If they’ve travelled from certain war-torn areas, or have family in the UK as many do (and many others have communities which though not blood are the closest thing to family they have left in the world), they are accepted in. But to get to this moment most have risked death a thousand times over, through escaping from soldiers or extremist groups in their countries, crossing seas on boats I’d not take out in a swimming pool, sleeping rough in freezing temperatures and finally making dangerous jumps onto moving vehicles. All this to get to be where they had a right to be all along. I find it a mind-bogglingly broken system.

I have lived and worked in three foreign countries. I wasn’t escaping from war or famine and my path was astoundingly easy, with visas and tickets swiftly acquired. Why is their journey so heartbreakingly long and dangerous? And worse still some of those making these terrifying journeys have not yet reached their teens.

I won’t start-up the same old refugee discussion – it’s not my place – there are far better informed people than me to fight that battle. I just want to share a few things I learnt when first looking into those living in the Calais refugee camps. Many people are confused as to why most of the Calais refugees are young men. There are a mixture of reasons for this. Firstly the large majority (and I mean millions) of refugees settle in their immediately neighbouring countries. It’s the easiest and most sensible thing. However this means these countries are soon at their capacity. The people arriving can’t get jobs or places to stay, and there isn’t enough food to go around. This means some keep moving to the next country, then the next. Sometimes, when space is limited, the families, women and children are given preferential treatment, meaning these groups are filtered out, leaving young men to continue the journey on looking for somewhere else that will take them in. Many young men have been sent by their families to seek out a safe place for them to settle as it’s too dangerous to move everyone. Horrifyingly it’s also true that women and children are more likely to die during the journey, meaning less of them survive to reach the UK’s borders. And for some of course the UK was always their destination. Why? Because they have a cousin there, the only family that remains after the rest were killed. Because they have a degree in nuclear science and speak perfect English and want to work in our well-established industry. Because they had to run away from ISIS who tried to force them to join their ranks and they want to go somewhere they can feel safe again. Or because they lived here once before and were happy and think they can be happy here again. Or sometimes even because although they could settle in France they have experienced racist abuse there and don’t feel at home, and they think England will be kinder to them, the people more open and less prejudiced.

Whilst living in England and discussing this topic I have heard many reasons given by the residents as to why we shouldn’t let refugees in, from we’re full to they only want to sit on the dole and take our money. All I can say is I’ve met plenty of migrants living in the UK over my lifetime, all working hard at whatever job they had to make a living and support themselves and their families. I am therefore more inclined to believe the migrants words over the words of those that wish to deny them entry. One last word on the matter before I tell of my time in Calais. When the Jungle camp at Calais was destroyed hundreds of children were left sleeping rough under a bridges and in the streets because the UK and French governments refused to give them shelter. Today we in the UK have taken in a tiny handful of the unaccompanied minors in Calais. After promising to take more children in, who often have relatives in the UK, we turned around and told them they couldn’t come. These children are now returning to Calais to sleep rough on the streets until they can risk their lives attempting to cross our border. I am deeply ashamed of our government for their actions, which before the day is done will no doubt claim the lives of many more innocent children. We aren’t being asked to take in all the refugees in the world (as I said most stay in the countries immediately beside their own) but much poorer countries have taken millions and we balk at taking a few hundred. This to my mind seems beyond selfish.

It’s all of this which drove me to volunteer in Calais. The final straw was the Brexit news. I didn’t want to just watch as things around me headed in this terrible direction. I needed to cast my vote on how I wanted the world to be. So with the help and advice of better people than myself, my friend Becky and I set about raising money, collected clothing donations, and booked a ferry to Calais.

Help Refugees is an amazing organisation started by people who (unlike me) saw the news and thought ‘I have to do something about this!’. With a small number of paid staff the outfit is largely run by volunteers who are using up savings or building up debts to work tirelessly to improve the lives of millions of refugees across Europe. The charity has projects in Syria, Greece and France amongst other countries and carries out a range of essential work from providing food and clothing to people living in refugee camps to spending nights searching the streets for those sleeping rough and ensuring they have a good meal and a warm sleeping bag.

I headed to the Calais warehouse where donations from the UK, France and elsewhere are shipped in and sorted before going where they are needed. I was inspired to go in the first place by my best friend Becky, who had already volunteered twice for the warehouse. It was with her as my guide I entered this time but the people there were informative and friendly enough that I wouldn’t have had any concerns going on my own. Indeed many of the other volunteers we met had taken the journey by themselves.

We arrived on the first day to be inducted and shown around. There were various duties which you could assist with from sorting donations, to helping prepare food in the kitchen, to chopping wood for cooking fires. Volunteer numbers were naturally low over the winter but there were still around thirty people I could count, many of them long-term. There had also been a sharp drop in people coming since the destruction of the ‘Jungle’ camp, with many people believing the work was done. This is far from true. Whilst we were there around 400 refugees were found sleeping rough in Calais, and many more are expected to arrive in the future. The warehouse was also still providing support for the Dunkirk refugee camp and sending out lorry loads of provisions across Europe to people in need.

Becky checking a donated item for rips or missing buttons.

 

The first day we assisted in the warehouse sorting clothes. It was fantastic to see how many donations had come in but unfortunately not everything was useable. We checked items were clean and in good condition and then sorted them into stacks ready to be distributed. Items that were torn or dirty were sent to be recycled, inappropriate items (like wedding dresses) were sent to charity shops or sold. When sorting sleeping bags and bedding (sorely needed in the freezing temperatures) we put to one side broken or stained bedding to be used as insulation for refugee accommodation. Nothing was wasted.

Work in the warehouse was cold and everyone wrapped themselves well in coats, scarves and hats. It helped me to better understand the true hardship of sleeping on the streets at this time of year. I was constantly moving and still my fingers and toes froze.

At tea and coffee breaks and lunchtimes we spoke with the other volunteers. They came from across Europe, including local Calais citizens who came on their days off, people from the UK and from other areas in France and Europe. Their backgrounds and ages were just as diverse, from recent graduates who studied international development to retired teachers. I spoke to one woman who was a classical music singer, a young man who had been part of a team making a documentary on the refugee crisis who had returned to volunteer and a man who had worked as a tour guide across Europe. The reasons for volunteering were just as eye-opening. A lack of faith in politicians was a strong theme, as was a wish to do something, anything to help. One woman had been so appalled by an episode of Silent Witness based around the crisis she’d booked a ticket to Calais days later. For everyone the situation felt catastrophic; Brexit, Trump, Marine Le Pen – it all added up to a world we didn’t want to be a part of. But here was the great thing: In Calais, at the warehouse, we weren’t alone, and even better we got to be a part of a world we did want to live in – we were getting a chance to make it happen, oil the cogs, turn the wheel. In the middle of all the horror of the last few years it was a breath of fresh air and a promise of hope.

After the first day Becky and I helped in the wood yard. Here we pulled apart old pallets, mostly taken from the tip, and hammered the nails in them flat (to avoid injuries). Then the wood was sawn or chopped into sizes suitable for the stoves in the community kitchens at Dunkirk. Along with the free food shop provided by Help Refugees this allows the people living there to cook what they want when they want, no standing in line, no feeling like someone else is in charge of your mealtimes. All day we chopped and hammered, music blaring in the background (everything from classical to heavy metal came through those speakers). Gloves, safety goggles, ear defenders and steel boots were all helpfully provided, as was a safety talk on the equipment we were to use. The days wore on and the bags filled up. A week of such work is such a small offering given everything which has happened, but I stood surrounded by others who were all giving the same, certainly together we would make a difference.

I left Calais in the dark on Friday night. I’ve got a few bruises, all my clothes smell and my right hand has gone slightly numb from all the hammering. I greatly admire those who stay long-term. They not only give so much of their physical strength to the work but also their emotional strength. On this trip I didn’t go into the camp, I was happy to give the help needed in the wood yard. I didn’t have to tell a child living on the streets that the door he’s pushing on is double bolted on the other side. That takes strength that I’m not sure I have.

I don’t know if I’ll go back in the future. Things move quickly at Calais and in the direction they’re going  there might not be anything to go back to. But I would like to do what I can from here, to raise money, awareness and send donations. It doesn’t seem like much but it’s these small things which add up to something big and significant. They add up to a world which I want to be a part of.

If you’d like to support Help Refugees or volunteer yourself please visit their website http://www.helprefugees.org.uk/

Yo!Sushi

Somewhere in the city of Prague there once was (and I hope still is) a bar that delivers its drinks by train. A fundamentally simple idea, it adds a touch of magic to a fairly mundane task. Like a child delighted to throw away coin after coin on a thirty-second ride outside a busy supermarket I merrily ordered way more liquid than my bladder could hold just to watch that train chug along to my table. You can therefore imagine how excited I was to hear of Yo!Sushi – a restaurant where the dishes are conveyor belted passed your table to be selected at your whim.

I’d estimate it has been over five years since I caught wind of this establishment. Yet, though the idea still excites and intrigues me I’ve never been. I can’t deny my reluctance to go has had much to do with the fear of the unfamiliar. I’ve never selected my food from a moving belt – what if I do it wrong? What it my sleeve got trapped in the contraption and I’m dragged along with it? What if everything’s in japanese and I don’t know how to order. Yes fear is a odd and ridiculous thing at times. I therefore resolved, in this year of firsts, to tackle my Yo!Sushi phobia and reap the slowly revolving rewards.

Yo!Sushi operates on a colour co-ordinated system, meaning each plate you take from the conveyor belt is colour coded to fit a price, the total of which can then be toted up to make your bill. Alongside the dishes passing temptingly by your booth additional hot food can be ordered from a waitress/waiter. For a new comer like myself the whole system was surprisingly easy and stress free. Soy sauce, pink ginger and chopsticks were already on the table and there were two little self-service taps which gave out still and sparkling water. Aside from the conveyor, which snaked its way past the rows of booths like a mini go-kart track, the restaurant reminded me somewhat of the streamlined simplicity of an iPod. Rows of chefs stood within their open kitchen, rolling sushi and chopping vegetables, constantly refilling the grey river which trickled steadily by in front of them.

I must confess I am more familiar with Japanese food in theory than reality. Having only once visited a Japanese restaurant (at the request of my little sister) and very occasionally dared to buy the rather sanitised sushi packets available at sandwich counters, I mostly recognised the names of the dishes from my teenage obsession with manga. However even this didn’t prepare me for the lexicon of new words scattered about the menu. Luckily pictures were provided and best guesses could be made.

One consideration which did however complicate the selection process for me and my boyfriend was an ethical one. Today there are many types of fish and seafood still caught by unsustainable methods. Shellfish scraped from the seabed so all other life is obliterated or indiscriminate netting resulting in the death of individuals too young to breed, causing the next generation to be significantly depleted. Even hauling in non-target species which then go to waste, thrown overboard dead or wounded. Overfishing or fishing in the wrong places or with the wrong techniques is leading to serious issues for not only our fish stocks but also the birds and mammals which depend on them. There are plenty of good fish guides available which can help you make an ethical choice, and restaurants can be a particularly good place to make your vote count. For myself I am lucky enough to be dating a man with an encyclopedic knowledge of the ethical rating of different marine delicacies, and am therefore able to defer to him on such occasions.

We were pleased to see that Yo!Sushi had already taken their own steps to ethically sourcing their fish, as the menu stated their commitment to sustainable fishing practices and particularly their avoidance of the endangered bluefin tuna. Even with this assurance however it is still beneficial to do your own research as I’ve often found a questionable dish or two on the menus of restaurants claiming to avoid unsustainable species.

I was excited to try my first proper sushi in a decade, but also a little nervous. I am by nature not a massively adventurous eater and strange textures particularly put me off. However beautifully presented food often draws me in, and sushi certainly ticks this box.

As the evening wore on, and the belt completed circle after circle I managed to achieve a number of firsts. My first ever miso soup, something I’ve always wanted to try largely due to the number of times it’s mentioned in manga comics. My first fish eggs, raw prawns and sweet rice dumplings. I’m pleased to report it was all delicious. The miso soup, with tiny unfamiliar mushrooms, clams and spring onions, was salty and spicy – exactly the kind of thing I crave on a winter’s day. The fish eggs, tiny and orange did, I must admit, get a little lost for me in the general fishiness of the sushi but I certainly wouldn’t feel any trepidation to try them again. The prawns were surprisingly sweet, their texture soft and not unpleasant. In the end the strangest and most unexpected item was the sweet rice dumplings. A bit like biting into a ball of raw dough filled with chocolate moose, they were astoundingly chewy and soft. Although they were quite different from what I imaged I would happily have them again or even try some of the alternative versions which there winging their way round the room.

So all in all Yo!Sushi turned out to be a pleasant and eye-opening experience. Not only that but with most of the dishes being composed of raw vegetables, fresh fish and a dollop of rice I came away feeling significantly healthier than I normally do after an evening at a restaurant. Even the bill was fairly tame.

Writing about the experience the day after I have to admit my mouth is watering and my mind is searching out a future date to revisit that tasty carousel. It’s a pleasing thing to face your (irrational) fears and find the rewards for doing so more delicious than you anticipated. I hope this turns out to be one of many new things I attempt this year which ends up being worth repeating.

A long, long time ago…

Chris standing in the middle of history

It’s 2,000 BC  and the Bronze Age is getting into the swing of it. A change has swept over Britain, catalysed by the advancements in technologies on mainland Europe and the immigrants that have brought them to our shores. Horses are being domesticated, Stonehenge is getting that extension everyone’s been waiting for, and the countryside still has its fair share of wolves, bears and beavers. It’s about now the Llangernyw yew first pushed its fragile young shoots up through the damp leaf mould.

If I’d stepped into this churchyard, beneath the bows of the twin yews standing guard either side of the enterance, without prior understanding of what I was visiting I would at first have looked at the church. Small and white-washed its uneven bricks immediately showed it to be a building of some age. Inside beautiful stained-glass windows were lit in the morning light, whilst above exposed beams were painted red, green and gold. At the back of the room a bell cord hung temptingly unguarded. Parts of this church date back to the medieval period and yet that’s nothing to the tree which stands almost forgotten beside it.

I’ve always been fascinated by creatures which reach extraordinary ages. Tortoises who outlive several of their owners, twisted desert scrubs which watch kingdoms rise and fall and even everlasting jellyfish (don’t ask – I don’t understand it either). Many trees have been proved to reach vast incomprehensible ages, from thousands to tens of thousands of years. It’s not surprising therefore that one of my first firsts of this year was to visit one of these ancient tree. A little research (and the realities of travel times) brought me to the Llangernyw yew. Carbon dating puts this tree at between 4,000 to 4,500 years old. That’s almost all of recorded history.

Today the yew is composed of several large off-shoots, all reaching out from a rotten centre. Precariously angled these heavy trunks seem ready to topple at a moment’s notice. The ground around the base of the tree had been flattened by passing feet and in its branches the occasion ribbon has been respectfully laced. In the churchyard around it other yews were scattered.

The yews association with churchyards is a questionable one, with many theories as to how they became so synonymous. Some scholars argue the yew’s evergreen leafs call to mind eternal life, or that its red heartwood symbolises the blood of Christ. Others suggest that the toxic leaves once discouraged shepherds from leading their herds to graze amongst the gravestones, or symbolized the coming of death. My preferred explanation however harks back to earlier times.

It’s well-known that early Christians often built churches on preexisting sites of pilgrimage or worship, a useful device for converting the local pagans. Druids and other worshipers of the older religions were often known to plant yews on sacred grounds, or even to simply worship in areas where impressively old specimens grew. Evergreens, with their green leaves outlasting the winter, were seen to be symbols of everlasting life. The idea that the Llangernyw yew was once itself considered as holy as the church which now stands beside it, seems somewhat appropriate for this ancient tree.

Something which makes the survival of this specimen all the more amazing is the history of the English longbow. The longbow was once the height of sophisticated warfare. So important was it to keeping up our side against our enemies that it was required that all men learn the skill of archery. The wood of the yew was perfect for longbow making, the heartwood being used for the inside of the bow and the living outer wood for the outside, improving the tension of the bow. Sought after for bow making, the yew in time began to dwindle in England, Wales and Scotland. Soon wood had to be imported from the continent, until even countries in mainland Europe had to shut up shop as the last of their great yews hit the ground. Surprisingly it may have been the invention of the gun that saved these fantastic trees, as soon there was no more use for bows on the battlefield.

Why the Llangerywn yew was saved we’ll never know. Perhaps it was its very decay, a characteristic feature of ancient yews and something that actually helps extend their lives, that made it unsuitable for felling. Perhaps it was simply missed. But for whatever reason this fantastic tree still stands today, a whole lot of history behind it that we’ll never hear a word about.

As I was doing some background reading on my yew I found some disagreement among scholars as to its age. Though the plaque before it (and the certificate on the church gate) announce it to be the oldest tree in England and Wales at 4,000 years, some websites not only place other trees at that number one spot but also rob the Llangernyw yew of 2,500 years. If this is true then maybe he (he’s a male yew, meaning he bears no berries) wasn’t around as the blue stones were being dragged across Wales towards Salisbury plain, but he’s still the oldest living thing I’ve ever run my fingertips across, and has seen more changes than my mind is able to comprehend. More incomprehensible still is the fact that he might well outlive me, and see the world change once more. I hope for his sake then that longbows don’t come back into fashion.

A Contented Murmur

Starlings are a common bird across the UK, from picking their way across lawns in country gardens to adorning unsuspecting cars with nature’s graffiti in cities, this charismatic little bird will play a part in most everyone’s day-to-day lives. Smaller than a blackbird but larger than a sparrow these glossy little creatures are surprisingly colourful. A yellow beak and black feathers they could be somewhat drab if it wasn’t for the paler speckles and oily green shimmer to their coat to add a little jazz. A bird which likes a bit of company they are rarely seen alone and it’s this communal habit which has made them one of the greatest spectacles of the natural world.

A murmuration. Even the word is a pleasure to pronounce. Outside the summer breeding season, from approximately from November to February, starlings gather together in large flocks. Doing so gives them safety in numbers from predators and is a practice many birds take up in the winter months. The difference with this little bird is how it chooses to gather its friends together.

Chris and I wait in the cold (which is becoming something of a habit nowadays). Half an hour before sunset the light is already losing some of its brightness and the sky is turning from gentle winter blue to gold. We’re stood at the edge of Budworth mere in Marbury park, overlooking the reedbed. Part of a Cheshire Wildlife Trust nature reserve the small straw-coloured mass shelters an amazing array of rare and unusual  creatures, one of the most notable being the bittern. A well camouflaged somewhat squatter relative of the heron, the bittern will soon be heard calling out for mates with its fantastic booming voice, like a  gong announcing the spring. And yet I’m not here to see the bittern.

On the mere tufted ducks and great crested grebes – looking a little drab in their winter attire – head in a leisurely way for their own nighttime spots. We watch the sky.

While we wait we walk the edge of the mere, all the time glancing back in case the show begins behind our backs. I can’t help thinking we might have had a wasted journey. For whatever reason tonight’s performance seems to have been cancelled. And then I see them. A small group, no more than nine little birds, skitters across the sky, high above the mere. It’s starting.

The formation of a murmur is a funny thing. It’s as though someone somewhere has set off a siren, calling in birds from all around to join the party. Little groups of dark triangular silhouettes arrive from all directions. Some as small as the first we saw, others already a hundred strong, moving in large inkstain-like blobs across the sky, wings beating so fast and purposefully it seems as though they’re well aware they’re approaching curfew.

How they all know which spot they’re heading for I have no idea, but each group joins the other seamlessly, like water running together along the waxy surface of a leaf. And once they’re joined the dance begins.

Scientists have found the dynamics of the flock rely on each individual bird keeping a close eye on their neighbours. Essentially a kind of aerial flashmob, the murmuration turns hundreds and often thousands of individuals into one undulating mass.

I have to confess – I have seen murmurations before. I love them. But I have never had the good fortune of watching them from birth to bed. Always for me they have been a wave passing over my head as I navigate my way through country lanes, or a distant speck on the horizon as I find myself without binoculars to aid observation. Here, for the first time, I was able to watch uninterrupted for three-quarters of an hour as the flock grew above my head.

The murmur, several thousand strong, ebbed and flowed across the sky. Occasionally it extended an arm too far, only to dissolve into two separate groups, which turned and rejoined with gentle ease. At times the whole mass seemed to overturn itself, enacting what appeared from the ground to be the most elegant mexican wave ever preformed.

Around us other admirers crowded with cameras and binoculars to gaze silently together up at the spectacle. Behind us dog walkers and families carried on, seemingly unaware of the amazing aerial display going on above their heads.

As if a bell had been rung, calling time on the merry crowd, the flock began to spiral downwards. Lower and lower they sank, like a tornado reaching for the ground. And, like a pin had been inserted in the bubble that held them all together, the flock broke and the starlings fell like black rain to land within the reeds which would house them for the night. This pattern was repeated again and again with the remaining starlings lifting up and murmuring once more. And each time they dropped the reedbed rustled with their arrival.

Eventually all the starlings had descended, tucked up in their hiding place for the night. But like a gaggle of school girls on a field trip they continued to chatter within their bunks, a beautiful evening chorus as the sun set above us.

There is one more thing to say on this story. Starlings are decreasing, drastically so in fact. In many places murmurations grow smaller each year, or have disappeared entirely. It is our job to make sure this decline doesn’t continue. As with many birds it may take us rethinking the way we use our landscape to save them. They need more places to feed and more places to rest. It might be a tricky thing to go about but I for one certainly don’t want to live in a world where there’s no such thing as the beauty of a murmuration.

 

 

A New Year

For those not in the know the mid-Cheshire ridge extends from north to south across the county of Cheshire (where I currently reside). Composed largely of sandstone it rises above the Cheshire plain, the only high point between the Welsh hills and the Peak district. Several old fortresses are dotted along this route, the most intact and impressive of which is Beeston castle.

Rawhead sits towards the south of the ridge, and at a modest 227m still possesses stunning views across the plain, taking in rolling countryside and the distant lights of Wrexham and Chester. It’s this view that explains how I came to be sat on top of this peak at 11pm on New Year’s Eve, waiting for the show to start.

The clouds were thick and heavy when my boyfriend Chris and I parked the car at the base of the hill. Walking along the Sandstone Trail (the 34 mile path that winds along the full extent of the ridge), our head torches lighting up the route before us, I wasn’t particularly hopeful our plan would pay off. Tired from the busy Christmas period neither of us fancied a big social event, or joining the crowds at a public firework display. So we’d opted instead for finding a comfortable spot up high to watch the show alone and at a distance. But even as we started our ascent the sky began to spit, and the cold wind blow.

Up on the ridge we were surprised to find we weren’t alone. Others sat scattered here and there, with enough space between them to allow each group to feel they were in isolation. Out in the darkness the next hill was illuminated by pinpricks of light slowly meandering their way across the ridge as another couple took up their seats, just like we were finding our way to ours.

Eventually we settled on a spot, lowering ourselves down into the heather, close to the bare rocks which marked the start of a sharp drop to the ground below (Chris, investigating how much further we could go almost became very well acquainted with this drop).

Torches off we sat in the dark. Before us the landscape was a constellation of lights, with vast pools of empty space between. We watched them closely waiting for something worth braving the cold for to occur. On the other ridge we saw flames light up the night. Our fellow explorers had started a fire. It stood out against the darkness like a beacon.

The fireworks began. At first they trickled in a few at a time. I was amazed to see how close to the ground the explosions occurred. It had always seemed to me that they shot up high into space, yet from here they seemed barely to reach beyond the soil that had birthed them. So small and insignificant against the vast sky above. And then, as midnight loomed, they all went off.

Along the horizon they bloomed like a tiny flowers. Every colour, shape and sequence. Beautiful as it was it did somewhat bring to mind Armageddon.

At first the bangs were too faint to reach us, but as the real show began the booms and blasts rolled across our perch. A shocked a pheasant, roosting in the dark below us, was moved into startled action. Its cry echoed through the trees around us as it tried to out-flap the perceived danger. And then the lights were momentarily eclipsed. An owl, its sillouette against the fireworks the only reason we were aware of its presence, glided silently by.

We walked back down the ridge at 00.30, after the lights had petered out once more. In the dark we passed a group gathered at the peak, toasting in the New Year. It wasn’t a bad first for my year of firsts.

 

 

Turning thirty

‘Thirty was so strange for me. I’ve really had to come to terms with the fact that I am now a walking talking adult.’ C.S. Lewis

This year I turn thirty. The addition of an extra year to my personal calendar, a whole new decade to pronounce and inscribe, doesn’t frighten or worry me – but as it did for C.S. Lewis the change does puzzle me. When did I become the one children address their questions to? Since when did I take on responsibility for my clothing and feeding? How come I now have a dedicated ‘cleaning’ day?

I have lived roughly a third of my expected life, and yet had I been born in another era or even country my time might have now fully or mostly run its course. The medieval average was after all only just above 30. So if anything rather than mourning the inevitable passage of time, I should be treating my potentially 60 additional years as a bonus round. If life were a computer game I would now be finding myself in a cave full of suspended coins, with a timer ticking away in the top right corner. The question is what currency am I interested in collecting?

For many a new decade is celebrated with a night (or more) of drunken pleasure with their nearest and dearest. Unfortunately for myself I’ve been T-total for what’s coming up to three decades, don’t enjoy loud music, crowded place or fundamentally parties. So how do I celebrate? It’s a question I’ve been asking myself for most of 2016. The answer lay in what I would regret if 30 was my allotted time. It’s not the items I didn’t buy, or the films I didn’t see, it’s the things I didn’t do. Particularly the things I never got to try. For example I’ve always been curious what a dragon fruit tastes like, it looks to me very much like chocolate chip ice cream – though I’m assured it’s not. I’ve often wished I could juggle – though I can barely catch one ball. And despite my love of all native wildlife I have yet to see an adder. So this is what I’m spending my bonus round on, these are my coins. 2017 will be my year of firsts – from the small to the spectacular. Even this is a first for me – my first ever blog. Whatever happens it’s going to be a memorable year.