Peregrination

Withenay's Wednesday Word - a series about words and their meanings. 
Sometimes the word is chosen because I like it, sometimes because it is unusual, sometimes because I have heard or read it in the previous week; often because that is just where the dictionary took me. Together we can expand our vocabulary, inch by inch (or maybe letter by letter). Your challenge is to invent a sentence in the comments box that includes it.


peregrination
travelling about; wandering; pilgrimage; a complete and systematic course or round (a noun)
from Latin peregrinus foreign

Tomorrow I head off on my Book Blog Tour, travelling around the world, talking with different people about my book, and writing, and editing, and reading, and living in Africa. I am so excited!

Peregrination seems like such an apt word in the circumstances. One of the definitions - wandering - fits in with this blog: Withenay Wanders. Another - a complete and systematic course or round - fits in with the idea of visiting everyone in a set order, then returning back here in a week or two's time. I'm not sure I'd label it as a pilgrimage, but I'm certainly travelling about. And In the Shade of the Mulberry Tree is all about my travels - to Africa, through motherhood, around Zambia.

The word has a certain poignancy to me as well, as about the only piece of my mother's schoolwork that I ever remember seeing was "The Peregrinations of P P" (her initials). She had moved around the UK a number of times during her childhood and this project was a mini autobiography of her life. I always loved the alliteration of the title, and was slightly in awe of my grandfather who had known what peregrination meant.

But then, so (now) do I.


Follow my Book Blog Tour on www.catharinewithenay.com and don't forget to enter the competition!

The Car Story, Part I: Out with the old...

After three glorious years with our car the end of our lease contract loomed. In fact, it has been looming for the last six months but no amount of my nagging seemed to provide the time my husband needed at work to reorganise its replacement. Deadline approaching we made a decision to purchase our own - possibly financially worse, but better than being without a car for at least 3-6 months while a new one was located.

So, mid-September I rang the leasing company and arranged to have our beloved Fabia taken away.

"What day would you like?" she asked.

"Monday? In the morning?"

"Fine." She checked my home address (rather than husband's hospital) and all was sorted.

Monday morning came...and went... 

In the afternoon I gave her another ring.

"But it's booked in for tomorrow morning, collecting from the hospital," she said.

"But that's not what we arranged!"

At this point there was, of course, a bit of a stand-off, as I knew I hadn't agreed to that (my husband has clinics all morning so I'd never have arranged something that would interrupt them!) She was adamant this was how it was planned and with a big sigh said, "So, are you wanting to rearrange it?"

"Of course I am!" I blustered, and suggested that we tried again the following Monday morning.

"No problem," she said, again checking my home address.

Monday morning came...and went...

This time, when I rang, the girl on the phone had no record of the car being due to be picked up at all. This despite us having received an email from them during the week charging us £84 for rearranging the collection date. (I know! We were being charged for them not turning up on the date they had agreed to originally!)

The week came...and went...

Eventually we got an email specifying a date (last Thursday) when the car would be collected. Would we prefer AM or PM? After 1.30pm, I respond.

Imagine my consternation when I found a message on the answerphone on Wednesday afternoon asking me to call about the collection. It was another company again clarifying the time of collection.

"Between 9 and 6?" he said.

"Erm...no - I'd said after 1.30pm?"

Grumble, grumble. Ok. "And collection address: Stafford?"

"Definitely not!" and proceeded to tell him our own address. Stafford is not even the hospital address. Just don't ask.

So, late Wednesday afternoon I am rearranging a company's schedule to involve possibly an extra 2-3 hours of driving in order to pick up our car. I wasn't placing money on their third attempt to collect it.

Thursday afternoon came...and went...

Surprise, surprise. But - to be fair - when I rang up this time the lady was profusely apologetic, realising that what she had on her screen had not been transferred to their driver's screen and thus he'd gone to Stafford.

I hope he enjoyed his day out!

Furthermore, within 10 minutes the lady's manager rang me to arrange whatever time I wished for the car collection, explaining again the error that had occurred.

This morning... they came!

Early!

(That bit wasn't so good. It's half-term and I'd anticipated more of a lie-in!)

And so, with regret, I watched my car being taken away before 9am. It has done us so well over the last three years, being super-economical and totally reliable. Had we been renewing a lease contract we would have got the same type of car again, but instead we have a new car to last us until my son learns to drive - a scary prospect on many levels!

The Old Car story would have been over at this point...but whilst I was out and about this morning I received a call on my mobile.

"I'm calling to arrange the delivery of your car," he said, quoting the registration number...

And the answer is...

Here is a bigger clue to our recent holiday:

Two weeks on a canal boat, puttering around the Four Counties Ring. These photos were taken on the Shropshire Union Canal section, when we still had sunshine (even if we could hardly see it for the trees towering up the cuttings!) This was a particularly unusual, double-arched bridge.

Canal boating seems to bring up nothing but adventurous stories, which I hope to write up and regale you with over the coming weeks. Ironic how many stories there can be, given you slow down to 3mph!

Truly, for us, it was just what the doctor ordered, allowing us to sleep and rest, to talk (often without the children, as they played games together inside the boat) and to see some of the most beautiful countryside. The rain at the end of the second week put a dampener (ahem!) on things, making us all a little miserable as we battled with our 15th lock of the day...

I've asked the children if they'd like to go again. No response.
My husband and I? Back like a shot!
Does that reflect well or badly on our individual paces of life?

And, for the record, my son's response when asked what the best bit of the holiday was?

"Trying out two new types of Magnum ice-cream!"

We could have done that at home!

The wisdom of age

This weekend I had the delight of celebrating my father's 80th birthday. When I stop and think about it, that is a very long time.

About six months ago he moved to the same town that my sister lives in. He lives in a spacious 1-bed bungalow. The garden is a fraction of the size of his previous house. He is now a 10 minute walk into town with all the amenities he could ask for, and that 10 minutes walks past the doctors and dentists and even a cottage hospital. Previously, he has to catch a bus the three miles to the local shops, particularly after the village post office was shut down. He has lost about a stone in weight (needed!) and is looking much fitter and healthier for the move. At the time of the move I was less certain that this was a good thing - all I seemed to experience was stress!

So this weekend we celebrated the move and the passing years. It was wonderful to catch up with Dad's side of the family and various friends that he (and, by default, my sister and I) have known for many years. I think every single one commented on how healthy my father looked. He loved the party, chatting with everyone. Given his deafness, I'm not sure how easy that can have been!

Yes, the party on Saturday was good. But better still was his actual birthday on Sunday.

It poured with rain all day. But his choice of how to spend the day was to have a drive up through Wharfedale, where he spent much of his childhood and where we spent all my childhood holidays. It is probably 25 years since I last went to the top end of the dale, but it brought back many memories for me. How much more so my father! He pointed out houses where people lived ("...probably still do, if they're still alive," he would comment) and told tales of the places we passed. Much of the journey seemed to be a mock pub crawl, with his comments on how good, or bad, each was. I think it is a testament to my upbringing that they were all very familiar to me too!

After an amazing [pub] lunch (I shall probably never need to eat again!) he directed me back along the other side of the valley, wending and winding our way along single track roads.
"This is where I learnt to ride a bike," he said down one gentle slope.
"Oh, that's new!" he said of some newly planted trees. This amused me, given he hadn't been for many years and you would expect much to change in that time!
"Shortly you'll come to a big bend to the right, but you want to go straight on." How did he remember that? I would have sworn I'd never been on that piece of road in my life - possibly no-one else had either!
Still, we travelled on, through ford and flood, to return by a back-road to my sister's house.

Eighty years - yes, but memories don't fade, particularly not from land that has been such a part of your life, from early years during the war, through to holidays with family. The hills have been climbed, the ox-bow lake formed and lost, the local fairs attended, the pubs drained dry. It was a delight to give my father such pleasure from a simple drive into beautiful countryside. I only wish his parents had thought eighty years ago about what the weather would be like this weekend, as the only improvement would have been some sunshine!

Ashes to ashes

What are we to make of the cessation of air travel in the UK, and across northern Europe? Is this the end of the world?

Well hardly, although no doubt some will point to portents of doom that anticipated exactly this occurrence. Having said that, it is causing immense hardship and difficulty for some. It is costing the airlines millions of pounds each day. It is separating families and loved ones. Some will miss important events, such as weddings or funerals. It means that we can neither import nor export - which will have a huge impact on farmers in the third world trying to sell us their flowers and mange-tout.

I confess to little sympathy for holiday-makers. I think that is principally because so many of my holidays have been based around the journey not the destination, and I love land-travel so much more than going by air, therefore the extra travelling should be viewed as adventure. And (before you ask) I have travelled long distances with children as well: we took the train from Kapiri Mposhi to Dar es Salaam - a two day journey - when they were aged 1.5 and 4. Then again, I recognise that was planned, and we weren't doing it surrounded by thousands of other panicked travellers. It was all gentle and relaxed, with little in the way of deadline to worry us.

Nevertheless, I have more sympathy for cargo transporters and people trapped because of work travel. Their frustrations at not carrying on with a normal day's business must be maddening. And I feel sorry for organisations who don't have their employees, thus losing trade or (in the case of teachers) education.

It is all made worse by the fact that no-one knows how long the volcano will erupt for: it could be days, weeks or even years. This uncertainty makes it impossible to plan ahead. If we knew that it would finish a week on Tuesday, we'd simply extend holidays until then and close the airports in the meantime. As it is, we are trapped in a sea of panic and confusion: do we make long or short-term plans to deal with the problem? Compost all the imported roses, or sack all the workers?

But what can the authorities do? Is it right to fly when there is a risk of damage? And the damage may not be immediately obvious: perhaps the plane could fly for the next week, or month, and then - suddenly - when the air is clear - it's engines will fail and it will fall out of the sky. Or if we flew now, and then the London to Glasgow plane failed and crashed over central Manchester - how would we feel? Can we risk this?

When there are alternatives over land, albeit slow and arduous ones, surely we have to adapt our lifestyles to accommodate them. We have lived in a luxurious world for so long, where we can have whatever we want almost whenever we want. Maybe we now have to eat British, homegrown food, rather than bananas from the Caribbean. Maybe we have to holiday in the UK for a period instead of abroad. Maybe we have to make better use of video-conferencing to clinch business deals or attend family celebrations.

Maybe this is giving us a quick lesson about what will happen when we run out of oil. Then we won't have cars, trains or boats either. Do you think we'll ever survive?

Wonder where I'd wandered?

The Withenays have had a well-earned rest, after all the house-moving malarky that seems to overwhelm our lives. We've had a fortnight filled with views like this:

... and this:

 
Have you guessed where yet?
 

 

This may give it away a little...

 

Yes, after what seems like an age, we had a holiday back in Zambia, visiting friends and family. We had a fantastic time - thanks to all of you who entertained us and (almost more importantly) our kids. It was wonderful to see the changes that have happened (just what is going on at Manda Hill?!) and to be reassured by things that never change ("Ah, sorry, we have no more of those either madam...")

Talking of change: did you pick up on the Zambian news whilst I was away? (I gather we have an election or something coming up here in the UK...?!) Well, I guess not. President Banda chose to retire the heads and deputy-heads of the Air Force, Army and National Service and replace them with others: all six men changed in one fell swoop. He said it was to allow the younger men to rise up through the ranks. This argument is fine (I believe all six were above retirement age) but would have more credibility if he hadn't brought one of the replacements out of retirement. 

Some things, as they say, never change.

Platform 0

It is slightly Harry Potter-esque that Stockport railway station has a Platform 0. It also has a Hat Museum, which I will investigate one day, but the peculiar platform numbering has always intrigued us. The children were delighted when they discovered their train was leaving from it.

Of course, it is not significantly different from platforms 1-4. Presumably it was a later addition and they chose to number it 0 rather than re-number all the platforms. They renumbered the platforms at York railway station many years ago, but mentally all my trains to London go from platform 8, not 3, so perhaps Stockport's approach was right.

The journey down to Peterborough was unpleasant. The first train, to Doncaster, was packed to the rafters. Indeed: we had to climb over suitcases just to get into the carriage. There were no such thing as booked seats, to my dismay. A kind old gentleman let me sit down, with my daughter sat on his wife's lap. She told me the story of their weekend travels, which revolved around a cancelled plane and really were far worse than my predicament. My son sat on the floor at the end of the carriage, hidden by a pile of suitcases but too engrossed with his DS to notice.

Thank goodness my children are that stage older. Had I been travelling with them three, four, even worse five years ago, this would have been unbearable. I still believe the service was appalling. As I had booked seats I expected a reasonably comfortable journey... well, at least for the first leg.

The second leg (Doncaster to Peterborough) I was dreading. For reasons that Trainline have yet to elucidate they felt that booking seats for that section was 'not required'. Not required? 45 minutes on the train with two young children? At lunchtime? I think, Mr Automated Computer, that you have no idea what you are doing.

Fortunately, I found two seats together for the children and I sat in front of them, next to a poor guy who was desperately trying to appear cool to the four student girls on the table opposite. They were quite entertaining. I tried to decide which of the four I was, when a student. Certainly not the girl who thought the can of coke she bought from the trolley buffet would be unhygienic and so poured the contents into her previous can in order to drink it. Possibly I'd have been the girl next to her, whose mother was a nurse and therefore had an antiseptic wipe in her bag (which girl no 1 didn't use on the can) but I was never that pretty nor that made-up. The other two girls were quieter, and I suspect I was like the plain one near the window: I certainly didn't (and don't) have the figure of the closest girl.

The journey back was a lot less entertaining, but with no children and no luggage I was free to simply engross myself in my book. Three hours of peace and uninterrupted time to myself: honestly, it was worth enduring the first half of the day for that alone.

picture copyright david99b

A new addition to the family

Some decisions are really big, life-changing even. My husband and I have been toying with this for some months but finally decided, just before he started his new job back in April, that we would try for it. 'It' turns out to be 'she.' It's been a tough period, waiting for her, not knowing when she would come, but finally, last Friday, she arrived in our world. All of us have spent the weekend delighted to get to know her.

Here she is!

Well, that isn't actually her (as you can tell from the number plate) but we live in Manchester: it is raining so I couldn't take an actual photo.

She's also green, in more ways than one. It is a Skoda Fabia Estate, designed to be as green and eco-friendly as possible, given that it guzzles gas. It means a low road tax and lots of mpg (or kpl, or whatever scheme you use). She doesn't have a proper spare wheel, which is a little concerning, but makes her lighter and thus more fuel efficient. (Clearly that calculation is before adding in the four of us and all our luggage - why does so much have to come even on the shortest journeys?)

So, I am going to have to alter my profile. No longer are we without a car and totally reliant on public transport. Now we have joined the community of parents that taxi their children everywhere, rather than get on our bikes or use our feet. In many ways it is a shame, although we are looking forward to being able to explore the countryside around us, to get into the Peak District, to be able to visit friends and family easily.

So how green can we be now? How should we compensate for this small hole we are burning in the ozone layer? Just wait: at some point in the future I have to explain away the Aga we are planning to install in the house...

Taxi stress

Two events this evening.

We were in a rush (nothing new there) so I got a taxi home from Rainbows with my daughter, then on to my meeting in town.  I'm stressed when rushing, when I have deadlines, when I realise that the event will start on the dot of 7, not just at some point when we feel enough people have arrived.  So when my daughter starts playing some silly game with me in the taxi I cut her short, rather abruptly - followed by her long upset silence.  

So I apologise.  I say I'm sorry, I'm stressed, we're in a rush, and I'm a terrible mother [for not wanting to play with her].

She says, "Not terrible, Mummy, but ticklish Mummy."

Interesting if only because I'm actually not that ticklish either.

Having dropped her at home with the babysitter, I dash back to the waiting taxi - ever conscious of his meter and my meeting.  He says there is no need to worry, I'll be in plenty of time, now that I've dropped off my granddaughter.

Granddaughter!!  Do I look that old?  I know I was no teenage mum but I've not yet hit forty!

Clearly my children have aged me more than I thought!

Contesting the election

There is much to say about half-term.  We travelled lots - day trips to Peterborough and Middlesborough (not your standard tourist destinations, I have to admit) and a weekend at my Dad's (complicated by him not being there - such is life!)

I shall write more about these trips another day, but for now I will draw your attention back to Zambia, who has just elected its fourth president: Rupiah Banda.  He was VP to Mwanawasa and won by a staggering 2%.  Unsurprisingly Michael Sata, the main opposition leader, is contesting the outcome.  Where would decent African politics be without the loser claiming irregularities and vote-rigging and resorting to the law-courts to resolve it?

It could be the USA 2000 election...

Summer? Where did that go?

The husband has two weeks off.  We've moved house, can't afford a proper holiday so visit the grandparents.

My father graciously lets me borrow his car, firstly so we can go to a friend's wedding and then to drive around York.  We visit Beningborough Hall (in the rain) which my sister assures me we went to as children, but I'll be blowed if it is at all familiar to me.  We visit my Gran (avoiding rain: she's indoors) and somehow manage to catch her arm as Number2 child jumps down from her knee.  A gaping hole appears, blood rushing up, a large flap of skin on her forearm.  The lady at the home comes and slaps a plaster on it (no cleaning the wound, I note) but the most noticeable thing to me is just how thin a 95-year-old's skin really is.

We visit my oldest friend, in years known rather than age (and in the rain, of course), who's just had a baby and probably my second-oldest friend (we went to the park and saw hot air balloons: perhaps the only moment it didn't rain?).  We go to have a professional family portrait taken (studios suffering from water leakage following storm damage).  Husband criticises the whole event: I'm prepared to hold my tongue until I've seen the pictures.

Then on to the in-laws.  I cannot even begin to criticise them because they kept my children for a whole week whilst my husband and I went to Edinburgh (it rained).  For the first time in ages my mother-in-law made one of her special jellies: it was milky green so I guess lime and cucumber and milk. Grannie and Grampa survive the week well, but we get the impression they are glad we came back to take the children home again...

We did get time for a guided tour of Norwich's elephants on Daddy's birthday.  Great-Uncle John was visiting from the US so our children merrily skipped around the city, snapping as many of the decorated beasts as they could.  We saw the cathedral area for the first time and were impressed: it is quite a beautiful, quiet place.  As evensong was already beginning we didn't venture inside but it is on a 'to do' list.  We made do with tea and biscuits in the refectory instead.

Cricket capers

Yesterday I finally had my birthday present: a day at the cricket.  We travelled to Chester le Street to see England thrash New Zealand.

It was a fantastic day out.  The train from Newcastle was full to bursting, such that it had to shut its doors about 5 minutes before departure.  Judging by how the engine sounded as it tried to accelerate out of the city I suspect any more passengers and it would only have moved if we'd got out and pushed.  

My seven-year old loved the match. I know this because he took his scorecard and '4' board in to Show and Tell at school this morning.  I am constantly amazed by how much he knows.  He recognised Ryan Sidebottom fielding in front of us and quickly worked out that Batsman 24 (Pietersen) was worth his weight in gold.  Now he's excited about going again: what better advert for the game!

Really, there is nothing like a summer's day watching cricket in good company.  What a wonderfully decadent way to spend one's time!

First Class Treatment

Half-term brought a series of joys.

Firstly, the children went to visit Grannie & Gramps.  For the whole week.  The extent of my duties were to travel to Peterborough to dispose of them, and then be on time to collect them at the end of the week.  Clearly I failed at the latter: personal failure rather than something I can blame on the trains, but not so disastrous as to mean I didn't get them back.  The children, that is.

Secondly, I'd decided to treat myself to a first class ticket each way when travelling alone.  I decided that I could blow the entire £56 I have earned this year on such a treat, only to discover it was only £6 more than second-class each way.  Still got £44 to spend...

Not that I was going to spend it on dining at the table, of course.  The first journey (back from Peterborough) was an adventure: what did first class really mean?  Clearly it offered wider seats and, I noted, a table at every seat.  One of the most annoying things about train travel is not having a table, particularly if you want to work at your laptop, or marking papers, or your five-year-old wants to colour in endless pictures.  Anyway, I was sharing a table with three other first-class virgins, who were heading to Edinburgh for a hen night.  I can now categorically state that champagne does not help when writing sermons (the latter had to be completely reconstructed by my husband in time for an assessed service the next day).  But I had a great time!

For the journey back to collect the kids I took full advantage for first-class freebies.  I discovered Newcastle has a First Class Lounge.  I could get free orange juice, tea, coffee and biscuits - although I had not left enough time for this before the train left.  Then I realised that these were also provided on the train itself.  I did pick up a copy of The Times and exploited the trolley service as much as possible: bottled water, fruit, packets of biscuits.  Perhaps - just perhaps - I took as much as the extra £6 it cost.  Certainly the kids benefitted from the snaffled biccies on their journey home with me!

The only downside to half-term was the misery of stress back home.  Whilst I enjoy all the travelling and seeing the world, how I long to be established and settled and providing a concrete future for my children.  Yet uncertainty abounds: husband's job, house rental, house purchase, education standards.  Should I get a job and stay here?  No sooner do I decide something than I un-decide it.

Still, the children are back now and I realise just how much I live for them.  And, thankfully, they also seemed quite glad to be back with me too.

Old haunts, old friends (1)

The long weekend gave opportunity to travel to Edinburgh for an overnight stay.

No1 child was studying Castles at school last term so we arranged our train journeys to give us time to see Edinburgh Castle on arrival on Saturday afternoon.  Journey uneventful.  Glorious sunshine in Edinburgh.

On departure from Waverley, beginning the long climb up to our destination at the head of the Royal Mile ('Mum! I'm tired! My legs hurt!'), my husband noticed someone waving madly at us from their car.  We haven't lived in Edinburgh for over 12 years so this was somewhat unexpected.  More surprising still was when we were greeted a couple of minutes later by friends who we thought were in New Zealand.  (They wish they still were.)  It was a former flat-mate of my husband, still living in his university town.

Our children were unimpressed.  No1 child simply wanted to get to the castle...

I believe that neither of us actually visited the castle when living in Edinburgh.  The queues to buy tickets was appalling - surely some better system could be devised?  Another three attendants would have been a good start.  Still, our children loved running around, discovering the different rooms, rushing past all the amazing history and showing only a modicum of interest in the Crown Jewels.  Thank goodness for tea and scones - recuperation medicine for exhausted parents.

We drifted down the Royal Mile in order to catch a bus to Leith.  I reminisced, thinking how beautiful the city of Edinburgh is, how lively and interesting.  We both pointed places out saying, 'Wasn't that a vegetarian cafe?' or 'That's where our friends got married.'  We smiled at the tourist guides giving foreigners a potted history of the sights.  We ambled along, disgusted that the central Post Office is no longer there, remembering lining pennies up along North Bridge in a fund-raising attempt when at University, marvelling that the city is going to get a tramline.

Eventually we plumped for a restaurant on the waterfront at Leith.  Given how posh it was they were remarkably accommodating for us with large, ungainly rucksacks and two exhausted and exhausting children.  A bottle of wine later and we adults at least felt sane again.

A final walk to our B&B for the night.  More reminiscing, as we remembered Easter sunrise services on the mounds on Leith Links.  The regeneration of Leith is quite amazing and a delight to behold.  We finally collapsed into bed - amazed that our children could still want to sit up and read - and slept like logs.

The science of big noses

Another train journey to York, this time with a frustrating, if inconsequential delay.

I arrive at Newcastle station with just enough time to buy my cheap day return and then dash over the bridge to the platform.  On my left is due the 09:30 to London; on my right is the 09:35 to Plymouth.  I note that the 09:30 is due at 09:37, so decide not to wait for that one but turn right to catch the 09:35.  I climb on board, dump my bags in the quiet carriage and retire to the vestibule (when did this word come into use on the trains?) to call Dad and tell him when I'll arrive.

Returning to my seat the ever-so-lovely conductor told us that our train was being delayed: they were allowing the train on the adjoining platform through first!  Aargh!!  I could have caught that!  We were only minutes later, but still - how frustrating.

Dad managed to greet some poor lady alighting from a completely different train but who was wearing a T-shirt like the one I'd worn on Saturday.  Does he think I don't change?  If she's reading this: my apologies for an old man shouting at you and waving madly.  He's really very nice, not the weirdo you spent the rest of the day worrying about.

On the way home in Newcastle, a tall lady got onto the Metro and sat opposite me.  I was struck by her big nose first of all.  She also reminded me of someone ... and then I remembered it was a friend in Zambia.  Presumably she also has a big nose: she certainly is tall.  The mind drifted and I began to wonder whether height and nose size are related.  And how do you measure the size of a nose?  A good patrician hook has a large area in profile but may not extend as far a standard honker.  If you get a tape measure from the top end of your philtrum to the nose-tip, how do you know where nose and philtrum part company?  The extra millimetre either way could be vital.

She's probably another lady I need to apologise to...

A starter for 10

A final act of sadness as I fall into the trap of blogging.  A way to expose myself, my family and friends to the rest of the world.  A way to entertain others with my tales of travel and - almost inevitably related - woe.

I've finally ended up in Newcastle.  I say finally, but of course nothing is final when married to an ambitious employee of the NHS, who wants to return to Africa.  He is the love of my life, and I do appreciate that children of the world need to be healed, but sometimes it would be nice to see him at home with his own (completely healthy) offspring.

Consequently 'wanders' are many.  Job postings are short-term.  Family are scattered, friends even more so.  So the blog covers wanders and wonderings.  Just how exciting can we get?