To Cornwall, dreckly! (or, Part 1: The First 1.5 days of a Weekend Trip to The South West)

As I was going to St Ives
I met a man with seven wives
Every wife
had seven sacks
Every sack had seven cats
Every cat had seven kits
Kits, cats, sacks, wives
How many were going to St Ives?

Two! From a misty London town on a Friday night filled with calm and possibility.

Last week felt like a 'big week' for me at work. It felt full, at times a bit too full, but also productive, for the most part. I felt like I had 'earned' my weekend. A couple of weekends ago, after a similarly 'big week', I sent a message to Taco on Friday after work saying I felt like I'd 'earned' my wine time, but that just earned me a big fat hangover on Saturday morning, and I resolutely decided last week to not reward myself with booze because I was over feeling crap from drinking too much on those rewarding occasions. It was good having a drier week.

I digress. Friday night felt full of promise for a rewarding weekend, and it was a train journey, not a glass of wine, that was going to put some distance between work and my brain. Yay train! We rugged up in cycle-worthy attire (tights and tiny shorts obviously, and also my swanky new Oakley beanie that makes me feel like a London Cool Kid on a Bike, which I'm really not) and rode away from Trentham St with one overstuffed backpack and one excessively heavy sports bag over our shoulders (four between the two of us- count 'em, folks). The man in the shop raised my seat for me that morning, so I was sitting pretty.

Battersea Park Road was filled with people who weren't as free-wheeling as us, Chelsea Bridge was filled with lights that made it feel like Christmas; from here we descended into Otherhalfville. I don't think people in Chelsea fart. Or at least, they keep their fingernails in much better condition than I do mine. Perhaps if I could just nail the non-nail-biting habit I could cross the river and join the SW3-ers of the world... I mean, lit'rally join them... lit'rally.

Hyde Park glowed all misty magic-like as we rode around the edge of it. Taco and I faced the reality (and the apartments) that told us owning a little place overlooking one of the more famous parks in the world, whilst a lovely thought, is not a future likely to befall us. We reached Paddington after a little U-turning here and there (not bad following only a squiggly line courtesy of Google Maps plus London's excellent little blue street signs), me throwing off the 574kg sports bag with significant dramatics as my right ribs cheered beneath my layers.

The night before, upon hearing the price we had paid for the overnight train tickets, and with the two of us slightly in the dark on the matter, Tac's housemate promptly said “Nope you won't be getting a bed.” And he was correct. It was eight hours of sitting-up bliss for us in coach A. After putting the bikes to bed in the front of the carriage, we settled in with books and crisps and coke and chocolate. Somehow, I managed to snaffle a good few hours of sleep, mainly with limbs splayed as far out as possible.

We could see the sea! Penzance was grey at 8am on a Saturday morning. But the grey was different to London: even with a gentle drizzle it felt fresher and quainter and more cosy than confining. Taco took directions to our B&B from a taxi driver at the station, and as we rode along 23 seconds later:

Taco: So which way do we go?
Claire: … did you actually listen to what that guy told you?
T: Not really.
C: Were you just listening to the funny Cornish accent?
T: Yup!

We dropped off our bags and, unable to officially check in until 3pm, we headed off with the bikeys to explore Penzance and surrounds. We rode along the coast to Newlyn ('Fish by Post' is a very distinct possibility from many outlets in the region) and on Mousehole (that's “Mao-sall” for those of you playing at home) where we had breakfast at Pam's Kitchen and read depressing stories in the weekend papers. Pam and her friend (not sure which was which) gave us directions to Land's End, the easy way (my ass) being to head back to Newlyn then take the A30. What sounded like a major highway was actually an undulating and often-narrow country road, but undulating was the operative word, and while I'm not one to give up easily in the face of a few meagre &^*$£-off hills, we realised the 10 miles was going to take us a bit longer than initially expected, and the steadily-falling rain and encroaching darkness told us heading back to Penzance was probably a smart idea (Taco calculated this as we rode along and I went “yepyepyepIknowIknowokok” in response). It was only as we sailed back towards town we gave the wind-factor the respect it deserved: the return journey was about 9,875 times easier. So we didn't see the western-most point of England. But by golly our quads got a workout.

We ate awesome Cornish pasties (which would set the lunch scene for the proceeding two afternoons, also). We wandered *charityshopsmumblemumblewhat?nothing*, we checked out a gallery featuring the works of three local artists who all died a couple of years ago. I particularly loved Joan Gilchrist's stuff, most of which was set in Mousehole, but all of which had people and their stories as the basis [the picture at the top is Day Trip to Landsend]. We had a drink at The First and Last Inn; I mean how could we bypass a pub serving “probably the best real ale in town”? And as we sipped away, heard the life story of the “I'm here every morning from 10am” punter. I keep up a vague jollying-along of the conversations in these situations, Taco just lets his mind wander off and eyes glaze over cheerfully. Later in the evening we had a really excellent meal at local restaurant The Blue Snappa and saw a show at the local theatre called 'Pub Rock', which cleverly blurred the line between gig and play. Later at The White Lion, feeling incredibly not-Saturday-night in a turtle neck jumper (God I hate turtle necks), I sipped a Baileys alongside Taco and his Southern Comfort and we marvelled at how far your London dosh can go in a Cornish bar: £3.50 the lot, thanks love.

More (pasties) later...

Cornish-ified Claire xox

There's something funny going on in my brain that's making me feel sad...

It's quite a bit to do with working in an environment that is happy and is beautiful in a lot of ways, but also kind of sucks.

The other day I was involved in a meeting with a family who are just so dedicated to their Mum. So dedicated. But cancer is slowly taking over her brain in a relatively literal sense and they can't let go. And another guy vomited everywhere and concurrently lost control of his bladder while we were moving him; in a moment, vomit was forcing its way out of his mouth with real speed and ferocity, he was also really drowsy, but through the fug of drug- or disease-induced haziness and the violence of projectile vomit, and the slippery wetness beneath him, he was also trying to apologise for not being able to control what was happening. Apologise.

I wanted to be able to be wonderfully in control and help move him with as much ease as possible, but it wasn't particularly graceful. (I also wished along with sedatives and anti-emetics and analgesics, it was possible to put a dose of Dignity in patients' syringe drivers- pharmaceutical corporations: I'll give you rights to that free of charge.) And I wanted, with the family, to feel I was saying things that implied “I fully understand your situation and what is going on for you Mum, but at the same time, I have strong conviction in my clinical judgement and voilà my knowledge...”. But I don't think I really did do that, or say that.

I'm always unsure as to whether I'm doing the best thing, and I'm pretty sure the nurses think I'm a bit of a waste of space at times. And really I feel often I'm not adding anything new to the mix. The nurses and the assistants are so very much the beating heart of the hospice, and I sometimes I feel like a fraud. Walking around in my bright shirt, assuming a sort of self-important walk that is partly to do with the design of the shoes I'm wearing (you know how a pair of shoes can really change the way you walk? Well my Rocket Dog flats impose self-important bounciness), and partly to do with The Fear of Being Found Out: “Ohhh, you don't actually do anything, you make it seem like you have some knowledge base but really just help people stand up and wear flowers in your hair and a smile on your face.”

But then you know what?- the things in my brain making me feel sad?- not cancer. It's not a growing mass inside (or outside) of me telling other cells that were just doing their thing, minding their own business to Fuck Off Thanks Very Much, I'm Taking This Space. It's not gripping me with pain that keeps me awake all night, or nausea every time I think about moving. It's not stopping me from talking, or stopping me from stopping my waste products exiting my body in a socially-acceptable and comfortable fashion. It's not making me unaware of what's going on around me, or unable to get into my own house because of a couple of little steps.

So a little woe-is-me-this-is-sometimes-difficult-to-know-if-I'm-doing-the-right-thing moaning session, whilst being a good way of saying “shh, there, there ego”, or working as a kind of therapy or something, also makes me want to smack myself upside the head a bit, too.

Shut up, Claire. Put your flower in and give someone a hand to stand up.

Better late than never

And yet again she has fallen behind on the blogging front.
(I need to stop starting every single post with some form of that phrase. But at least I'm honest, eh?)

Due to the overwhelming nature of writing something after not writing something for a while, I'm not going to write anything.

But my dear friend Ger, a lovely Dutch fellow I did a bit of singy-songy fun with when I was living in Touzac (almost A YEAR ago now- weird to the power of seventy-five), has sent me a youtube link for some video taken on my last day in the little Frenchy village.

Let me set the scene (and provide the link)...
- It was boxing day
- I was hungover
- The sun was shining
- There were lots of nice people milling around the cafe
- We la-la-la'd the afternoon away. Sometimes sounding good. Sometimes sounding crap.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWCdg31QtOc

Rotterdam-London on new old wheels.

I have a new bike! And he's beautiful. And his name's Kev.

I spent ten days in the Netherlands at the start of this month. Taco came to London at the end of his big round-the-world trip and we had a jolly nice time hanging out again. Presuming that perhaps we might want some more jolly nice hanging out time, I booked myself a train ticket to Rotterdam. Everytime I fly low-cost carriers I vow not to do it the next time I need to go somewhere. Inevitably I forget when the next time comes around, and I am once again wooed by low low prices, forgetting the crap that goes along with them (having to pay if you want to sneeze on the plane, spending as long as you do on the airplane just getting out to the airport, normally having fairly massive delays...). But they didn't trick me into it this time- it was Eurostar all the way, baby! (Well, half-way if you're going to be picky- the trip from Brussels to Rotterdam was on Thalys, the Dutch rail thingy.)

To be honest, the first couple of days of my stay were a mixed bag. Taco will probably be the first to admit that the ups and downs of my emotional and mental state were more taxing than climbing to Machu Picchu. This was the result of a number of things (hormones, impending sickness, new environments, expectations...) However, a few days in I came around to feeling more settled within myself, especially after getting some good countryside runs in, chilling out with some beers, AND... spending some quality time with Claire Stanley and Emma Haywood. To be honest, the fact that we met in Rotterdam was almost insignificant- there was a lot of wandering and seeing and eating and drinking cool things, but the focus was really on blah blah blah blah blah. We hadn't been together, the three of us, we realised, for about 18 months. Which is a long time. So it was good. Those two women are really amazing ones. You done good, Stanley and Haywood parentage- you done real good.

I'd had in my head since booking the train ticket that I might use my own pins to get me back to Ye Olde England. The lovely little hand-me-down bike that Rachel Rai had bequeathed to me on her departure from England had sort of given up the ghost on me. To be fair- it had 2 flat tyres and a bit of a squeak here and there that I hadn't got around to doing anything about, so it probably had more to do with me than the bike itself, but let's not split hairs- we just weren't meant to be together, long term.

Among the lovely Dutch people I met through Taco was Robert. He works at a bicycle workshop that is part of the local Barendrecht OP-SHOP! Here they take bikes that are no longer wanted, fix them up and sell them on. Fantastic. Just what I wanted. So down I toddled one morning to check out the wares on offer. Robert said "There's one that I thought might be good for you..." and 5 minutes later a deal was done. One little ride around on 'the wheel' and I knew we were a match made in Barendrecht.

It felt so great to have my own bike again. That night after dinner, Taco and I went riding for about an hour through the neighbouring villages of Barendrecht. It was nice and warm and still light at 10.30pm, and we rode between big paddocks and stopped for icecream at a snack bar just before it closed, feeling like 15 year olds on a Saturday night date or something. The next day we rode to Den Haag- halfway there the rain came pelting down but we stopped under a bridge and ate a boiled egg, and sheltered in a cute little pub until the sun came out again then continued on our merry way. We met up with Emma and her lovely friend Isabel and saw a dance/music show at 'De Parade'- a festival set-up which felt very much like The Garden of Unearthly Delights in RAdelaide! Holland is unbelievably fantastic to cycle around: there is nowhere where bikes have to compete with cars, normally being given their own cycle path everywhere, or else given respect and space by drivers. Hills are non-existant, signage is great. And even when we did get lost, the Dutch, whilst maintaining their directness, are really helpful and warm in getting little losties back on track.

Having kitted out the bike with a few necessary bits and pieces (repair kit, pump, paniers, lock- and in the process spending more than I had on the bike itself!), I left Rotterdam on Friday morning. I had with me a lovingly printed and translated set of directions that Taco had organised through an online bike route finder. I was totally down with what "schuin links" and "rechstaf" and "knoopunt" were, had sandwiches, and a deadline: The Hook of Holland by 2pm. As expected, I lost myself soon after leaving Taco, but after doubling back on certain sections about three times, and asking about seven different people to point me in the right direction, I was back on track. The ride took me through some canal-side villages, past ponies, and next to big scary highways that I didn't have to deal with because I had a bike path set back in the field. The last section was along the harbour, with sea breeze pushing up against me as the Stenaline Ferry came into sight. It felt a bit weird going through the boomgate for customs and tickets on my treddly, and I arrived with pretty much no time to spare, thanks to my excellent knack for getting myself lost those couple of times on the way. But no matter! I was there. I was onboard. I was... asleep for most of the sail across.

We arrived in Harwich at 8pm. After getting my Welcome Back To England stamp with a bigger smile than I normally get from the Home Office folk (perhaps they breed them happy in the north?), I rode off from the harbour, fairly literally into the sunset, which was donating big smears of pink and orange to the sky. I had done my Googly Mappy research the day before, drawn crappy little pictures in my notebook (iPhones! Pah!) and so had a rough plan and fingers crossed on how to make it to my next destination- the little town of Mistley, about 10 miles from Harwich, to the house of Eileen and Gordan. A few days earlier I'd contacted Eileen through Couch Surfing, and she said they'd be happy to have me for the night, even at late notice. I was quite excited about CS-ing again, as it had been a while. Harwich had a very quaint fishing village vibe, complete with seagull squawks, and the 10 miles to Mistley were excessively pretty- along the Stour River, through lush overgrowth of the nature reserve, past big paddocks of nothing much, all with the pink hue of sunset. Admittedly, there were more hills in those 10 miles than I'd encountered in 10 days in the Netherlands, and old Kev made me walk a few bits of them, but we got there! Eileen and Gordan were so welcoming. We had some chats, some wine, some cheesecake- all the good things in life- and then I hit the (very comfortable) sack to give my bum a rest for a few hours.

... and then she accidentally slept til 11am. But that was OK! A quick croissant and a photo of my hosts, and off I set with lovely hand-drawn maps from Eileen to get me going. Already the English drivers and not-so-friendly nature of UK roads were noticeable, but I managed to follow bike paths to Colchester (England's oldest recorded town!). I bought a map, I bought a helmet. From here a bike path went on to Tiptree. This was mainly unsealed paths and a few times I heard myself chanting "don't get a puncture, don't get a puncture" under my breath. I thought I was out of the woods as I zoomed along a proper road again, but whilst literally this was true, metaphorically, and in terms of my little tubes 'n tyres holding up, this was not the case.

* See Claire, her bike upside down, blood on her hands from tyre-removing cuts, searching for the puncture, patching it with her Dutch puncture-repair kit ("yes I'm sure the ghnoohungoor is what's needed here..."), working away furiously with her little pump, assuring the couple in the horse and cart that "it's under control", and finally flipping little bikey over again, quite pleased with own efforts.*

* See Claire then set off down the road towards Tiptree, her triumphant smile slowly fading at the realisation that THE AIR IS ESCAPING AGAIN! See her eat two packets of biscuits in frustration and defeat set in as she wheels her bike into town as English rain starts to drizzle spitefully.*

It was getting towards later afternoon now, and I felt somewhat worried about getting back to London before it was dark. I was about to find a park and give Puncture Repair Round 2 a go, but just briefly popped my head into the dry cleaning place next to the CLOSED bicycle shop.

Me: "Errm... is he... gone for the rest of the day then?"
Dry cleaning man #1: "Yeah I should say so, if he's closed up now."
Me: "Bummer."
Dry cleaning man #1: "What've you done?"
Me: "Got a puncture and not fixed it properly."
Dry cleaning man #1: "Go on Steve, you'll have a look at it for her, won't you?"

Steve (Dry cleaning man #2) wheeled Kev out the back, then whipped out his tools and fixed my puncture- the thing I'd thought was the hole was actually around the corner from the hole; but it's a lot easier to tell that once you're inside Steve's makeshift workshop and have a bucket of water to check it all out with.

So I was pumped up again! In the literal and figurative sense of the words! I rode on a little further, under the directions of Steve and DCM#1, to Kelvenson, where I got on a train to London. I had hoped to go on a bit further, to Chelmsford, but didn't want to be riding around London in the dark having no way of knowing really how to get home.

Such a good trip! Aside from the ups of English countryside hills and the downs of tyres, there was a great feeling of freedom regained with my own bicycle again, pretty pretty sights and a sense of being buoyed by nice humans in various countries. I'm looking forward to exploring a bit more of the UK with Kev over the summer, and fixing many a puncture in a timely and graceful fashion.

Midweek Musings from an Unemployed Bum

"It's been a very... sensual day... a day of senses..." said Mikhaila to me this afternoon, as we stood in the V&A at one of the 'Please Touch' cabinets, she rubbing a rock while I grasped a small, stone owl statue (and just thinking to myself that doing this was making me feel oddly content.)
"Yes! That's really true!" I replied, and we proceeded to list off some of the lovely ways that our afternoon together had invigorated our senses...

Sight
- Cast members of 'Wicked', 'Billy Elliot' and the West End Gospel Choir performing at Victoria
- The streets of Kensington and Chelsea- wide and lined by rows of regal, beautiful, Mary Poppins-ish apartment buildings
- Gold mosaic neighbouring blackened brick in Westminster Cathedral
- John Cleese, shopping for a fancy chair, in Harrods

Smell
- The florist we walked past somewhere in South Kensington
- Incense in Westminster Cathedral

Sound
- Our shoes on the steps in the V&A
- The man farting in a spacious V&A gallery (and the giggles from us that followed)

Taste
- Goats cheese
- Arnott's BBQ Shapes
- Orange chocolate in Harrods (the sweetness of which was only slightly tainted by the offerer's pushiness following our tasting: "So which boxes are you getting? Those ones or these ones? Hmm? Hmm?!")

Touch
- A Versace dress in Harrods (my entire London savings in a piece of fabric)
- The cool owl-statue under my hand

I recognise, in part-agreeance with my friend James, that London is, in some ways, not all it's cracked up to be. It's expensive to live in, and it feels too-close-to-home-to-be-excited-by at times because of the cultural similarities.

But then I do things like hang out with Mikhaila and unashamedly take photos of ourselves in front of amazing white-washed buildings with big black iron fences and bright red telephone boxes next to them. Or I put my feet in the sand of the fake beach of the Southbank and drink Pimms with my friend Heidi. Or I watch West End performers on a rooftop at lunchtime, sitting amongst tourists, theatre nerds and business men on their break. Or I sip wine on the top floor of a building on The Strand and look out at The Thames, Big Ben and the London Eye, all three awash with drizzly orange light at 7pm. Or I have a rehearsal for a musical with excited people who love muscials, too. Or I go for a run at 5.30am or 9pm with sun involved in either choice.

And then I think it's also kind of freaking cool.

Friday brain vomit

I've been racking my brain (just prior to Googling whether it's "racking" or "wracking") for the last few days, trying to think of something blog-worthy. Nothing very specific has sprung to mind, so I might be all a bit racked out at the moment.

Perhaps it's just that my brain has turned to mush as I've been taking in a bit more television than usual. Oh, the lure of the British telly. As I write, I sit with a bowl of Pringles and a glass of wine in front of me (cocktail glass, all of the wine glasses have absconded), one woman in a pink tracksuit holding the neck of another woman in a snakeskin, lighting up the screen in front of me. A fairly crazy Friday night, you'll agree.

The other night I watched 'Long Lost Family' and cried.

Bex and I are slightly addicted to 'Waterloo Road': bad script, bad acting, bad-ass fifteen year old boys and that sexy middle aged woman from 'Silent Witness'. It's Wednesday night heaven.

In other news, I've realised it's time to admit something... I have an addiction to dot points. So here, in no particular order, are some bits and pieces from Life At The Moment:

- Next week is my last week at St Christopher's. And I feel sad.
- I play a little bit of the guitar each day. I'm still quite bad.
- Taco is coming to London in less than two weeks and I'm very excited about seeing the lovely Dutchman again.
- Two of the most beautiful girls I know- Emma and Claire- are now BOTH on this side of the world. And by hook or by crook (what a great saying), we'll be The Three Chicas again, for a day, a week, a moment.
- I've been getting up AND going to bed IN THE LIGHT! It gets light before 5am! The sky's still light at 10pm!
- On Sunday I start rehearsals for a little musical I'm going to be in. I'm playing Lucy in 'You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown' with South London Theatre. I have no idea what it'll be like, but dude, I am mega excited about doing a show again.
- Interviews next week for possible future physio work.
- That might end this little update for now. My brain feels really mushy on Fridays. It seems to often end up being a rewarding but bloody busy and often slightly draining day at work. I love it. But chocolate definitely helps get me through the afternoon.

Will be in touch with more comprehensive words, less dot points (actually that I can't promise), and a little more poetry soon.

Lots of love,

Claire.

Alrighty folks, so I got back a couple of hours ago from the Superhero Fun Run. And it really was a fun run. Lots of enthusiastic people (including slightly too-excited-for-Sunday-morning personal trainers in charge of leading the warm up), lots of polyester (ineffective heat loss, anyone?), lots of good vibes being spread through Regent's Park by various caped crusaders.

Here is me in some of my garb. It's London so no-one really gets that excited when you take the tube in green tights, red hotpants, sequinned shoes and a lot of floral crap pinned in your hair. But I felt pretty happy. I decided to go as a Happy Hulk of sorts, given that the St Christopher's shirts were lime green. There were costumes given out at the event, too, so I added a bit of Super Girl to my outfit. This fit nicely with my sentiments of doing this run not only for the wonderful St Christopher's, but also for The Ladies in My Life. Allow me a moment or twenty seven of cheesiness to just mention a FEW of the women I thought about while I was running today...

* Nanna, who did a lot of work for Mary Potter Hospice- I've been thinking about her a lot since working at St Christopher's. I hope that, beyond a mutual love of leopard print, bright lipstick and excessive amounts of clothing, some of Nanna's compassion and care have seeped through to me.
* Maureen McEvoy, my Mum, a dynamic tour-de-force of love, inner strength, optimism, doing too much, committment, being the person I probably used to be a bit scared I'd become but now hope I get close to becoming.
* Grandma, the most loving woman you could ever meet.
* Paddy McEvoy, my emotional mirror, the very epitome of awareness of others, instigator of my feminist ideals, radiance and joy.
* Maura, Bernie, Aine, Monica- McEvoy women are the best kinds of women. Fiery, honest, appreciators of good food, giving.
* Jane Stanley, who's had a bit of crap stuff come her way, but still manages to be this incandescent, warm woman (and, conveniently, decided to love an amazing man called Muzz just so that I could be provided with a best mate.)
* Emma Haywood, Claire Stanley, Catherine Muir- the three uni girls who cemented in my heart a place as the best friends one could possibly hope for. I remember a night at a house party sitting on couches underneath fairy lights, professing oodles of love for each other- that's the general feeling that sums up my feelings when I think about them.
* Linda Martin
* Lyn Skobourg
* Naikim Um, my Phnom Penh friend, sister, coffee mate.
* Luisa Cosia
* Lucy Markiewicz
* Raluca
* Rachel Rai, my soul sister of the stage.
* Amy Klar
* Veronica Ziesing
* Suzanne Abimosleh (Shnoogy to me)
* Maggie Moore
* Bernie Burke + The Burkettes Rachel, Claire, Lucy... amazing, wholesome, fun and glowing women.
* Ali Bell
* Belinda O'Callaghan
* Mum's sisters (remembering one of the most touching moments of my life when, on the night of my 21st birthday, amidst preparations for Nanna's funeral, 4 women bundled slightly-sooky me up, dressed me in Nanna's clothes and sent me off to dinner with my friends.)
* Bek Menzies
* Nanna Quick
* The St Chistopher's allied health lasses: Jenny, Kate, Lorna, Frances. I couldn't have asked for more beautiful ladies to be in a team with for these past few months.
* Paula Williams
* Ruth Quick, more beautiful and kind each day.
* Sister Judith- Saint Aloysius was so great for me.

...There are a lot more ladies doing their thing in my heart/mind every day. But I only had 10 kilometres this morning... So I'd better go out for another run now!

Thanks again to everyone for your support. St Christopher's has touched me and given me more direction in terms of the type of physio I want to be. I'm really happy to, with your help, be able to give a bit back (aside from my compulsive trips to the charity shop!)

Love Claire. xoxox