Valerie's adventure in retirement

Going into October and changes

2010-09-30T06:11:00.000-07:00

It's been over a month since I last blogged. Loads of changes in September, many of which I don't feel like going into detail over. My dgd was diagnosed with a congenital ailment that affects her adrenal system. Not life-threatening blessedly but still serious. And at the same time dh has been on a roller coaster over his job. His contract officially ends today and although he's received a new contract letter it's written in very "if there is work, there is a job" terms. Bleagh. And after multiple tests, the gastroenterologist has a partial answer for my health issues. Diverticulosis. Like dgd, it's something I will have to watch for the rest of my life, but it is not life threatening. Could escalate into diverticulitis but the key is eating more fibre. So, since the diagnosis two days ago, I have been trying to do it.

But I haven't been doing very well at it. I thought I was eating fibre but at the end of the day yesterday the total amount on my tracker was 13 g!! When the minimum should be 25. Aagh. And even at that my stomach was cramping quite a bit from the extra fibre. Did drink some herbal digestive tea and that helped tremendously. Within half an hour my stomach settled down. So this morning I had 14 g of fibre at breakfast (smoothie) and that's gone down okay so far.

Yesterday morning I hiked for 2 hours up and down hills at the Santa Fe Ski Hill--gained 900' from 10,200 to 11,100. We climbed Aspen Peak with a beautiful view of Santa Fe Baldy. I was happy to see that my buddies from the "NOT the Mountain Goat Hike" I lead on alternate Wednesdays all came to this one. And we shared a car going up so that was fun, especially as last week I "lost" a "friend" who led me to believe that only passive people would want to be friends with a person like me. These women are NOT passive! It was a tough hike as Dave's hikes usually are. I always choose to be the sweep because I like to hike at my own pace and this time there was a woman who really struggled with the climb and the altitude. So I stayed with her, watched over her. At the end of the hike, she was sitting on a picnic bench writing in her journal and saying aloud "Today Valerie saved my life." Well, not quite, but it still felt good especially after the last two weeks of this month. That's two lives I helped this past week--I helped another woman find a doc in this town (hard to find one who takes Medicare) and it turned out she had a serious infection that needed immediate treatment. So she was really grateful too. I write this to remind myself that despite what my former friend thinks (get past it Valerie) I am not a terrible person.

Photos from yesterday's hike:

The final photo is a view of Santa Fe Baldy (12,000') taken from Aspen Peak. The aspens are in the middle part of their glory. Another week or so and colder weather and they will have dropped their leaves. Just as beautiful as the Eastern colors in my opinion.

Distracted by hummingbirds

2010-08-26T07:00:00.000-07:00

I get up on weekday mornings at 5 a.m. to drive dh to his bus. Sometimes I return and crawl back into bed but most times I stay up. This morning I felt very reflective as I pulled into our parking lot. The colors in the sky were lightening from deep velvety midnight blue to a light royal purple. The moon, full yesterday, had lost its hard edges. I was listening to a beautiful CD we have called "Heavensong: Music of Contemplation and Light." My favorite pieces are "The Prayer" and "Alleluia" both of which I listened to as I sat quietly in the car, no one else awake, no lights in the condo windows. It was 52º out, a reminder that Fall is coming.

I had planned to do some planning and writing this morning before going to a 9:00 a.m. Nia class. But as I was sitting in the livingroom Cleo suddenly got very still and started making "ack ack" noises. I looked up at the window and this is what I saw:

I was so excited! I had bought the hummingbird feeder a few months ago and hadn't put it up. I guess I was a bit self-defeating thinking that perhaps these tiny birds wouldn't fly all the way up to the third floor. But I was wrong, as we so often are when we self defeat. As you can see from these photos, they did indeed find their way up to the third floor and for the past hour have delighted both Cleo and myself.

And I find yet another reminder about my healthy, mindful eating. I found this entry in Wikipedia for hummingbirds: "Like bees, they are able to assess the amount of sugar in the nectar they eat; they reject flower types that produce nectar that is less than 10% sugar and prefer those whose sugar content is stronger. Nectar is a poor source of nutrients, so hummingbirds meet their needs for protein, amino acids, vitamins, minerals, etc. by preying on insects and spiders, especially when feeding young." (Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hummingbird)
I make my hummingbird nectar with a 1:8 ratio of sugar. So they like that. But they don't eat only nectar as the article says. They inherently know what to eat to sustain them. And they can't gulp their food of course :) So those are two reminders for me today--eat those things that are GOOD sources of nutrients and sip, sip, small bites, small bites.

Reflections on chewing and other "things"

2010-08-24T05:41:00.000-07:00

I noticed two things yesterday as I was focusing on chewing my food more completely. One is that I tend to take too much into my mouth at once. Somewhere along the line I have lost the notion of "sipping" a drink be it herbal tea, herbal coffee, water, whatever. I take great gulps and end up with so much liquid in my mouth that I have to swallow some quickly. The taste slides across my buds so quickly that they say "Hey, what was that? If you want us to notice food you have to give us more time." The same with food. I took a bite of chicken at dinner last night and it filled my entire mouth. So I chewed and chewed and chewed and felt like Bossie the cow.

However, this leads to the other thing I noticed. That once I DID have food or drink in my mouth for longer than one millisecond, I started feeling impressions about it. The taste, the texture, and, more, the feeling that what I was eating was nourishing my body. When the food whizzes down the gullet that fast, there's no sense of what it is actually doing for my body. But the mouth is the beginning of nourishment. For example, this morning I had two apricots at breakfast. They were soft and juicy. My first sense as I bit into one was of coolness, of moisture, then of denseness. As I chewed the apricot, I felt the pulp releasing its goodness. I think as I pursue this I will start realizing more and more about food; seeing it in a different way. Oh, and conversely to a "good" sense of food, last night I popped a piece of fresh--at least I thought it was fresh--mozzarella into my mouth. But as I began to chew I almost gagged. It had gone off and I couldn't get it out of my mouth fast enough. Now if I had taken just a small piece I would still have realized that it was off. And it wouldn't have filled my entire mouth with that sour taste.

Now for the other "things." I read a lot of pop psychology books. I use the term "pop" because I don't read textbooks (sorry Sue.) Rather, I read what someone has distilled from a textbook. For example I read Hollis to try to understand Jung. I read the Franklin Covey folks (Covey, Smith) to try to understand how to apply my religious beliefs to my life in a more effective way--that is, that I can attain the type of inner peace and happiness that the Lord spoke of.

I have been off-and-on reading Geneen Roth's "Women Food and God." I mentioned that in a blog several months ago and I still haven't finished the book. It's not a page turner for me although what she says is good and worthwhile. The issue is that I have been reading other books at the same time and ironically they all say the same thing as Roth is saying. Even "Eat Pray and Love," which I read for my book club, reminded me of Roth, reminded me of Hollis, reminded me of a book on the enneagram that I am also currently reading. What they all say is that we are not just our bodies. That within us, around us, dwells divinity. They use different terms and advocate slightly different approaches--although all agree on meditation/stillness/prayer--b
ut basically they all say that there is something more to us (and, no it's not 30 pounds) than we usually focus on. And if we can somehow touch that divinity by becoming more aware of ourselves, what we think and what we do, we will become more at peace, have more self esteem, etc., etc.

And so I come back to chewing. In the act of chewing I become mindful. I think of what I am putting into my body. I say a prayer of gratitude for food and drink.

It is truly amazing how life can become more whole and we see life's pattern when we stop and chew.

Turn toward the light

2010-08-13T11:29:00.000-07:00

I read a snip somewhere recently that caused me to think: "When you turn toward the light, the shadow falls behind you." In this photo, taken on a solitary hike this past Tuesday, I was facing away from the light. And when I looked at the shadow on the ground, I thought of that quote. I thought about how when we are down we talk about walking in shadow and how it literally is a "turning away from the light." The light of our own being, the light of God and so on. Hmmm. Just one of the many things that occur to me when I am hiking.

To reassure all of those wonderful friends who encouraged me to keep moving and keep hiking while I wait for the test results, yes, I am hiking more than ever. I feel best when I am hiking actually. I wonder how I can have anything wrong with me when I can hike so far and so strongly :) And if there is something "wrong" it surely is a way that I can put things to rights. I am not losing any weight from it, in fact this week I have gained two pounds. But that's not why I hike anymore anyway. I hike because I love it.

On the same hike where I took the photo above, I also snapped the vista that was in front of me:

and then this tiny beautiful miracle of butterflies "nesting" on a wildflower:

Seeing the big picture and the small, that's another one of those blessings that I have gained through hiking. Sometimes my mind is far away in the past or the future, puzzling something out. But then I see something and I am back in the present, glorying in the wonder of the world and remembering to be grateful for the now.

Gathering Parade 1

2010-08-12T13:54:00.000-07:00

Eat Love Pray

2010-08-10T10:25:00.000-07:00

In honor of the book I am feverishly trying to finish before my book club meets tomorrow night, I am simmering (not boiling) some fresh spinach & ricotta ravioli for lunch. I am currently in Elizabeth Gilbert's "Italy" phase of her year-long journey.

I am enjoying but at the same time wondering why I have never written a best selling novel about my various journeys. Well, the simple answer is that I am not a professional writer with connections to the publishing world where an editor would say "Oh, wow, can't wait for your manuscript about your trip through the UK! Send it to me right away!" That's not to put any blame on anyone else. Nope, if I had really had the guts, the passion, to get published, I could probably have been. Or at least have made a valiant attempt so that I could sit here now and say "I just don't have what it takes to be a writer." I can't say that. Many people who read my blogs or my e-mails say I am a wonderful writer. So did professors when I was slogging through my various degrees. No, I have what it takes to be a WRITER, I just don't have the drive to become a PUBLISHED writer. I wonder if I ever will.

As I read Gilbert's book, I think about my own journey to the UK last year. Much of it is on this blog. The difference between what she has written and what I have--so far--is that she writes about EVERYTHING. Every little minutiae, every conversation and observation. That's why her book is a few hundred pages and my blog is barely 50. And she writes about things that I would not really want to bare to the world. I like to stay in safely historical or impersonal terms. I keep my interior feelings and thoughts about people to myself. For the most part. What inspires me about her book, however, is that there are many things that I don't write about that I could, that I would probably enjoy writing about. If I would let myself :)

Short trip to Taos

2010-08-01T19:22:00.000-07:00

This past Friday dh and I decided to take a trip to Taos. We intended on doing a morning hike along the rim of the Rio Grande Gorge and then looking at Mexican tile for our old dining room table and also looking at a back cushion for a living room chair. As Taos is an hour away and the highway to Taos is twisty and very dark at night, we decided to book a b & b overnight. After reviewing various comments on TripAdvisor--SO helpful nowadays--we decided on the American Artists B & B.

On our way to Taos, we remembered that there was another tile place just past Espanola so we turned in there. Although they had plenty of Talavera tile, the patterns seemed too busy to me for a dining room table. But we DID find a really nice buffet that will complete our small dining area in the condo. We put a deposit on it and said that we would be back for it next Saturday as we will need to have the back of the Escape completely empty to fit it in. Back in the car, we realized we had taken over an hour at the store and it was now almost 11 o’clock. Rather late to be starting off on the 7.5 mile hike I had originally planned. So we found a different trail that was only 2.5 miles round trip. It was indeed quite hot and dry. About 90º but there was at least a lovely breeze. And it was fairly flat as well. Here are some photos:

This is the usual warning on trails in our area--don’t leave valuables in the car. We were the only car in the parking area when we first came. I unzipped my hiking pants so that they became shorts and was just starting off when dh reminded me that we were in rattlesnake country. Ulp. But I decided not to zip back up again, relying on my poles and watching carefully where I was stepping. The only reptile we saw during the hike, however, was a lizard.

The cliffs around the gorge are mainly basalt as you can see from the lizard photo and the photo below.

I am not a geologist so I can’t tell you much more about basalt than that it is a volcanic rock. Besides, this isn’t an essay on geology anyway. After about .75 mile traipsing along the rocky trail and avoiding the cacti, we came up to the rim and were able to look down on the Rio Grande (big river in Spanish in case you didn’t know.) We were so hot and it looked sooo inviting that if the gorge hadn’t been so steep we might have clambered down and stuck our feet (or more) into the water.

We continued on for another .75 mile, this time passing through masses of chamisa. It is getting ready to flower in another month. It’s beautiful when it does but also unfortunately one of the many New Mexico plants I am allergic too. Pass the Claritin please next month because I am not going to stop hiking.

When we arrived at the end of the trail, we had a fantastic view of the Rio Grande winding its way through the gorge. It flows through Colorado, New Mexico, Texas and Mexico before it empties into the Gulf of Mexico. As with many waterways, it isn’t as “mighty” as it once was because of dams and diversions, but it is still beautiful.

We sat on the edge of the gorge for as long as we could stand the heat. There was a nice bench there but it was made of some kind of composite material--black--that felt like a frying pan. So we retraced our steps and I was very glad to see the car because (1) the clouds were building toward another monsoon and (2) there were four hawks (or maybe vultures) circling above us. I wondered what they were so interested in--us or something else. I really didn’t care to find out.

We headed into Taos and went to the other tile place. What a selection!! It took us over an hour to agree on the tile pattern. I have taken a photo of it laid out on a table there; quite anxious to see what it will look like when dh glues and grouts it.

After our selection, we celebrated with a late lunch at The Trading Post, our favorite restaurant in Taos. Then we hit Starr Interiors, a lovely shop that sells weavings from the Zapotec Indians. After another long consultation with each other and with the store owner, we chose two pillows. One is a simple bear design and the other is a long red pillow that looks beautiful on our guest bed. Now all we need are guests :)

Very tired by now, we headed for our b & b. We discovered that we had actually stayed there before many years ago. Just as we got our things inside and were relaxing on the portal, thunder boomed and forks of lightning lit the early evening sky. We sat out and watched the rain come down, the cooling of the air very welcome. Then we went inside and while dh did one of his quick sketches, I finished off an English mystery, fighting to stay awake to read the resolution. The rain drummed on the roof, as good as any lullabye.

The next morning, I awoke to George, the peacock cum alarm clock.

The storm had passed, the air was fresh and clear. In the distance, the mountain was still hidden behind low lying cloud but by the time we'd had breakfast the clouds had dissipated.

We drove north from Taos to the ski area and hiked a little way along Manzanita Canyon.

It was all uphill though so we didn’t go very far on it, only about 1.5 miles or so. The trail itself was going to be 6 miles and once again we just didn’t feel up to it. But we WILL return because the views from the top are supposed to be magnificent.

The wildflowers were beautiful.

On the way back home we stopped at the small, quaint village of Arroyo Seco. Took a photo of the “historic” church of La Santisima Trinidad, built in 1834. Old for the United States but compared to the churches I saw in England, “modern.”

A bright entrance to one of the shops in Arroyo Seco:

And so we returned home to Santa Fe with our purchases--except for the buffet which we will be picking up next Saturday. Saturday night we had another huge storm at home. It almost sounded like it was hailing and the thunder and lightning were extraordinary. But Sunday dawned clear and bright again. The clouds are gathering once again though so I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t have another storm tonight. It really has greened up the desert!

Easy as falling off a log

2010-07-29T06:51:00.000-07:00

One of the worst things about gym when I was in high school--apart from those ugly bloomers we had to wear--was the balance beam. I hated the balance beam. I feared the balance beam. Even the one that was only 6 inches off the floor. We had this gym teacher who thought we should all be part of an Olympics gymnastics team. And sneered at me when I would jump off the beam after just a few inches. She quickly relegated me to the sidelines while she focused on the girls who were nimbler and more confident than I. Thankfully, I wasn't alone on the sidelines and after high school I didn't take any other kind of exercise class until i was in my 20s. (Exercise classes in the early 1970s weren't as popular as they are now.) I did attempt a ballet class, fulfilling a childhood wish of taking ballet. But when a friend of mine called me a dancing pear because the only ballet costume available in the store was yellow I lost confidence once again. And then there was yoga, which was so relaxing that I kept falling asleep. But that's a whole other story.

Today, my subject is logs. Specifically, logs and stream crossings. Many of our weekly hikes take us across streams. Remembering my balance beam trauma, I was very hesitant about stream crossings. I would look to find the narrowest part, the one that avoided logs and rocks and where I could just leap across (leaping is also not my forte but preferable to balancing.) Once I acquired hiking poles however I began to be more confident about the crossings. Still cautious, but learning. So when this past Monday's hike promised 12 stream crossings, I wasn't overly worried. We hiked what is called Tesuque Creek, about 7.5 miles round trip. Our leader, Ann, had mapped out a moderate hike, not as steep as Dave's hike the Wednesday before (pictured below.)

And, although it rained a fine mist, the hike was thoroughly enjoyable. I was reminded of hiking at this time last year in Scotland except this time I wasn't hiking alone, I was with a group of very congenial people. All in our 50s--well, actually, the guys were in their 60s--all comfortable with the pace and the company. Yep, I was feeling pretty darned good about my fitness level. After the 9th stream, the woman ahead of me said "We're really getting the hang of this." And, realizing in the back of my mind that I could jinx myself, I still said "Yeah, it's great."

Then came crossing #10, pictured below.

We had actually crossed it before. We were on our way back. We'd stopped to take photos by the rock face. Here I am, not exactly elegant (don't you love the chin strap?) but happy.

I started across the log. Kay was close behind me which Ann and I agreed afterward probably wasn't a good idea. It's best to cross one at a time across a log. I was at the end of the long log, transferring my weight to the short one when the log shifted under my feet and I overbalanced. And fell backward into the shallow stream. Hat and poles went flying. Luckily my backpack broke most of the impact and I only ended up with a bruise on my arm and a slightly sore and wet bottom. We still had another half hour left on the hike so by the time I returned to the car I was pretty well dry thanks to the thin hiking pants I wear. And my pride was bruised a bit too. I always seem to fall or trip on hikes. Never hurt myself but every time it happens I once again feel like that ungainly "dancing pear." Which of course I am not--ungainly that is. I do a LOT of hiking and walking. I may not be tall (I am 5'3") and willowy but I am strong. And I can be elegant too--here's another photo of me in my hiking hat, dressed up this time.

I guess my point is that we are all multi faceted. How we appear can and will change depending on circumstances and we create those circumstances. I laughed off my fall and finished the hike. 7.5 miles in 4 hours is pretty darned good. It certainly felt great. I hiked again the next day--just a short 1 hour--and yesterday I walked along the Arroyos trail for 45 minutes. I love walking, I really do. I feel so happy after I am done. I don't necessarily feel happy when I look at myself critically and self consciously. I mean, I look at that first photo of me and think that the chin strap looks like a double chin and do I look fat and my face looks tired....

Stinking thinking as someone once called it! Did any of my fellow hikers look at me like that?? NO! So I think I need to stop being so darned self conscious. A woman on my hike on Tuesday--a beautiful woman in her mid 60s--said she's stopped looking in the mirror because she can't believe the old woman she sees in there is her. What IS it with us?? I look at her and see a beautiful woman. She looks at me and sees the same. Enough picking ourselves apart already! And enough with obsessing over the scale too. Less obsessing and more focusing on being healthy, eating healthy. And with that, I am off out for another walk....

The Important Things in Life

2010-05-23T16:03:00.001-07:00

I am sitting at Tucson Airport waiting for a plane back to Albuqueque for the second time this month. I flew in on Friday night, went to dgd's ballet recital last night. And we are coming back next weekend--driving this time--for dsil's 30th birthday celebration. Several friends think I am insane but then those who have gc and who know about those "Kodak moments" understand. Especially when I look at these photos:

And someday when my dd is attending her dgd's ballet recital, I hope that she nudges M and says "Remember when Grandma came to YOUR ballet recitals?" And, who knows, I might still be around in body (a healthy one I hope!)

How I spent St. Patrick's Day

2010-03-17T18:37:00.001-07:00

As we met at our hiking rendezvous this morning, Dave confirmed that it would be a snowshoe hike. The idea of snowshoeing had put several people off so in the end there were only three of us, me, Dave and David. Here we are starting off. The snow in the valley is quite deep, over 4'. You get an idea of it from the snow on the fallen log.

At first Dave said we were going to snowshoe in the valley but, as always seems to happen on Dave's hikes, within a few minutes of nice, leisurely shoeing, he said "Hey, would you like to try going up this hill to get into the sunshine? Val, you said you'd like the sun." Ummm, yeah I said I'd like the sun but I didn't realize that meant climbing a nearly vertical 200' slope covered with 4' of fluffy, cottony snow that had little stability. I didn't want to be a wet blanket though so I said I would try it. And try it I did. Digging my shoes into the snow, feeling my feet slide back, my poles sink deep, it was exhausting.

Finally after about 10 minutes even Dave admitted that perhaps it was a bit much. So I slid back to the valley again and we resumed the nice, leisurely, swish, swish pace. The valley was in shadow for the first 30 minutes and then we saw patches of sunlight filtering through the Ponderosa pines.

Dave mistook my eagerness to take a photo of the sun to mean that I wanted to climb again. He and David were chatting away in front while I was mindfully walking in the back, meditating on how wonderful it was to be in this place, to have my body responding to the movement. Then all of a sudden up they started. Once again I struggled to find purchase with my feet. I was worried about doing a Beckham--tearing my Achilles tendon or something as my feet strained to push upward--but Dave blithely said "Relax your feet, feel your weight sink through them into the snow, into the earth." Dave, the tai chi aficianado. But, you know, he was right. When I could get the rhythm--unfortunately I often lost it--it made a huge difference and I did feel a part of the earth.

We made it up to where I took this final photo

We were actually looking at four different slopes with valleys between each and then finally the wide valley and far in the distance one of the Sandia peaks. (I think--my sense of direction is still lousy and I didn't have my compass.)

I was worried about going down but Dave reminded me to "feel" my feet and the weight shifting from foot to foot. Made it most of the way down with only three tumbles. Another 20 minutes of level snowshoeing and we were back at the car. Started at 8:30, finished a little shy of 11:00 a.m. Perfect.

My feet and backside were soaking wet so I made a quick stop at WholeFoods for thinly sliced corned beef--tasted almost like Montreal smoked meat without the fat--and colcannon. Colcannon is a mixture of creamed potatoes, cabbage (WholeFoods used kale) and is SO yummy. Not so great for my IBS but on St. Patrick's Day I didn't give a darn.

By the time I got home though I was chilled and my left foot was hurting. A hot bath helped the chill and the IBS but an hour later, my foot was hurting more. I still had to go out to visit someone and to the bank but as I made my rounds the pain grew worse and it was hard not to limp. When I got home I knew it was time to spend the rest of the evening with the foot elevated, the gas fire burning in the kiva, Celtic Woman playing on the stereo. Physically, between my painful foot, painful gums (still hurt from the dentist "stuff" last Friday), and painful cold sore, I feel, as my mother would say in a mell of a hess. But spiritually I feel terrific. I kept up with Dave, I did the climb and nothing is actually broken. I will be fine tomorrow!

Being a child again

2010-02-03T20:25:00.000-08:00

This morning's hike was such fun! Eight of us piled into three cars and drove up Big Tesuque. Some of us (me included) didn't have our snowshoes with us but we had yaktrax (cramp-ons) so Dave decided that those with the snowshoes would go ahead and pack down the trail and the yaktrax folks would follow.

As usual, the first half hour was tough; I always have difficulty starting. Thoughts go through my head of turning back and waiting in the car. But I continued on and was grateful that one of the fellows was quite slow too; it gave me plenty of time to stop and breathe. But after the half hour I got my rhythm and the hike became its usual wonderful experience. It was a bit cold--30º--and it started to snow but we were sheltered from the wind in the trees. And I had enough layers on that I was very comfortable. We climbed about 500', up to 10800' and then we went off trail--as Dave likes to do--and that's when it became more difficult. These photos show us at that point.

First, it started snowing harder and those of us without snowshoes started punching through the snow. The snow was about 4' deep in places so when we sank, we sank up to our hips. Although it was difficult, it was still so much fun. We became like kids again, rolling in the snow and laughing as we sank. Even one of the snowshoers slipped and fell in a spray of snow.

But it eventually became too difficult and we turned around and started heading back down. By the time we arrived at the cars, about 5 inches of snow had accumulated and the temps had dropped to 25º. It normally takes us about 30 minutes to drive down the mountains to Santa Fe but because of the slick, windy roads, it took us an hour. The drive home was even worse. My car almost did a 360º turning left on one of the side streets and 15 minutes later a truck almost plowed into the back of my car at a stoplight. I was SO relieved to get home!

I've spent the afternoon relaxing by the gas fire, reading a book and feeling VERY happy to have had 2 hours of fun in the snow!

Don't eat standing up

2010-01-26T12:08:00.000-08:00

I have a vivid memory of a Friday night when I was 16 years old. My mother had died a short while before and dad and I had started a routine of going grocery shopping on Friday night, after he came home from work. Sometimes we would go out to dinner afterward, sometimes we would buy t-bone steaks to cook at home or bring home a BBQ'd chicken. Now, BBQ'd chickens in Montreal are wonderful. You can get a bit of an idea if you buy one of those hot roasted chickens at Smiths or Albertsons but they still don't quite compare with Montreal BBQ'd chickens. You could also order BBQ'd chickens to be delivered to your home, rather like pizza. The most famous was St. Hubert BBQ--but I digress.

Anyway, this particular Friday night we'd bought a chicken. And as I was standing in the kitchen, ripping open the foil bag and smelling the delicious aroma, I started tearing pieces of it off. Dad, coming into the kitchen, said in that sharp censorious voice he often had "For goodness' sake, don't eat standing up!" Now, this wasn't the first time I'd eaten standing up nor would it be the last. I had a habit of eating that way, as well as eating sitting down. Which is why I was the "chubby" one in my family. But I did and do most of my comfort/mindless eating standing up. Often in front of an open refrigerator. When the rest of my family was sitting around the dining room table talking adult talk, my adolescent self would sneak into the kitchen, open the fridge door and filch leftover desserts, sometimes squirt some whipped cream into my mouth. Occasionally mom would call "Are you in the fridge?" So you can see that my sneaky eating was hardly a secret. Shameful, but not a secret. And I find myself sometimes doing the same now, after dh has gone to bed. Except that I'm not chubby anymore. But if I start eating standing up too much more, I could be on my way again.

I write this because yesterday was a particular case in point. I was feeling sentimental, feeling like I wanted to get in touch with my "motherly" self. So I decided to make a chocolate cake from my stepmother's favorite recipe. Chocolate oatmeal actually. I went to the grocery store, bought the ingredients and came home and got started. Now prior to this I'd had a pretty good eating/exercise day. Except for the two chocolate chip cookies I had eaten at breakfast. Standing up, just after I'd wandered into the kitchen from bed. But I'd resolved to put that behind me. Somehow my mind didn't compute that putting chocolate chip cookies behind me and making chocolate cake later in the day didn't quite match up.

Anyway, I put the cake in the oven and forgot that I live at high altitude--7200' to be exact. High altitude baking apparently requires some adjustment and, true to the warnings on the website that I read afterward, my cake fell a bit in the middle, leaving a cookie type crust around the edges. As it sat cooling on the counter, I nibbled the edges off. Standing because I was making dinner. And then, as I beat the buttercream icing--another requirement for my stepmum's cake--I started "tasting" it. And then scraped the bowl. When I think about it, I probably consumed about 200 calories standing there. At least. Who knows because it wasn't a "portion" it was just a finger full here and there, here and there. A spoon full. And later in the night when I was up far too late, I went and had a rather large piece of the cake. I ate it as I walked toward the chair I was flopped in, watching an old Law & Order.

My point is that eating standing up doesn't USE more calories. Not appreciably. So there is no advantage to eating standing up as opposed to sitting down. And the advantage to eating sitting down is that it takes more effort. You have to find a bowl or a plate, you have to put the food in/on. You can SEE what you are eating, you have that space between stimulus and response as Covey would say. You have that extra time to say "Wait a minute, do I want this? How much am I eating here?" And if you want to go ahead, you have the opportunity to sit down and savor what you are eating rather than shoving it furtively into your mouth, hoping that no one will notice.

Don't eat standing up. It's a habit that's worth breaking.

Love of reading continued

2010-01-24T20:55:00.000-08:00

Well I have now finished the fourth book of the mystery series that has recently hooked me. I only have one left although, luckily the author is still very much alive and hopefully working hard at her next one. It will be a long wait and I am almost reluctant to finish this last.

I so wish I could write like that! What satisfaction there must be in being able to immerse one's self into a whole other world when you want to, a world where you can control the characters, the action. I have heard though that some authors say that occasionally the action runs away from them and they end up writing something they never intended to. But that too would be part of the excitement; not knowing where an idea is going to take you.

Every time I read a good book I think "Why can't I do that?" The main reason is that I can't sit myself down for long enough to create a story line, characters, etc. And I admit to being intimidated by reading books that have so much richness to them, so much depth. Is that part of this modern world where so many of us have become observers instead of participants? At least I have a toehold in this "writer's world" though by posting to this blog every so often. Maybe all of these posts will eventually become a novel....

I love libraries!

2010-01-22T11:40:00.001-08:00

Dh and I decided at the end of 2009 that we would cut back on our non-essential spending and make 2010 the year we grow our retirement funds. Not that we intend not to enjoy life and only look to the future. People know me better than that. No, it was just a matter of taking a look at where and how we were spending money and making each dollar count.

Now I am a bibliophile. I love books. I used to work in bookstores. Which was like an alcoholic working in a liquor store--not a good idea. I normally cannot walk into a bookstore without leaving with at least 2. Books are expensive though. And sometimes even though the first couple of pages of a book were interesting, the rest was only so-so. (Actually sometimes I've read books that started as ho-hum but then got really interesting. It's hard to tell.)

Anyway, I decided I would start using the library more. So whenever someone told me about an interesting book, I'd look for it in the library. I was amazed at how many times the book was right there or else I could put my name in and I'd get it within the week. It's silly, really for me to say I was amazed. I mean, I've used libraries before. Lots when I did my degrees. But I'd got lazy and impatient. Too used to just going to the bookstore or ordering online.

This is saving me lots of money. I've read 4 books that I might have bought otherwise and enjoyed 3 of them. And now I will finish this blog and go pick up the book I borrowed this morning. Mmmmm!

Rambling

2010-01-21T14:39:00.001-08:00

This morning I was musing about family relationships--specifically parents, grandparents and siblings.

My parents were 40 when I was born and my grandparents and aunts were, accordingly, older as well. My sister was 10 years older too. So, as far as taking care of relatives went, that was something I never really did. My grandparents and mother all died by the time I was 16 and my dad was very robust up to his death at 87. He made his own decisions on his care together with my stepmother. I lived in another city, 8 hours' drive away. I was a single parent with responsibilities to a young daughter. I don't regret that I wasn't "there" for my Dad. We had a mutual understanding that I was to stand on my own two feet and so was he. We talked on the phone weekly and my daughter and I visited him every 6 weeks for long weekends. We created a lot of memories over those years, good ones. When he became too feeble for my stepmother to manage at home, he made the decision to go into a lodge but he actually died barely 6 months later. I think he chose that way and, up to the end, he was lucid and made his own decisions. When the docs pressed him to have an operation, he said "I am 87 and I have had a good life. Give me painkillers and let me be." Both my stepmother and I supported him when the docs wanted us to override him. I am glad that we did. He left this world the way that he wanted to.

My sister died at 48 but she lived in another state, had her own family and I was only able to visit her a few times in the final year of her illness. I wish we'd lived closer but it just wasn't feasible. Still, we mended fences in that final year, gave mutual forgiveness for silly things we had said and done to each other over the years. I am thankful that we both faced up to the fact that her time on this earth was over and that letting everything but love go was the best thing to do.

As both Mom and my sister died young of cancer (Mom 56, sis, as I said, 48) I have felt that these last 20 years have put a responsibility on me to live well as they never had a chance to or didn't have the knowledge to. Mom could have taken better care of herself; sis put her career ahead of her health. Dad took very good care of himself; is it coincidence that he lived to be 87 and was healthy right up to the final 6 months? Do I want to live to be 87, as my dad did? I really don't know but I do know that I want to live as he did--independently, making his own decisions, and not require Laurie to bear any kind of burden. I want her and her children to remember me as I do him, lucid to the end, choosing his own path. I would rather that they didn't have the memories I do of my mother and sister, suffering and wasting away.

I want them to have their own friends and their own lives because the normal--hoped-for on my part--course is that children live on past their parents and so they need their own support system after I am gone. I will be only a memory, I won't be able to be there as they encounter more things down the road. I do miss my Dad terribly. The other day I was sorting through a box of old cards and photos and came across a Christmas card he'd written and I felt such an intense longing for his wisdom, his love. But I have him in my heart, I am thankful for that. And I miss my mother and sister and wish I could have had them longer. But it wasn't to be and, again, now the responsibility lies with me to make my own way in life, to create memories that I can hand on to my daughter and family that they can pick and choose from.

One thing I've been realizing as I sort through my memorabilia, and as we sorted through my m-i-l's memorabilia last year: the memories that my family will cherish in the future will be of their own choosing, not mine. The things that meant a lot to me may not mean a lot to them. So it's pointless, sometimes, to hang on to things just because "I am keeping them for my children." Once they are old enough, ask them if they want it, and if not, and if you don't want it, let it go. Sure they may be sorry in the future, but probably only in a passing way. At least that's been my experience.

Nope, we have to live for ourselves, not for our parents, not for our children. Our parents chose their lives and the greatest honor we can accord them is to be the very best that we can be in our own lives; to live our lives to the full. Our parents gave us the gift of life. It is our responsibility to care for that gift wisely and well. Ditto our children.

So in terms of health--I've finally got there--we ought to live according to the healthy principles that we now know, in our generation. So my mother stuffed me full of food when I was a child as a sign of love. That's what SHE knew, but I know better now. And my sister decided that a hectic career, flying hither, thither and yon, skimping on sleep, eating haphazardly, was more important than taking care of her health. She chose that, but I don't have to. Not because I want to live to be 87 or because I fear the future, but because I want to live healthy NOW. I want to take advantage of all the beauties where I live now. I want to run and not be weary and walk and not faint. I want to swing my grandchildren around in the park and play with them and not sit on a park bench waving at them or have them see me lying on the couch--NOW. I want them to hear that Grandma has gone hiking, or have them go hiking with me, NOW and into their teens and 20s I in my 60s, in my 70s, maybe in my 80s. I can prepare for that NOW. I want to sit in front of them and eat healthy foods and them to see that healthy foods are fun and delicious. NOW. That it's the conversation and love and play that's as nourishing as the food.

The future will take care of itself if we take care of the present.

And that's my soapbox for today :) Now if only I can get rid of this cold....

Because I have been given much

2010-01-14T08:10:00.000-08:00

There's a hymn that we sing in church that goes:

Because I have been given much, I too must give.
Because of thy great bounty, Lord each day I live.
I shall divide my gifts from thee with every brother that I see,
who has the need of help from me.

Because I have been sheltered, fed by thy good care…
I cannot see another’s lack and I not share-
my glowing fire, my loaf of bread-my roof’s safe shelter over head,
that he too may be comforted.

Because I have been blessed by thy great love dear Lord,
I’ll share thy love again according to thy word.
I shall give love to those in need. I’ll show that love by word and deed,
thus shall my thanks be thanks indeed.

The words were written by Grace Noll Crowell (1877-1969).

As I was thinking about Haiti this morning, feeling guilty that I am so preoccupied with my own very trivial concerns in light of their terrible suffering, I thought of that poem. And I realized that feeling guilty about being so blessed does no one any good. I don't have any answers about why disasters happen. I do know that much suffering in the world comes from ignorance, from want and from greed, from people deliberately choosing to follow evil paths. Natural disasters are just that. Natural. Our earth has its weaknesses, its faults, just as we humans do. And from time to time those weaknesses and faults cause a catastrophe, just as human weaknesses and faults do.

We can help Haiti regardless of whether we have surplus money. If we lack money, we can help them by praying for them in whatever way we believe. If we are healthy enough, we could sacrifice by giving up a meal and sending those funds to whatever relief agency we feel comfortable with.

But, as one news commentator pointed out, this catastrophe is only one more item in Haiti's long litany of suffering through the decades and centuries. From time to time countries come up on people's radar through disasters or war and great humanitarian efforts are mounted. And then another disaster comes along.... When I think of Haiti, I think of Scrooge's exchange with the Ghost of Christmas Present. As his time with the ghost was almost finished, the ghost revealed to Scrooge two emaciated children shivering beneath his robes, and said that the boy was called Ignorance and the girl Want. The spirit warns Scrooge, "Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased." Scrooge shudders and asks the ghost whether the children have "no refuge, no resource," and the spirit retorts with Scrooge's same words, "Are there no prisons, no workhouses?" And Scrooge realizes how smug and oblivious to the suffering around him he has been; he has himself been ignorant and because of his ignorance, those who could have been helped by his great wealth went wanting.

Ignorance does indeed spell doom in so many ways. For those in poverty stricken countries, it means that they lack the knowledge and means to create sustainable communities, to build safe housing and sanitary conditions of life. For others in wealthier communities, ignorance can lull them (us?) into thinking that what happens to others doesn't affect them and, more tellingly, that it can't happen "here." Or that danger can somehow be kept at bay by walls or by weapons or by someone else's expertise. But it can't as we have seen time and time again over the last few decades.

We are all responsible for our own and other's safety. We have been given much indeed here in the so-called "western world." Knowledge at our fingertips, choices, choices, choices.

May we choose well in our daily lives so that we can bless ourselves and others.

One more day left in 2009

2009-12-30T19:52:00.001-08:00

And I still have my last few days in England in September to complete. I hope to do that tomorrow. For now, though, I will just post a photo from Halloween in AZ with my grandchildren. Somehow I skipped posting at the end of October.

I decided to dress as Elphiba (sp?) from Wicked because I'd enjoyed the show so much and I took one of the songs she sang "Defying Gravity," as my mantra during my trip to England this summer. So, here I am with my beautiful granddaughter. After seeing myself with black hair, I was tempted to hit the hair dye, thinking that it made me look younger. Then I realized the amount of maintenance that would involve as well as having to keep painting my face green and all the heavy makeup. So I will remain grey :)

At the beginning of December I was back in AZ enjoying my granddaughter's first ballet performance in The Nutcracker. She played two parts--one of the children at the party at Clara's house and then one of the bonbons who emerges from Mother Ginger's skirts. She did very well at both performances and was so happy. Here's her big grin after the first performance.

We had a very quiet Christmas this year. Moved out of Flame's house on December 24th and we both collapsed on Christmas Eve. I gave dh a box of chocolates and he gave me one too. Plus I received a box of Walkers shortbread biscuits from Sheila in England. I will need to do some serious hiking and healthy eating next week to regain my girlish figure! I did have my annual view of "Scrooge, A Christmas Carol" with Alistair Sim. I think I have watched that film over 40 times as I have seen it almost every year since I was 10. I never tire of it though. Didn't watch Miracle on 34th Street this year though nor It's a Wonderful Life.

And, the next to last day of the year, we have finally stopped living in other people's houses, among other people's stuff and are settling into a condo. Here is a photo of our fireplace and the chair in which, just prior to my getting up to take this photo, I was sitting and typing out this blog on my laptop. I took the photo with my Blackberry and somehow it's come out quite grainy. But it still reflects the feeling of warmth and contentment that I have right now. We don't have much more furniture than this at present--it's still in Las Vegas--but I am so very grateful for what we do have. And I am glad that I put up my Christmas trees. I bought the taller one last week on sale just before Christmas and the small one in the photo is a wooden "Advent tree" that I bought in Vancouver several years ago. It has 24 small wooden figures and miraculously I haven't lost any of them in all the moves. The boat that is sailing in front of the fire is one that I bought for dh in Cornwall--I have yet to post my blog for the three days I spent in Cornwall in December; that is what I hope to do tomorrow but I will put the blog in chronological order so look for it labeled "September 15-17."

For now, though, I reflect on all of my Christmases past, and my Christmas present. I hope, like Scrooge that I have more Christmases to come and that, like him, I will keep Christmas in my heart. And, to end tonight's post, a photo of some special people with whom I shared many Christmases

Christmas 1994. From left to right, my late stepmother, late father, my honorary sister in law, my late honorary grandma Dooley, me (yep, brown hair), my stepsister in law, my daughter, my niece and my stepbrother. What wonderful Christmases we had in Ottawa!

I hate photocopiers

2009-11-16T06:14:00.000-08:00

I always approach photocopiers with fear. From my very first experience as a young, 50 dollar-a-week typist, who snarled up the office photocopier so badly that the technician had to be called, to my most recent this week as a substitute teacher, they have humiliated me. They have spat back at me, resisted my efforts to coax mangled bits of important documents out of their jaws, and sat in stony silence when I was rushing to meet deadlines. Yes I hate them and, like a dog who senses fear from a stranger, they seem to bristle at my approach.

My worst experience with that infernal invention was when I was beautifully dressed for a presentation at a large college store I managed. The dress was a particular favorite; my sister had willed it to me. As she was dying she had said, “Look, I just spent $1,000 on new clothes before I got ill. I really would rather have you wear the duds than have them donated to Goodwill and have some bimbo wearing them.” My sister was practical and opinionated, even in her waning days. So I picked through her closet and this dress immediately caught my eye. A soft pearl grey cotton with tiny white dots. Big puffy sleeves, a narrow self-belted waist and gored skirt. When I put it on I felt a little of my sister’s fairy princess magic; she had always been the blonde Cinderella while I had clumped along behind her like one of the ugly stepsisters.

So there I was that morning in my Cinderella mode, about to go and wow them (I hoped) at a motivational breakfast. First, however, I had to copy my speech notes; Cinderella still had chores to do before she could go to the ball. I hurried into the copy room. This was not going to be a difficult encounter, I told myself. No single sided to double sided, no collating or stapling. Just three little pages. I loaded the feeder and pressed the button. Silence. No whirring, no papers moving. I looked at the display message, “Put toner in.” Toner, oh great. I looked at the sheets; was there a way I could get around this? But, no, to give a professional presentation, I needed handouts. So I reached for the bottle of black dust, opened the drawer and uncapped the bottle. Whether the machine really did have a malevolent spirit, I don’t know. I don’t really know what happened in the next few moments. All that I do know is that the bottle tipped forward and the black dust scattered all over the front of my lovely dress, all over my hands. And, like Cinderella in front of the fireplace, I was no longer ready for the ball. I looked every inch the scullery maid and my dress was ruined. And the photocopier settled back, satisfied that it had once again put me in my place.

2009-11-08T14:07:00.000-08:00

It isn't very often that my hiking group has a Saturday hike; they mostly hike on Sundays and as we go to church on Sundays and then try to spend the day quietly, we don't go. But this week Dave arranged a Saturday hike as we hadn't had a gentle midweek one. And I was pleased that dh agreed that he'd go. Dh hasn't hiked with me in a long time; he says that I am in too good a shape for him and he normally doesn't like hiking with other people. So I half expected him yesterday morning to say that he'd changed his mind but, no, he did come along and here's the

photo to prove it: The hike attracted a large group, larger than Dave had expected I think. In all, we had 27 people spread over 5 cars. As the parking lot at the trailhead was already full, it was quite the process to unload the cars and then have the drivers drive back along the narrow dirt road looking for a place where they could pull off the side. But it was actually accomplished with a minimum of fuss and off we went antlike along the trail. It was a gorgeous day: blue, blue sky, temp aroud 65º until we got down close to the stream and the actual waterfall where, as you can see from the snow in the next photo, it was still cold.

There were even smatterings of snow along the path and by the waterfall. It took us about an hour of leisurely hiking along a fairly level path--with occasional stepping back and forth across the stream--to arrive at the waterfall. Dave said it was about 2.5 miles to the waterfall; some of the group elected to continue along farther but that was going to mean some uphill climbing so 11 of us decided that we'd had enough for the day. So after a 20-minute break, we turned around and retraced our path through the woods. I got to be the "tail"--meaning I stayed at the back ensuring we didn't lose anyone. That enabled dh and I to amble along at our own pace although Claire, a young woman I'd met on a previous hike, dropped back and walked along with me, chatting about what she was thinking of doing with her life now that she'd graduated and had arrived in Santa Fe from Maryland. It was fun sharing ideas with her. I was also glad to be working my legs and glutes; I seem to have acquired two extra pounds these past couple of weeks. If they're going to stick around, I'd rather they did so as muscle.

First hike in the snow this Fall

2009-10-28T18:19:00.001-07:00

Woke up this morning to the sound of rain beating on the roof. I listened to the radio and the weather forecast was for rain/snow here in Santa Fe, the temp only being about 35º. So I pulled out my warm hiking clothes--long-sleeved spandex shirt, waterproof pants, fleece hoodie, smartwool socks. But what jacket to wear? My warmer jacket has lost some of its water shedding ability--I need to NikWax it. So I decided on my unlined but waterproof jacket that I wore all summer and stuffed an extra sweater in my backpack in case I felt cold (and I did at the start of the hike.) My waterproof hiking boots and mittens completed my attire. Brewed up a thermos of herbal tea, had a breakfast of a peanut butter and apple butter sandwich and I sprinted out to the car; it's a half hour drive from where I live to where we were meeting up for the hike.

Three of the people who had signed up for the hike chickened out so that left Dave, myself and a new arrival in Santa Fe, Claire. Dave decided we would hike the Little Tesuque to Big Tesque trail. We've done the area a few times before but Dave always manages to find new trails for us to explore. When we arrived at the trailhead it was snowing hard--fluffy flakes--but there was no wind so that it wasn't too cold. Still my fingers were tingling in my mittens; I have yet to find a pair of gloves or mittens that keep my hands warm at the start of any hike. I usually have the tingles for the first 20 minutes or so until the blood gets flowing down to those extremities. Claire found that her hiking poles wouldn't lock so Dave found a couple of branches for her:

As she was also recovering from a hip injury, Dave modified his usual pattern of lots of hill climbing, something I was very grateful for as I huff and puff on hills. Still, the beginning of the Tesuque hike always involves about 20 minutes of gradual ascent.

This is a fence line that's become very familiar to me; I always feel relieved when we get to it because I know that the trail is going to flatten out for at least half an hour.

Toward the end of the hike Dave had me take the lead, saying that I would be able to pick the trail out. And I was, even with the snow on the ground. Maybe I will graduate to being a hike leader within this coming year!

October 21st A golden Fall

2009-10-21T08:27:00.000-07:00

I am now back in New Mexico. Don't know how long I'll be here but, oh well, I've come to terms with that over the past week of heavy soul searching. So while I am here I am going to enjoy it with my weekly hikes up into the mountains.

Having grown up in the East, I remember magnificent Fall colours. Reds and deep greens and golds. Here in this part of the Southwest though, we have the aspen. I do believe they give the maples a run for their money. Take a look at these photos and tell me if you agree:

Someone on a hike last week said that she thought of the sky here in Santa Fe as "our ocean." I think that's very apt. While I sometimes miss the sound of waves crashing against rocks, there is a similar feeling of spaciousness, of timelessness looking up at our amazing sky. The midday color, that blinding blue. The cloud formations. The "dry rain" that is called virga; the moisture evaporates before it touches the ground. The evening sunsets, which are incomparably beautiful--although Arizonans would probably demur. The night sky with its thousands and thousands of stars. I remember a hike I took earlier this year--a full moon hike--where one of my fellow hikers pointed out almost every single one of the constellations that comprise the Zodiac. Wow, I had never seen that before.

There is so much to see here when I pay attention, when I am not immersed in my arguments with myself. "Be still and know that I am God"--if I place the emphasis on the pronoun "I" while saying this aloud, then all my machinations, all my worrying over making decisions, get put into perspective. "I" am not God and my creations are very small in comparison to His. I need to nurture them though and keep on creating, always being aware of what my place is in this world. A blog is a creation, relationships are creations. Dreams and worries that float away in my mind are not.

Ironically, though, after all my talk about gold and blue skies, it has been raining throughout the night and into the early morning. No virga, just honest to goodness rain that puddles on the ground. But I no longer here the "pipipipipip" on the skylights so perhaps it has stopped. The cat-who-lives-in-this-house, Flame, is lying beside me, having missed out on his usual morning poke around the back yard.

And my car sits in the driveway, the bird poop washed away (Sheila would be so pleased, she of the "bucket and soap every morning and those blasted pigeons" brigade), glistening in all its newness once again. I am not really "into" cars, not like my dh is and my dad was. This is a nice car, it performs well. But, truthfully, I'd rather have a home than a car. It was just that this was less expensive and easier to choose :) But I also want to say a quick word about our modern buying and selling and the lies that we tell one another. The car salesman told me this was a great deal. We had exchanged stories about how car salespeople cheat women and he was forewarned that I was in no mood for being shmoozed. So he didn't "shmooze" me, just told me the great things about this car and let me decide for myself. I only know certain "great things" about cars--how it drives, what the gas mileage is, does it have cruise control--just the basics and not much more than that. Dh wasn't around when I bought the car. As soon as I brought it back to Santa Fe, he immediately noticed that the back tires were different from the front. ???? Was I supposed to check that? So he called my salesman and the salesman gives this story about one back tire having had a blowout so they had to replace the other back tire as well. Dh says, why different tires and where's the warranty on the tires? Oh, said the salesman, ummm, well, we just buy tires from a tire place and I'll have to get the warranty. So on my almost-new car with 7000-odd miles, I have a pair of Michelins on the front and a pair of cheap tires on the back. Sigh. And no floor mats. Another sigh. And the CD player doesn't work properly. At least that's under warranty. What have I learned from this. Well, it's kind of like what Susan in "Miracle on 34th Street" says to Kris Kringle: "You're a very nice man, but you're not Santa Claus." Caveat emptor, buyer beware.

Sept 22nd to Sept 26th: From the Highlands to the Rockies

2009-10-06T22:28:00.000-07:00

I arrived back in the U.S. on September 22nd. My dh met me and we immediately began driving to Alberta to visit my mil. It was a 600 mile drive in our old Toyota and we did it in about 10 hours. Jet lagged and bleary eyed, I stumbled along with dh while we visited with mil and tried to help her clear out her house. The high point of our visit, however, was a trip to Waterton Provincial Park. As I looked at these photos of the Rockies, I thought back on my trip to the Highlands in Scotland just two months before. Both places so very beautiful, similar in many ways except of course that the Rockies are much higher.

One view of Waterton Lake from the Prince of Wales Hotel.

And another view.

Sunlight dancing on Cameron Lake. Unfortunately, the sun also reflected on my camera lens. Need to learn how to compensate for that :)

Dh, mil and myself enjoying the sunshine at Cameron Lake. One of the few relaxing moments in my "re-entry" to North America. The next day we were back in the car, driving another 1300 miles in 2.5 days.

On the way, we managed to pick up a passenger, an abandoned cat that we found wandering at a scenic point at the vermilion cliffs. Didn't get a photo of the cat, but this is the area that the poor thing was abandoned in. Temperature was about 98º and she was so thin! She traveled with us all the way until we got to our dd's town in southern AZ where the animal shelter took her in, promising us that she'd be well looked after.

The three of us did see more spectacular scenery around the North Rim of the Grand Canyon though.

Saturday, Sept 5, 2009 Sailing on Algarve Coast

2009-09-12T12:08:00.000-07:00

The minibus picked us up from the hotel at 9:15 and off we went to the harbor at Albufeira. The condos by the harbor were a bright complement to the sparkling sky and sea.

This was our 20' sailboat, the Amorita. There were about 17 people onboard, couples and a few families. Although there was no sightseeing "audio" a la "on your left are the magnificent...." we were regaled with Portuguese pop music. It was bright and happy music--Portuguese equivalent of Las Vegas chanteurs and chanteuses. Spoken Portuguese is difficult for me to understand. I can understand a great deal of French and some Spanish and, actually, I can recognize some written Portuguese words. But the Portuguese pronunciation was something I just couldn't recognize. Wikip

edia says it is similar to French; I didn't find it so. Still, melodies are melodies and I thoroughly enjoyed relaxing on the boat deck as we plowed through the waves listening to what I was sure, by the melody and yearning in the singer's voices, were Portuguese love songs.

As the boat chugged along the coast using its motor rather than the sails--I think that the wind wasn't strong enough for us to move along fast enough by sail power alone but I don't know why they didn't put the sails up--I was mesmerized by the cliffs and rock formations.

That one reminded me of photos I have seen of carvings along the Nile. No human hand had carved these formations though.

We passed many small beaches, some with bathers, some deserted. Some I only glimpsed through the rock formations.

The boat cruised along for about 2 hours and then we dropped anchor just off a beautiful beach. The sailors took some large bags in the dinghy over to the beach to set up the bbq. Then one came back and took us in two small groups, first into a nearby cavern to see the rock formations and then over to the beach where we jumped into the ankle-deep water and waded ashore.

We sunbathed and swam while we were waiting for the bbq. The water was cool, the sand was hot. I slathered on the suntan lotion, determined not to get a sunburn and, at the end of the day, was quite pleased that I had succeeded. I wasn't getting super brown but I also wasn't becoming a tomato.

The bbq was delicious. Grilled chicken, pork and Portuguese sardines, tomato salad, and crusty bread. They offered us as much as we could eat. I had never eaten fresh sardines before; they tasted a bit like trout but saltier. And quite yummy.

After we finished we had another hour of sunbathing until the tide started to come in, lapping at our feet and towels. There was a Finnish family nearby us, the young daughter beachcombing and finding pretty shells. Although she spoke no English, we managed to communicate our mutual interest in shells and we traded a couple back and forth. Then we saw that our sailors were packing things up so we gathered our beach towels and stuff and lined up for the dinghy ride back to the boat.

It was difficult to climb in and out of the dinghy elegantly, especially on the beach. But we didn't lose anyone and that's the main thing.

I took more photos of the rock formations along the coast as we headed. So amazing. And what a wonderful day!! We arrived back at the marina at about 4:30, were collected by the minibus and were back at our resort by 5:00 p.m. We showered off the salt water, had a light dinner and then went to karaoke night. Yes, I sang and yes, Sheila filmed me with her camera. And no, a copy of that is NOT going to appear in my blog!

Thursday Sept 3rd and Friday Sept 4th, Portugal

2009-09-10T12:47:00.001-07:00

I am getting so far behind with my blog and the hundreds of photos that are piling up in iPhoto. This past week I have been laptop-less, sunning and funning on the Algarve Peninsula. I'll try to summarize this week and then work backwards. Sometime I might finally get all of this done :)

We left home last Thursday morning at 3:00 a.m. for a 6:00 a.m. flight from Bristol to Faro, which is the regional airport for the Algarve Peninsula. All went very well with the drive, parking, check-in, etc. Flight took off on time, smooth ride, arrived to sparkling sunshine and warmth. Which was a very welcome change from what we'd been having in England.

It was a touch confusing at the airport with 370-odd British tourists trying to find the right buses for their hotels. We finally found our bus and off we careered on a rather wild and jolting journey through Albufeira to the Alfagar Resort. First impression of Albufeira the city was that every building was white and boxlike; large buildings looked like children's building blocks, all white. Or maybe sugar cubes? But it wasn't a glamorous city; most of the buildings on the way were small businesses and many looked like they were struggling. And in a way they reminded me of Arizona and New Mexico in terms of the topography and suddenly I felt a pang of homesickness. Beautiful as England has been with its lush greenness and stone cottages, I realized that "home" is the Southwest for now and I miss it.

After about an hour we arrived at the Alfagar Resort. The Alfagar is an older resort, about 15 years old. It's built on the edge of cliffs with fabulous views of the ocean. The beach is a steep walk up and down but quite do-able. I got up every morning and headed down to the beach to do a half hour/two-mile walk every morning.

Not only was there this beautiful beach close to the resort, there were also four pools. We mainly stuck to the pool that was below our apartment.

Our one-bedroom apartment is to the far right in this photo; second floor, just above the

arched door. The apartment was simply furnished but comfortable. It could have done with a couple of ceiling fans because the nights were so hot and there was no a/c. We spent a couple of mornings on the beach--the ocean was very swimmable with a gentle surf and the water cool but not frigid--and most afternoons at the pool. No, that's not me in the photo in the bikini. Those days are long gone for me ;)

The front of our apartment block. Bougainvillea growing around this entryway. Aah, bright sunshine, warmth, water. This week was going to be fun! The following day, Friday, we met with the tour rep and chose two excursions that would take us away from our basking by the water: a sailboat trip on Saturday along the coast and something called "Best of the West", a coach tour to four landmarks of this part of the Algarve, Lagos, Cape St. Vincent, also known as "the end of the world," Monchique, a small town in the mountains and Silves, a Moorish city.

The next post will describe and display the sailboat trip.

August 17th and 18th, on to Lancashire

2009-09-02T16:04:00.000-07:00

I never knew either of my grandfathers very well. My maternal grandfather, Grandpa Torrance, died when I was 2 and a half. My only vague memory of my grandfather was as a figure in a large bed with a satin counterpane. I remember being brought in to sit with him after the family had dinner and his pointing to the bottom of a very large wardrobe. Inside the drawer was a teddy bear. I would hold the teddy bear and sit beside his bed. It's an odd memory; I
don't remember anything he said to me, I just remember the teddy. Many years later, I told my cousin about the memory and she gave me an old teddy bear that had belonged to her mother, my aunt. I always hoped that was the teddy bear I used to hold; he is threadbare and very hard--stuffed with straw--but he sits on the shelf above my desk.

As the years went by, my grandfather remained a mystery. He was only mentioned now and again by my mother. I knew he had joined the Spiritualist Church, that he was a quiet and rather sad man. My mother said that he had lived in Scotland and that his mother had been Belgian. I don't know why my family was so uninterested in family history. My cousin said that my maternal grandmother, who came from Ireland, said that the past was the past and the present was what was important. My paternal grandparents felt the same way. And for many years I, too, remained uninterested in even my grandparents. Until I discovered the joy of genealogy/family history about 15 years ago. I started pestering my father (my mother was long dead) about his family and slowly pieced together information about his side. But my mother's side was more difficult. Not only was my mother dead, but so was her only sibling, her sister. My cousin knew a few things and gave me what she had--obituaries and family photos.

According to my grandfather's obituary, he had been born in Renfrew, Scotland, to a Robert Torrance, in 1882. But when I searched birth records in Scotland for a Harold G. Torrance I couldn't find anything. On an impulse, I looked in the England records and I found him! It was so exciting. I was able to order his birth certificate and found that his father indeed was called Robert and his mother was Jeanne Durussel who was actually from Switzerland. As the months went by I found out that they had married in Liverpool and moved to Lancashire, ending up in a small town called Hoddlesden. Unfortunately, Jeanne died young and the children in the family worked in the cotton mill. Grandfather joined the East Lancashire Regiment and went off to South Africa to fight in the Boer War. Why he put about, once he was in Canada, that he had been born and lived in Scotland, I don't know. I've found nothing to indicate that he ever lived in Scotland. It seemed that he wanted to hide or forget something but I didn't know what.

I had lots of facts and documents but I still didn't know anything about the family itself. Despite posting on genealogy lists, I found no descendants of grandfather's brothers or sisters. I decided that I would at least visit where grandfather had been born and lived. And I also wanted to visit Preston Temple. A friend of mine who lives in Manchester kindly said that she would pick me up at Preston train station and take me around the area. We would both stay overnight at the Temple, attend a session and then she would drive me to Hoddlesden the next day.

The train ride, was as always, fun. And Sue met me at the station with a sweet hello. Off we went in her small car into the countryside around Preston as she showed me where our early Mormon missionaries had traveled.

We went to the bottom of Pendle Hill, a historic place where the founder of the Quakers, George Fox had a vision on the top of the hill of many souls coming to Christ in 1652. Almost two hundred years later, Mormon missionaries came through a nearby village, Downham, baptizing almost the entire village in the river.

Pendle Hill viewed from Downham village.

Another view.

A lovely Church of England building.

I do so love the English countryside. I have said that so many times, I wish I could find other ways of saying what this feeling is like. Like coming home. Heart tugging. Words are inadequate and now, months later as I look at these photos, it all comes back. And I wish I were there again. Sigh.

Later in the evening, we went to Preston Temple. The rooms that are available for lodgers are like university dorm rooms--hard cots but with clean linens and comfortable, clean bathrooms. Sue and I chatted for a bit but then both of us went to sleep. It was going to be an early morning.

The next morning we went to the Temple and afterward I took some photos of the grounds.

Sue, standing by the front entrance.

Looking up at the angel Moroni.

After we went to the Temple, we wandered around Preston, visiting the sites that are important to our church history.

The River Ribble.

We also stopped into St. Wilfrid's Catholic Church in Preston. It is the oldest Catholic church in Preston, completed in 1793 with some modifications in the late 1800s. A lot of very beautiful carving, as you can see.

After visiting St. Wilfrid's, Sue drove me to Hoddlesden, to the Rosins Inn, which would be my "home" for the next two nights.

Friday into Saturday, August 28th and 29th

2009-09-01T17:46:00.000-07:00

My goodness it's quarter to two and I've just got home from a night out at the pubs! I haven't been out this late since dh's Christmas party in Las Vegas two years ago. But I had such a good time. I sang along with the band at one pub--but not on stage--and danced too. And when the band finished in that pub we went over to another one, called The Somerset and Dorset--and watched folks do karaoke. Almost all of the songs were from the 70s and 80s. When everyone joined in on songs like Sometimes When We Touch, Maggie May and He Ain't Heavy, I did too. Brought back a lot of happy memories.

Speaking of memories, I had a very special package arrive in the mail this morning. Through posting my family tree on ancestry.com I'd received an e-mail from a cousin of a cousin on my Campbell side. He wrote me that he'd inherited this cousin's letters that her father--one of my great uncles--had sent from France during WWI. My great uncle died just three weeks short of the end of the war in 1918. In fact, I hadn't even known about him until 2001 when we went to Scotland on a holiday and found the family headstone in Dundee Cemetery that listed him as having died in France. Anyway, this cousin offered to mail me copies of the letters as well as copies of photographs of him, his wife and baby daughter. True to his word, he did so and I received them this morning.

The letters from my great uncle to his wife were so touching that I cried. Although he says several times he hopes the war ends soon--the letters were written at the end of 1917 so the end was almost in sight--most of the letters describe his love and concern for his wife and daughter and good wishes for the folks back home. He signed the letters with hugs and kisses and I am left with the impression of a very loving and kind husband and father. His wife never remarried although she survived him by almost 60 years. Included in the papers was a copy of a letter that his CO had sent his widow describing my great uncle as one of the best men he had ever known and how he would never forget him. My great uncle didn't die of wounds, ironically he died of bronchopneumonia. He was in the Labour Corps of the Seaforth Highlanders. He would have been involved in road/railway building and repair, moving ammunitions, possibly loading and unloading trains, and other non-combat duties. I've only picked that up this afternoon and I now have more to read about as a result of this amazing summer.

August 13th, Cleve Abbey

2009-09-01T05:51:00.000-07:00

I spent most of the week after I returned from the Highlands walking Sheila's dogs and pottering around Burnham. But one day I did decide to visit an old abbey that was a short bus ride away. Cleve is an old Cistercian abbey with some of the buildings dating from the 13th century, others from the 15th. According to advertisements, it is supposedly has the most complete and unaltered monastic buildings from that era in all of England; a fairly impressive claim considering all of the buildings that exist in England.

I did enjoy the Abbey very much. It was a warm, sunny day. The kind of day that inspired Browning to write "Oh to be in England...." This was the England of my memories, the gentleness, the dreaminess. Where I live in the southwest US is beautiful too but it's a huge, yawning beauty rather than a cosy blanket kind. Perhaps it's because I am not as familiar with the legends of the Southwest as I am of all of the English stories--or perhaps there is something in my DNA that calls me back to England. I really don't know what it is but all I know is that wherever I go in England I feel at "home."

Anyway, back to the Abbey:

This is the entryway to the Abbey grounds. In the 13th century, this would have been where the poor would come for alms.

The interior courtyard where the monks would have walked and a view of the cloisters.

I look at these old walls and think about the masons centuries ago who created these walls. Did they think of the past and the future as we do? Did they wonder how long their work would last? Did they take as much pride in their work as we are in awe of what they did?

The monks' dormitory.

Even monks like a bit of decoration; these tiles and others like them were found near where the monks would have had their beds. Not beside every bed though so either only certain monks could have decorations or perhaps other monks chose decorations that were less permanent?

The day room where they would copy out manuscripts.

The refectory.

Staircase leading to the refectory.

The refectory ceiling, another amazing piece of craftsmanship.

Looking out on the peaceful countryside.

The back of the Abbey.

In a tent outside of the Abbey, there was a display of more of the 13th century tiles that had been uncovered last century. Archaeologists are trying to prevent them from degrading; they've discovered that uncovering them has actually harmed the tiles and they are trying to figure out the best temperature and environment to keep them at so as to stop them from crumbling away.

After leaving the Abbey, I walked along the road beside this river to a farm where I had cake and a drink before heading back to Sheila's house.

Weds. Aug 5th, Camusdarrach Beach Walk

2009-08-30T19:10:00.000-07:00

This walk was supposed to be, according to my Make Tracks map, a "stroll," an easy walk along the beaches from Glenancross to Traigh or, if I was feeling adventurous (which unfortunately I was) all the way to Arisaig. My map was right about the first part. My taxi driver friend drove me from Mallaig to Glenancross at about 9 a.m. and we agreed that I would phone her when I was ready to be picked up. I told her I planned to be in Arisaig by mid afternoon. And off I went.

The laminated instructions were very detailed and I progressed well along the beaches, enjoying the sunny day and meeting up with lots of people (and dogs) enjoying the August weather.

I watched this three-legged golden lab keep up with his black companions, enjoying the surf.

As you can see from the way these folks are dressed though, beautiful as the day turned out to be, it's still wise to have long sleeved shirts and long trousers, at least in the Highland mornings.

Although Morar's beaches don't sing, they are still that beautiful silvery color like Eigg's.

It only took a little over an hour, even with all the stops I made to enjoy the scenery--and the views of the small isles again--to reach Traigh Beach. The map gave me the alternative at this point to return to Mallaig via the golf course across the road from the beach or to extend my walk another two hours to Arisaig.

I looked at the folks playing golf, amazed that dogs tagged along on the course, and decided that I would continue on along the beaches to Arisaig. So turning my back on the golf course, I ventured down on the beaches once again.

It was shortly after meeting these folks that I began to find the hike difficult. I scrambled over the rocky outcroppings, looking for the best way around the coves. It was often difficult to find my footing and I don't have the greatest sense of balance. I knew that I was heading in the right general direction by keeping to the coast.

After watching this family of gulls for several minutes, the rocks became too difficult for me to clamber over any further and I made the decision to move farther inland.

The views were still magnificent but the trail was difficult to follow. Eventually, though, I encountered a large caravan park. Caravaning is very popular in the UK. Farmers lease their fields to caravaners; it's a way for them to pay for their farms as farming has become a difficult way to make a living across the UK. Many of the caravans I passed had TV dishes and looked like they had set up "home away from home" much like our RV folk do back in the US.

I became quite lost just past a large caravan park near a village called Back of Keppoch. My laminated map said that there would be several paths that would lead me to Arisaig. "Several" was the correct term but I didn't realize that, having left the beach paths because I was having difficulty navigating the rocks, I would plunge into deep woods. I walked for what seemed like ages, unsure whether I was heading in the right direction. I had my compass with me and so knew that I was heading south but "south" can encompass a LOT of miles and it would still be easy to miss a town completely if I went too far south and not enough east or west. I should have brought the more detailed orienteering map that Make Tracks provided but I didn't. I recommend to anyone reading this and thinking of doing something like this, DO bring the orienteering map and USE it!

Eventually I came through the woods to a deserted beach with what I thought was a large docking area. The beach was covered with kelp. And as I moved closer to the "dock" I realized it wasn't one dock but a series of rusty iron "tables." I think they might have been used for drying kelp but couldn't find anyone who knew what I was talking about when I returned to Mallaig later.

I tried to find my way along the beach but once again the trails led me into woods. After two hours of tripping over roots and rocks I risked climbing over an old broken stile that I feared would lead me into an angry farmer's field to encounter who knew what. But after a quarter mile I was very happy to see in the distance the pretty town of Arisaig. Feet aching and sweaty, I plodded into the town, down to the cafe by the harbor and rewarded my efforts with a delicious slice of victoria sponge cake and a large pot of herbal tea. I then called Mary the cab driver and she picked me up and delivered me back to Mrs. Watts.

A hot shower, a night's rest and in the very early morning, with the moon still shining, I bid farewell to Mallaig and boarded the train back down to England. It was a wonderful week's holiday!!

Tuesday, August 4th, Leaving Eigg for Mallaig

2009-08-29T09:28:00.000-07:00

As I reflected on my trip to Eigg, what struck me was how wonderfully unspoiled and untouristy Eigg is. In speaking to the islanders, I've learned that they are struggling with how to move forward. They can't advertise Eigg to much for tourism because (1) the island can't sustain it and (2) it would spoil Eigg not only for themselves but also for those tourists who come to the islands to rediscover the simplicity of life, the adventure of it. So many tourist activities elsewhere are
"directed"--you go somewhere with someone, at someone else's timetable, you follow someone else's directions. All safe, all secure. But with Make Tracks you can follow their instructions or not follow them; it's completely up to you. Apart from the one hike on North Morar where I had to be at the harbor in time for the return ferry, I could hike as quickly or as slowly as I wanted. I could get lost, sweat and worry and then, relying on my own resources of compass and map, find my way back. I never thought of myself as an adventurer and yet when I think of how I devoured Nancy Drew mysteries and read Girls Own annuals and envied the adventure these fictional characters had I realize it was always deep inside of me. This time in the West Highlands has meant almost total freedom. No ads screaming at me to do this or that, to buy this or that. In Mallaig I chose whether to have dinner or not, whether to buy a sandwich for lunch or just snack on trail mix. On Eigg, Mairi Carr provided full board and her cooking was a delicious reward for miles and hours of walking. I occasionally saw people on my hike but we would pass each other by with a brief "hi, how are you doing" each concentrating on where we were heading.

There are no signs once you leave the pier and you have to know how the tracks work--i.e., bits of paint splodged on fence posts, rocks or sometimes on the track itself. As I've said before, it's easy for a city or town dweller to get confused between a people track or a sheep/cattle track. (That's true of the area around Maillaig as well though.) Only one tea shop down at the pier; no tea shop at the beautiful Singing Sands; just the Sands. Thank goodness.

The exception to my "solo hiking" was this morning. At breakfast Helen, of Helen and Barry the couple from Edinburgh, said she wanted to find the Cathedral and Massacre Caves. Barry wasn't up to it because of his crutches so I told her I'd come along with her and make one final attempt to find them. So off we went. Mairi had told us to take a different route than I'd taken the day before but as we toiled up the steep road it seemed we were walking away from the cliffs, not toward them, and I feared that we were lost again. We met a fellow just leaving his house and, when we asked him about the caves, he said that he and his collie would be happy to lead us to the right pathway.

He was very chatty, telling us that he reckoned that Beowulf (?) was actually set on Eigg and not in Norway. We hardly got a word in edgewise as he marched us down the hill toward the cliff. He left us at the gate leading down to Cathedral Cave with detailed instructions on how to find each. And he was spot on.

Cathedral Cave is larger and easier to find. It's so named because it was once used for Roman Catholic services when such services were banned in the 18th century.

I doubt that the cross that was inside the cave dated that far back but it made a nice touch. We had to be careful scrambling over the large rocks. This photo is deceptive as the flash illuminated the cave; it was much darker inside but not as dark as the Massacre Cave.

Even with John's detailed instructions, we had difficulty locating the mouth of Massacre Cave. It was a very narrow opening and even at 5'3" I had to stoop quite low and enter the cave almost at a crawl. I took this photo looking back at the opening. John had warned us that we would need some kind of torch to actually see anything and he was right about that as well. Helen had a very small torch that only gave off a weak, pinpoint light so I found myself groping my way along the cave wall and after only about 10' the atmosphere got to me and I told her I was going to turn back. And the history of Massacre Cave? Well in the 16th century, there were about 400 inhabitants on Eigg, mostly MacDonalds, who would periodically go over to Skye on raids. On one such raid they killed and wounded a group of MacLeods who days later set sail for Eigg seeking vengeance. The islanders, learning of the approaching MacLeods, hid in the cave, which is apparently very deep.

When the MacLeods landed, they met only one islander, an old woman who refused to tell them where the others were even though they burned her house and slew her animals. Frustrated, the MacLeods prepared to sail away. And this is where the islanders made their fatal error. Wondering if the MacLeods had left, they sent a scout out of the cave to climb up the cliff and take a look. It was winter and there was snow and the MacLeods, looking back from their boat, saw the scout clambering up the cliff from the cave. So they returned and, trapping the islanders in the cave, they built a large bonfire at this, as you can see, very narrow entrance. The smoke filled the cave and all of the islanders died. Except, I suppose, the old woman.

It is a very dark and difficult place. We both felt, standing in the dark with only the camera flash and Helen's fading torch to throw some light, a kind of sadness that still seemed to hang there. I, as a Campbell, also wondered why so much is made of the Glencoe massacre while few people, outside of those who visit Eigg, ever hear about this, far worse, massacre. I suppose it was because this was simple clan warfare as opposed to Glencoe which has come to be associated--I believe erroneously--with a violation of Highland hospitality. It was far more complicated than that.

At any rate, you can see from my relieved smile, that I was glad to head back to the cave opening.

We arrived back at the pier with about 20 minutes to spare before the ferry arrived to take us back to Mallaig. Some last photos of Eigg and the journey back to Mallaig:

The ferry stopped at Muck; a lovely-looking island. Perhaps I'll get there next year.

We saw seals on the rocks in the distance.

Goodbye small isles! And back to Mrs. Watts' for a good night's sleep, ready for my final hike tomorrow.

August 3rd, Monday, still on Eigg

2009-08-28T11:55:00.000-07:00

My Dutch fellow guests left this morning. It was another grey, windy day and I decided to walk along the bay and try to find the Massacre and Cathedral Caves. I was supposed to follow the purple trail but, whereas the blue trail had been fairly easy to follow, I lost the purple trail about midway through the hike, just as I was heading down toward the beaches. Just like the other day at Loch An Nostarie, I kept heading into deep fern thickets. Although I didn't step into any bog, thank goodness, I stumbled several times into holes and almost pitched over. It was quite frustrating. After about an hour of this I did get close to the rocks but couldn't find the caves.

Tired, I decided it didn't matter whether I found the caves, I'd just enjoy sitting and watching the tide coming in.

So I ate my lunch and thought. I was alone as usual except for the ubiquitous sheep. It was easy to just let my thoughts roll around.

This sheep obviously was thinking too. I think that's the mainland in the distance but my sense of geography is not the best if you haven't found that out already.

Very elemental; like something out of a Wagner opera :)

As I turned back to the last place I'd seen a purple splodge for the trail, I saw the Sgurr brooding above me.

On the way back I stopped to look at the old manor house. Eigg used to be owned by a series of wealthy men. In the early 1900s, one of those landowners built a splendid Italianate villa and his wife designed beautiful gardens around the villa. The villa is now a local meeting house and the gardens are no more.

But under the arches in the front doorway, life still goes on. I was enchanted to see this little family; the young ones big enough that they would soon be gone, mom bringing them one last meal. (They were gone when I went back the next day.)

I'm reposting this map of Eigg to show where I walked today. Once again I started at Kildonan Farm, walked to the left along the beach to the leftmost darker green spot, partway along the edge of that darker green then down toward the dark grey line along the coast. I sat down at the coast to have my lunch then retraced my steps back toward Kildonan with a short stop at the manor house.

Just up from Kildonan Farm on a grassy hill are the ruins of the old Kildonan Church and cemetery. There is some controversy as to how old the church actually is--some say it's 16th century, some say it's 18th. It certainly looks older than any church I've seen so far. If you look closely at the far wall, just toward the left side, you'll see a small sculpture.

This is the best photo I could get of the sculpture. I couldn't actually get inside the church a the gate had rusted shut. I leaned over the gate and held my camera out to take the photo. To find out about it I had to resort to my usual Google to find out what this figure was and why it was protected like that. One website says that the figure was once thought to be a Sheela Na Gig sculpture--Celtic mother goddess. But this same website also doubted that it was such a figure. Still, there are some manuscripts that say that St. Donan, who founded Kildonan, was martyred in 617 by Irish pirates at the request of a pagan (Celtic) queen. Does this figure date from that time? Who knows??

Ruins of a Celtic cross in the cemetery.

The cemetery with old and new graves.

There are graves inside the church as well.

When I got back to the farm the water was off again. Although it's seemed wet to me the past few days, the island hasn't actually had that much rainfall; not enough to fill the well. When the water level gets too low, the pump stops working and Colin has to restart it. The pump was only off a few hours thank goodness. Four new guests had arrived: a couple from Inverness, an IT specialist working for the Highland Board of Education and a young woman from Edinburgh who was putting in new software at the doctor's office. Another huge dinner, another night of reading by the woodstove.

Sunday August 2, 2009 on Eigg

2009-08-28T09:22:00.000-07:00

Breakfast was delayed an hour because of the water problem but it was fixed by 9 a.m. Good thing. My "city girl" mentality had kicked in big time with the commodes not flushing and no water. I sometimes joke that my idea of roughing it is a Quality Inn but it's only half a joke. I do like creature comforts like nice bathrooms and mattresses, pillows, windows, roofs....

In the past year I've become a fairly good hiker. I can walk for miles, "relieve" myself in the outdoors (although I try to avoid it as much as possible), I know what to wear and what to pack to carry for a day. But the idea of actually sleeping out in the wild. . .ummm. . .no. I will gaze at the stars and then return to comfort. I enjoy hiking because I like overcoming what I always felt were my physical limitations.

I was the reader rather than the doer when I was younger. And I still love to read--although reading books has been taking a back seat to the Internet for the past couple of years. But now I feel, well, more able to handle life because of the hiking. I figure, like flying, if I can overcome my fear of getting lost, of falling off a cliff, of not being able to complete the hike, then I am stronger than I assumed. And if I'm stronger than I assumed about that, maybe I am stronger than I assumed about other things as well.

But to get back to the "no water" situation on Eigg. The pump was fixed by 8:30 a.m. and we had a wonderful hot breakfast presented to us at 9 a.m. I love Scottish porridge; I've eaten it daily since I've been in Scotland. The Swiss couple were leaving Eigg so we said good-bye to them at breakfast. The Dutch couple was going to hike up to the Sgurr of Eigg; Eigg's cliff. This is the Sgurr; I took a photo of it as we left the farm.

An Sgurr is what is called a monadnock or inselberg, a knob or hill that rises up on its own. It looks a bit like a butte too. It was formed millions of years ago from lava. It's not a volcano though, not even an extinct one. The climb up to An Sgurr is steep and on a grey day it can be quite forbidding. So I decided that the Singing Sands hike sounded easier and more cheerful. The Dutch couple had done that hike the day before and said it was lovely.

Another reason I was curious about the singing sands was that when I first arrived in England, I read a Josephine Tey mystery called The Singing Sands in which the detective traveled to an island in the Hebrides (not Eigg) in search of the singing sands. So when I read the list of hikes and saw Singing Sands I decided I definitely wanted to see/hear them. The detective had found them peaceful and restorative; I hoped they'd do the same for me.

I had another laminated map and instructions on how to get there put together by Make Tracks but the Dutch couple advised me to follow a slightly longer trail. They said the scenery was beautiful. The islanders have mapped out some trails and colour coded them.

This is a photo of the map; there's a large poster of it at the ferry landing and you can also buy the maps at the gift shop. Our hosts at Kildonan lent us copies. The trails are hard to see in the photo but at least it's a visual of what I am talking about.

Kildonan Farm, where I started from, is on the point at the end of the red trail close to the bottom right of the island. I walked up a long road (the grey line) to the edge of the forest, the darker green on the map and then up through the forest, following the orange trail to where the blue trail began. The trails are a series of splodges of coloured paint on stones, on fence posts and sometimes even on the ground. I was amazed that they were easier to follow than the trails on the mainland although I did run into difficulty the following day with the Cathedral Cave.

At this point I'd come out of the forest and walked to the dark ridge, about to descend to the first beach at Laig Bay--not the singing sands.

I think that's the Isle of Muck in the distance.

Greylag geese on the beach at Laig Bay. They're the largest kind of goose in the UK and Europe. I don't know much about birds (again it's the city girl thing) so I had to ask my fellow guests at the farm that night. There are supposed to be loads of different bird species on Eigg but although I often heard them, I didn't see very many. Maybe I'm just not good at looking??

This is actually a road on Eigg, shared by walkers, cars and cows.

My first look at the singing sands. Actually, that island in the distance looks like Rum with its cloud cap. The sun broke through as I tried to find my way down through the pasture and cliff to the beach. I ran into a herd of cows led by a bull with rather long horns so swiftly retraced my steps and came down a different way.

Aaah at the beach. The sun was shining, it felt so warm that I took off my boots and socks and, voila, feet revealed! First time my hard working feet have seen the light of day outside for the whole of this trip. I walked around on the sand and, while it didn't sing, it definitely squeaked. The sand is made of quartz and that's why it squeaks apparently. It was brilliantly white and the beach was--well--squeaky clean as well. There were a few other people down on the beach too, all enjoying the day.

I felt that this beach was as beautiful as any I have seen in the US, the Bahamas, Hawaii, Bermuda....

I stayed on the beach for a good hour, just relaxing after my 5-mile walk. Then the clouds seemed to be moving in so I packed up the remains of my packed lunch. I looked up at the cliffs--that was another option for me to get back to Kildonan--but decided I was too tired to take on a cliff. So I walked back along the road from Howlin. I was glad of my decision as 15 minutes after I started along the road it started to rain quite hard. The road itself was quite hilly so that when I got back to the farmhouse my calves were so sore I could hardly hobble up and down the stairs to the attic. I was glad to be the first one back because that meant I could take a nice long bath in the narrow but deep tub. I felt so much better. Then the Dutch couple returned, we compared notes about our hike--they said the hike to the Sgurr was challenging and, considering how fit they were, I decided that was one hike I wasn't going to do. Another wonderful meal cooked by Mairi, a roaring fire in the woodstove, a good book on the history of Eigg and I was as relaxed as a cooked noodle.

August 1st, Saturday. Sailing to Isle of Eigg

2009-08-27T06:02:00.000-07:00

The itinerary said that I was meant to take the ferry over to Eigg today at 2:15. Whenever I am supposed to be somewhere at a certain time I get nervous about missing the connection. Which is quite silly as the b&b was an 8-minute walk from the ferry terminal; I watched the ferries go in and out every morning. And the ferry was only leaving at 2:15 so it wasn't like I had to be up at the crack of dawn. Still, that sailing time meant that, being the nervous nellie that I am and also given my propensity for getting lost, I couldn't go too far from the town. I decided I wouldn't rush out of my b&b, just take my time, leave my bags at the b&b and just stroll around the perimeter of Mallaig.

As I walked up the hill past my b&b I looked back and saw Eigg (on the left) and Rum, shadowy in the early morning sunshine. They'd been two shadows in the distance for the three days I'd been here and soon I'd get to see them closer.

I'd taken a photo of Skye a few days ago but this was a different view of it, further along its coastline. I did wonder whether I ought to have gone over to Skye. I know that it's beautiful and there is much to see there but, well, I wanted to do something a little offbeat on this holiday. Dougie at Make Tracks had said that Skye is the island that most people want to go to and I was also intrigued by the idea of the "small isles" of Eigg and Rum. I only had so much money so I chose Eigg as Dougie also said that Eigg was the more interesting of the two. So I only saw the others in the distance and maybe some day I'll be back.

I admired the wildflowers growing by the road.

And stopped to watch a fisherman repainting his boat in the harbour. I'd never thought about it before but there are a lot of blue boats. Guess it goes well with the water??

Here's a dog who appeared to be waiting for the postman. The sight tickled my funnybone. I had

n't noticed the dog at first until he popped his head round. He didn't bark or anything. Just looked at me and I thought "Hmmm. Wonder if he and the postman are friends?"

I had a huge lunch at a restaurant called The Cabin. I'd gone in early and good thing too because very soon it filled up and people were turned away. I enjoyed every bit of lunch and was surprised to hear American accents at the table next to mine. I hadn't seen any Americans since my first night there when I saw those two couples in Highland gear. These Americans were dressed in trendy outdoor gear and the one woman among them looked very bored. The men seemed to be comparing the various places they'd been to. I tried to strike up a bit of a conversation with them about where they were going but they answered in monosyllables. Ah well, I've found plenty of Scots, English and Europeans who love to chat. And as I waited for the ferry to load, I struck up a conversation with a young English couple who were also going to Eigg with their dog. They were renting one of the simple cottages on the island for a week and planned to do some walking.

This statue on the pier at Mallaig had intrigued me. I hadn't been able to get very close to it as it's in an area that's blocked off so I snapped it as we moved past it on the ferry. The two figures are looking across to Skye but I don't know any more than that about it. I didn't find any literature on it and I forgot to ask Ian in the shop. At least I know it's not Bonnie Prince Charlie :)

The sky was very grey and so was the water as we made the 1.5 hour journey over to Eigg. We passed Rum (pictured). It often has that cloud cap hanging over it even when there's sun on the other islands. Someone on Eigg told me that Tolkien supposedly had Rum in mind when he created Mordor in his book. I checked it out on google and several other websites also mentiion the Tolkien/Rum connection. So either it's true or the other folks ran into the same fellow I did.

As we approached Eigg, I took a photo of a white farmhouse perched on a hill. I didn't realize it then but that would be my b&b for the next three nights, Kildonan Farm. We docked at high tide and getting off the boat was a bit tricky. We walked down part of the ramp and then we had to watch for the waves to draw back and rush across the end of the ramp before the water surged back and swamped us. And it was, of course, pouring rain.

I felt a bit uneasy when I first arrived. Eigg IS a very small isle and everyone seemed to know one another and where they were going. As I've said before, I may give the appearance of being an intrepid traveler but on the inside I'm often feeling quite timid. There was no real reception area at the dock, just a road leading up to building that was called the cafe. Even my English friends had each other and were met by someone who said they'd show them their cottage. So I stood there for a moment until a man asked me did I know where I was going? When I said no, that I was going to Kildonan, he said, ah they were here a few moments ago, just go on up to the cafe. So I did. There were about 25 people all chatting away and I asked again if anyone knew the folks from Kildonan. They pointed to a woman in a purple sweater who turned and said, ah you must be Valerie. She said it would be awhile before she would be leaving--she was part of a group having a good chat--and to wander around the building. There was a tiny grocery store, a craft shop, a series of posters on the walls describing the history of Eigg, how the islanders had bought the island from their landlord in the early 1990s and how they are trying to create a green community and there was, as well, the cafe. So I sat down with a piece of fruit loaf and waited for Mairi Carr. And wondered if I was going to enjoy this. I felt lonely and foreign.

But after about 20 minutes Mairi came and got me and once we were in her jeep bumping along the very narrow road to the farm, her warm manner made me feel a whole lot better. She said there were four other guests at the farmhouse--a couple from France and a couple from the Netherlands. We bumped along the road to the farmhouse and when we arrived she helped me lug my suitcase up to the attic.

Yep, three flights of stairs. I had this bedroom to myself and decided on the bed on the left but I'd be sharing two bathrooms with the other guests. Still they were big bathrooms--they even had window seats in them--with real bath tubs.

And there was an inviting guest lounge on the second floor with a blessedly warm fire in the stove, comfy leather couches and chairs and a huge centre table piled high with interesting books and magazines. Mairi told me to settle myself in, offered me coffee or tea (I told her I'd brought my own) and brought me up a plate of gingerbread. I unpacked my bags and settled myself down on the couch in the lounge with a history of Eigg. About an hour later, the couple from the Netherlands arrived back from their hike and we soon were talking about the hiking on Eigg and on Mallaig--they were signed up with Make Tracks as well. And in another hour, the French couple--who were actually from Geneva--arrived back and we enjoyed the warmth of the fire in the lounge until dinner was announced.

Because there is no hotel/restaurant on the island, I had full board at Kildonan. And was the food ever good! That first night we were served a delicious soup and then lasagne and then a fruit meringue dessert. Mairi put out a notebook for us to indicate what we wanted for breakfast (egg, sausage, bacon, etc.) and whether we also wanted a packed lunch the next day.

The only small problem was that just as we were finishing dinner, the woman helping Mairi told us that the cold water had gone off. Hmmm--well, if the cold water is off, it won't be long before the hot is off as well. And, sure enough, as we were settled in the lounge dozing in front of the fire, we found out that the cold water was now used up as well and the toilets had stopped flushing. Hmmm. So I went to bed without brushing my teeth and hoping that there would be running water tomorrow.

July 31st, second hike, Loch An Nostarie and Loch Eireagoraidh

2009-08-25T02:14:00.000-07:00

I didn't need the taxi the following day as the walk actually started from Mallaig. So after another hearty breakfast I started off. It was spitting rain so I wore my plastic cape and waterproof pants, boots, etc. I felt I was fairly well prepared for the weather.

This was a very tough hike. First because instead of following a shore, I had to follow a track up into the hills and dales. And tracks over in Scotland can fade in and out. You think you're following a human track and then you find out that you've been following a sheep track. Signposts come and go as well. Still it all adds to the adventure. . .after, when you're back safe and sound and recounting the tale. While you're on a hill desperately trying to figure out where you are, it's not quite as much fun. I did have an ordnance map and compass and can't stress enough that anyone contemplating a walking holiday have both.

Anyway, I didn't get lost on the first part of the hike, the 3 miles to Loch An Nostarie. I found that Loch fairly easily and admired the views of the small Isles, Rum, Eigg and Muck. I'd be going to Eigg the following day.

And as I circled the Loch and headed up into higher hills on my way to Eireagoraidh (and no I can't tell you how it is pronounced because even though Ian and Angus told me several times I couldn't master it. It sounds something like AnRAYgohray) I realized that An Nostarie was much larger than I had realized when I first saw it.

It was as I left An Nostarie and started toward Loch E that I began to run into difficulties. First the trail disappeared. Yep, just disappeared. I took these next two photos to demonstrate the difficulty in deciding what a trail actually is without the benefit of signposts. This could be a sheep track or it could be a trail. Who knows?

So I consulted the text for the walk and tried to pick out the markers it mentioned. Couldn't see them so, continually consulting between compass and map I climbed higher so I could see. And ran into bog, that deceptive ground that sinks beneath you into smelly mud. And tries to suck your boots off. Ugh. And it was raining too. This is that time when I start to wonder what I am doing this for. I mean, sure, I don't want to be a couch potato but 45 minutes of a strenuous Leslie Sansone DVD starts to look awfully good when you're floundering around on a hill, alone, in the Highlands. And you can see from this photo that I was pretty alone.

But eventually I did see the burn (stream) that was mentioned in the text and, following it, I came to Loch E.

Which looked, that day, quite cold and forbidding. Actually I've heard it looks cold and forbidding every day. And there is no real "shoreline" around it. I scrabbled along shale and brush, got stung by stinging nettles before I decided I'd gone far enough for my taste.

So I sat down and nursed my sore hand and tried to take in the stillness. After a bit I was aware of the lap, lap, lap of the water. And that was the only sound until I heard rustling and two Scottish Amazons emerged on the trail. Scottish Amazons? I mean two strapping young women wearing bicycle shorts and tank tops and hiking boots who marched quickly past me (with a cheery "hallo and where are you from"), scrabbled a little farther along the banks and then turned around and marched just as quickly past me back and disappeared over the hill. And I was alone again.

Now you'd think that I wouldn't get lost going back, wouldn't you. Ummm--well--I did. First it started to rain--those white spots in the photo are raindrops. First I went up too high in the hills.

Then I saw Loch An Nostarie in the distance so began to head back in that general direction, relying on my compass.

But then I ended up slithering through a large field of tall ferns--that concealed more bog holes--down to the shore of Loch An Nostarie and hopping across shell holes partially filled with brackish water. Ian later told me that this whole area of the West Highlands was sealed off for secret exercises and training during WWII.

Still I finally made it back. That's the beauty of a map and a compass, you WILL find your way back if you use them. Five hours and ten miles after I'd set off, I arrived back at yesterday's Tea Garden to brilliant sunshine (that Highland weather) and had soup and a prawn roll and a cup of the most delicious hot chocolate I'd ever tasted. Then I stopped by Ian's, told him and Angus about the deficits of Angus' trail markers and went back to the B&B to try to scrub the mud off my boots and socks.

Another quiet night of some telly watching and reading.