Category Archives: Holidays

Lost. Found. Recovered.

Some of you may recall that I recently had a bit of a run-in with one of my neighbours. Welcome to the second instalment…

 

About ten days or so ago I decided to order a copy of this picture as a large canvas print.

Beach Post

Beach Post on Pebbles Beach, Carlisle Bay, Barbados

It was meant to be for my fab hubby to remind him of our perfect Caribbean holiday, which seems so very, very long ago now. We’re having a bit of a tough time right now, what with dodgy finances and (the FAB Hubby’s) heart surgery and a distinct lack of purpose in life, coupled with an increasing feeling of having been tossed onto the scrapheap of sentience. I don’t want to impose my life complaints on everyone, but these circumstances are not helping my increasingly severe depression and most days I spend staring at my computer screen, trying to find any kind of motivation to get something achieved.

Curtains
I have occasional spurts when I try to ‘pull myself together’ like a pair of curtains, but these rarely result in much tangible success, although I do keep on trying.

So actually gathering  enough *oomph* to select and order this picture was a major happening for me. I was so pleased with myself for achieving something.The picture is particularly sentimental for us as it is of Pebbles Beach, in Carlisle Bay, Barbados, where I learned to swim as a small child. Taking Mark there was one of the first things we did when we got into the hire car – the satnav wasn’t working, but I managed to guide him to the place without too much of a detour, largely based on forty-year-old memories and a keen sense of direction. To be fair, the island is only 14 miles by 21 so it’s pretty easy to navigate around, but I was still chuffed to have found it so easily.

Standing on the exquisite white sand in the most brilliant sunshine, I was suddenly eight years old once more, in my tiger swim-suit (long story !), whiling away my days, collecting precious shells and rolling in the surf on Pebbles Beach. The Aquatic Club bar – ‘Pebble Beach Inn’ as it was known then – also had a swimming pool although it’s gone now, having been redeveloped in the intervening years. Patrick (my bestest of boy-friends) and I spent day after day either in the sea or the pool, only being dragged out to eat or drink something then back in the water we went, like a pair of water babies. It’s a strange misnomer, because there isn’t a single pebble on Pebble Beach – and there never has been as far as I can recall, so it was shells that we collected on the rare occasions that we emerged from the water.

Showing my husband of thirty-six years this precious memory meant that finally we could share it together and this of course called for a stroll along the length of the beach. I snapped the picture from the top of the steps, then he helped me jump down the steps and being a rather rotund shape these days, I tippled forward and he, being the gallant knight that he is, staggered forward to help me, so that I would be spared the indignity of rolling into a ball on the hot sand. He’d been taking his specs off and replacing them with his new sunglasses – another, whole different story –  so this process was interrupted during the rockin’ and rollin’ around in the sand.

Fast forward for about an hour as we stroll the entire length of this gorgeous beach and begin our return journey. By now, the heat has gone from the day and the sun is beginning to set -the light is fading exquisitely albeit rapidly, as it does in the Caribbean, being so much closer to the equator and all that. I’m happily snapping away with my new camera at the scenery, the sand, the water, the sky, everything in fact. I turn to take a snap of the FAB Hubby; he’s looking puzzled and just ever-so-slightly panicky.

Why’s he fumbling in his shirt pocket?‘ I ask myself. Then I ask him the same question of course, to which his terrified face blurts out ‘I’ve lost my specs!’.

Now, I should probably explain here that FAB H is virtually blind without his specs. Modern technology has reduced the thickness of the glass these days to something that resembles one of those convex coffee-table paper-weights that people have favoured pressed flowers encased in, as keepsakes or whatever. Jam jars are a thing of the past. Well, mostly anyway. The thing is, he genuinely cannot see a thing without them. So this was a BIG deal.

The entire holiday was on the verge of ruin, for without his eyes, how would he see everything? How would we manage?  Plus, the damned things had just cost an arm and a couple of legs to ensure he had them in time for the holiday. Usually he has photo-chromic lenses which means he doesn’t need separate sunglasses, so there was considerable cursing of the incompetent optician’s assistant whose fault it was that we were now having to negotiate our holiday of a lifetime, minus the ability to actually see anything, since the actual reading glasses had taken themselves off for a little holiday of their own.

It’s quite a long beach it turns out.

We retraced our steps, trying to remain positive, in spite of the increasingly fading light, turning every grain of sand over with our hands and feet, checking to see where they may have been washed into the sea, for, of course, just to complicate matters a little further, the tide was coming in. Fast.

We’d almost given up as we arrived back at the steps to clamber back into the car.

And then I saw them, quietly, even contemplatively, watching the sunset  sitting squarely in the sand, exactly where he’d knocked them out of his pocket when he chivalrously came to my aid earlier.

Lost. And then found again. Just like the beach was.

Perfect.

Now, let’s get back to the present shall we… stop all this lazing around on tropical beaches!

So, I’d ordered this picture to remind him of our wonderful holiday and perhaps to help motivate us both into better frames of mind. I got a great deal and ordered it in a large size – my pictures are meant to be viewed in large formats. This one was about 60cm x 80cm. That’s about 2 feet by about 2 feet 8 inches for those who don’t do decimals.

Thrilled I was.

When I received the email saying it would arrive on Tuesday, I was still feeling thrilled.

On Tuesday I went out of the house for the first time in about … well forever… to go help some friends hang an exhibition in Scarborough hospital. I almost asked my other neighbour to keep an eye out, but she was busy with her three children, so I left it, thinking ‘We’ll be back in good time, it’ll be fine.

Famous last thoughts. ‘It’ll be fine.‘ HAH!

Upon returning home the neighbour and her offspring were still in their garden so I asked about the parcel and she told me our other neighbour, the chap from downstairs, the evil one who made me clean his drains out recently, he was the one who’d taken it in. I sent my son round to go pick it up, but there was some confusion about my apparently ambiguous instruction and the long and short of it was that no-one went to get the parcel that evening. I fretted and worried and got antsy and my *long-suffering men*  ignored my slightly manic state and pressed on with the heavy responsibility of watching TV (or rather, snoring in front of the telly) and raising hell in some imaginary computer game world. Ahem.

Fast forward again to the next morning, when, as usual we were woken by the sound of the recycling truck and staff collecting the recycling waste. Thinking nothing more than ‘Did you put the bins out?’ I turned over and went back to sleep, whilst the FABH got up and pottered about downstairs for a while.

When I rose,  Cleopatra-like, from my slumber a little later on, my first thought was about the picture so I asked if FABH had yet retrieved it and he agreed to put some trousers on and go to collect it. It’s best to not ask about the trousers – just let that one go for now, OK? 

He returned, empty handed, reporting that our (despicable) neighbour had no knowledge of any parcel whatsoever.

I was distraught.

I was beside myself with tormented thoughts.

It wasn’t adding up.

How could he not have known about the parcel? What could have happened to it? Where did the UPS chap leave it?  Did anyone see what he did with it?  These and many more questions began encircling my tiny brain Liz birdies– like the little cartoon birds that used to fly round Sylvester or Tweety Pie’s head when they crashed into something.

I fretted a little more. I envisaged every and any possible scenario regarding my parcel’s fate. Each  a more grisly fate than the last.

The FABH of course remained implacable in the face of potential chaos. He phoned the delivery company (UPS) and we had a delightful conversation with a lovely lady called Sarah, who assured me that the records showed that the parcel had been left in a porch around the back. I explained that this property isn’t what it seems and that ‘around the back‘ are two separate, distinct apartments. She sympathised and suggested that the delivery man might call me himself to explain where he left the parcel. We thought this was an excellent idea and readily agreed.

Then we waited.

Only, I’m not really very good at waiting.

The ants in my pants told me to do it.

I went downstairs and around the back and knocked smartly on my (beastly) neighbour’s door. He was on the phone and clearly, visibly, ignoring me. I could see him through his window. Eventually he gesticulated for me to let myself in, which I did. I asked him about the parcel and he flatly denied all knowledge of it.I described it in detail and he shook his head and threw up his hands, asking me what I wanted to DO about it?

I asked for permission to check his outbuildings- an aluminium shed and another, smaller, store-box, but it wasn’t there. I was even more puzzled now and asked him what I was supposed to think when I’d been told that the delivery man had left it in his domain, but it seemed to have simply vanished. As he sagely nodded his head and attempted to stand up to encourage me to leave, he slumped, in a drunken stupor, to the floor. After helping him to the nearby sofa, I took my cue and left. Clearly, I wasn’t getting anywhere there.

Upon my return, the delivery driver, Carl, rang and we discussed the situation with him. He suggested that usually in these cases, the ‘thief’ makes the mistake of putting the packaging into the rubbish bin, to which the FABH calmly stated that it’s unlikely he’d find any rubbish in the bin as today was collection day… and then we both looked at each other in horror as the realisation of what might have happened set in.

With tears (of anger, frustration, utter disbelief and the ultimate pain of loss) rolling down my face, we thanked Carl for agreeing to pop by the next day to check on the location of the parcel and then all we could do was sit and wait. Again.

I am really rubbish at waiting – we’ve already established this – so around six-ish, I went to call on our other (Polish) neighbour to see if perhaps Carl had been mistaken and left it in his kitchen instead. He hadn’t. And it turned out that our Polish friend had actually seen my parcel in the other neighbour’s kitchen.

What can you do when faced with such evidence? Clearly, I live next to an unstable and apparently vindictive man who thinks nothing of stealing our mail. I considered going to the police, as well as our mutual landlord, but persuaded myself these options seemed drastic. I even emailed the council in the hopes that someone might have spotted the brand-newness of my parcel and put it aside perhaps… to no avail of course. I didn’t sleep a wink and when Carl arrived the next day having taken a good look around the neighbour’s property, he agreed that the only thing to do was set everything in motion to replace the picture. He promised to drop the necessary paperwork off early next week and then he left.

Imagine how delighted I was yesterday morning then when Carl arrived with my replacement parcel! He confided that the paperwork hadn’t been required since, upon ‘further investigation’ (I know not what that entailed), my dastardly neighbour had admitted that he’d taken the parcel in and then put it straight into the recycling collection. Part of me still mourns for that lost picture, but at least now it’s sitting where it’s meant to be – above the sofa across the room from the FABH, so he can be re-inspired each time he looks at it.

Lost. Stolen. Recovered. Or at least replaced.

It’s a picture with a story to tell…

Thanks for reading again!

 

 

 

 

 

Walking in a winter wonderland

I love it when the family come to stay. There are all sorts of gorgeous, funny, poignant moments and happy times that I always regret living so far away that we can’t do this every day. Anyway, yesterday we went for a lovely stroll in Dalby Forest on a perfect Winter’s day. A pale cerulean sky with fluffy white vapour trails belied the Siberian setting as it fell below freezing during the course of our perambulation.

Mysterious mists shroud the valley

Mysterious mists shroud the valley

Aghast at the natural beauty of this landscape, with a deep valley, heavily wooded with lofty trees, packed so densely as to almost obliterate the light, I found myself marvelling at the mysterious panorama. Carved at an improbable gradient, the road snaked through the forest to an attractive visitors centre, looking for all the world like an alpine ski-village, so deep was the hoarfrost on this magical journey.

A glaring white mist thickened as it drew close to the Earth, giving a feeling of descending into a primordial or ice-age swamp as we drove towards the centre, where we found details of a most engaging Gruffalo Nature Trail, perfectly suited to our intention for the trip.

Robin greeted us in his practiced manner

Robin greeted us in his practiced manner

A pair of delightful (European) robins greeted us at the outset of the trail. One hopped onto the wall and posed perfectly – he’s clearly an old hand at this. Portrait captured, he hopped, skipped and jumped from pillar to post, from branch to ledge, guiding us skillfully onto the trail’s start. I was in seventh heaven already.

Striding forth into the world

Striding forth into the world

Watching my small people and my not-so-small-any-more people striding forth into the misty pathway, looking for gruffalo clues and enjoying each other’s company, I felt content. Life is wonderful at times.

Shetland ponies are well suited to cold weather, thankfully!

Shetland ponies are well suited to cold weather, thankfully!

A Yule Log lay in the path

A Yule Log lay in the path

The trees stand watch over the valley

The trees stand watch over the valley

Who's that I can see hiding in the trees?

Who’s that I can see hiding in the trees?

Why, it's The Gruffalo!

Why, it’s The Gruffalo!

This tumbledown shack gives rise to a thousand potential stories...
This tumbledown shack gives rise to a thousand potential stories…
This is what bending over backwards looks like!

This is what bending over backwards looks like!

Looking for the light

Looking for the light

... and at the end of this glorious afternoon, the sun slowly sank into the moor

… and at the end of this glorious afternoon, the sun slowly sank into the moor

I may not get time to compose another post before the old year ends and the new begins, so I’d like to take this opportunity to wish you all a very Happy and Prosperous New Year. For Auld Lang Syne, my friends, for auld lang syne.

See you in 2015!

Thanks for reading once more.

 

Thornton-Le-Dale’s hidden magic

Aren’t dogs fabulous? Pet-sitting for Dad for a couple of days this week, I’ve been motivated to get out and about for longer walks each day. When Candy, Dad’s seven-year-old Staffie, returned home on Wednesday, we we left without an obvious reason for going out to walk other than the joy of simply doing that. For many years my lower back pain has been worsening, to the point of forcing me to retire from the job I loved so much for so long – teaching. I had practically come to an almost total standstill, finding myself longing for the days when walking was not only a useful method of transport, but actually fun too. I have been just about able to take some very gentle, albeit rather brief strolls until very recently.

Thanks to the pain management clinic at York Hospital, I have learned to better understand my pain and through a variety of strategies I’ve been able to improve my activity levels significantly, to the point of being able to walk for increasingly longer periods, pain-free. Last week I managed to do a complete circuit, down the back lane and around to the front of our house, a distance of about a half-mile or so, with little difficulty; this week I’ve extended that to walk about double that. Twice a day. So really it’s quadrupled the amount of walking I find I am able to manage. Yay, go me!

So, now that we are dog-gone once more, how could we maintain this daily walking schedule? What motivation did we need?

The answer is simple – I just wanted to be out there, walking. BECAUSE I CAN! It’s no great mystery – walking is, for me at least, one of the most enjoyable forms of exercise I can get.

So, the real question was, ‘Where?’. Living as we do, in the Vale of Pickering, where walking is a generally relaxing and fulfilling pastime, surrounded by nature so beautiful and refreshing, choosing which part of the area to go for a walk is the difficult part. There are so many places to go. I’m going to have to draw up a list!

My FAB Hubby, Mark, suggested a short jaunt around the picturesque village of Thornton-le-dale and I didn’t need much persuasion – we frequently drive through the village on our way up to the Moors, which is by far my most favourite place on this Earth. I’ll write a piece about the Hole of Horcum one day, when I find enough adjectives to gush effectively enough about its divine serenity. But that’s another story.

I wonder if the diagonal harvesting is more efficient?

I wonder if the diagonal harvesting is more efficient?

A fairly short drive of about fifteen minutes from here, through the vale to the tiny village of Allerston and on to the infamous A170 which leads along the top edge of the Vale of Pickering to the picture-box-pretty village of Thornton-le-dale. If you keep on the 170 for a few more miles after Pickering, you would come to the magnificent White Horse at Sutton Bank, where the Vale of  York reaches the town of Thirsk stretching out for miles, leading you deep into Herriot Country, also known as The Yorkshire Dales. World famous beauty, right on our doorstep!

At this time of year the farmers create a patchwork of yellow, as the golden crops are safely gathered in with massive machinery. It is quite a sight and I was particularly taken with this intriguing pattern across a field that spans a considerable gradient, away up on the hills. I wondered if the diagonal lines had proven more efficient than the usual method of travelling up and down, parallel to the hedges.

Arriving into Thornton Dale, as the more modern name of this village is being accepted, you can feel the ancient history that permeates the air. It seems that the first settlers here were Neolithic, with evidence of burial grounds just up the hill through Ellerburn Wood onto Pexton Moor dating from 300BC. The Angles are most likely to have given the village its name as the dense forest of Dalby nearby probably held thorny bushes.

Lady Lumley's Almshouses have stood here since the late Seventeenth century

Lady Lumley’s Almshouses have stood here since the late Seventeenth century

The village is simply filled with gorgeousness. Following the sparkling brook by the main road, we found a parking spot immediately, right by the village cross and eagerly embarked to investigate a place that I had only stopped in a couple of times before. The Lady Lumley Almshouses are currently undergoing refurbishment, which was a little disappointing, but I will go back later to photograph them – it’ll give me another reason to return!

Magical water flows swiftly, only a few inches deep, right through the centre of the village.

Magical water flows swiftly, only a few inches deep, right through the centre of the village.

The clearest water, presumably coming down from the Moors, flows through the centre of the village, casting a magical spell over visitors immediately. It feels like a physical embodiment of Chi – the life-force of the village. I made a secret wish and felt a peaceful sense of calm simply watching the fast-flowing water as it danced vivaciously towards the little bridge.

Bridges over the brook are numerous in Thornton Dale

Bridges over the brook are numerous in Thornton Dale

The bridge to Lavender's Tea Shoppe

The bridge to Lavender’s Tea Shoppe

A short stroll shows where the stream  was divided, presumably by the Victorians, to provide power to the houses that face onto the village green. Some of these have been amalgamated into a charming tea-shoppe planted with an abundance of lavender. Each of these houses has a small stone bridge to provide access over the water.

More bridges lead to the homes and businesses from the road – wildflowers complete the picture of serenity.

Aubretia thrives by the brook

Aubretia thrives by the brook

I orbed it, of course!

I orbed it, of course!

The Old Post Office has a sentry on guard

The Old Post Office has a sentry on guard

I was saddened though to find that the village post-office has closed since my last visit. I had been charmed by the Post Master there, an elderly man, who knew everybody in the village personally  and who took great pride in treating this knowledge with honour and respect. It’s a terrible shame that we allow these traditions to die out. All that’s left now is the pillar box as it stands on guard duty at the edge of the stream.

With a sense of adventure, we traversed the first bridge. The scent of woody growth and clear, fresh water pervaded and we were instantly treated to the bucolic scene of a small weir, with ducks happily negotiating their naps or foraging for food within. The light here became even more entrancing than before, as it dappled the water through the tiny gaps in the leaves.

The light dappled over the water mesmerizingly

The light dappled over the water mesmerizingly

And then, the grandest surprise of them all presented itself! I had never suspected that there was a beautiful pond, complete with wildfowl of various kinds and a  well-worn path around as well as benches at strategic points.

The Pond presented itself as a secret revealed

The Pond presented itself as a secret revealed

How could I not have known this was here? As ducks, drakes, coots and moorhens quacked and chuckled, the exquisite surroundings seemed to take on a life of their own – I felt almost as if I were looking through a Pensieve: given a unique, Dumbedorian opportunity to view Paradise.

The white duck swam serenely by...

The white duck swam serenely by…

Ducks and other wildfowl clucking and nattering to each other, to me, to anyone who was listening; young children with their mothers, mid-day joggers, teenagers and older couples dotted around The Pond, all drawing life-affirming sustenance from simply being there.

Picnicking in the sunshine by the pond

Picnicking in the sunshine by the pond

An elderly couple enjoy an ice-cream across the pond

An elderly couple enjoy an ice-cream across the pond

I was utterly bewitched.

The duckling was separated from his mother

The duckling was separated from his mother

A tiny duckling had lost its mother.

The duckling spotted his mother and just went for it...

Splash! In he goes!

Splash! In he goes!

The duckling spotted his mother and just went for it…

He peeped and piped on a lofty note, increasing his alarm as the moments passed – his dive into the water when he spotted his parent was euphoric and a delight to witness.

The Hole in the Wall

The Hole in the Wall

Through the hole in the wall a modern car-park was secreted – I determined that I would have to bring my children and grandchildren here and this convenience made it even more accessible.

Age before Beauty!

Age before Beauty!

Growing against the wall are ancient roses and other flora – I came upon these lovely examples that immediately made e think of the old adage ‘age before beauty’ – so that’s what I called this picture.

The Morning Glory basked in the sunshine

The Morning Glory basked in the sunshine

Whilst the Morning Glory flowers drank in the sunshine, we decided to head back towards the car. I needed longer, but since Time waits for no man, reluctantly I had to draw away.

Tome waits for no man...

Time waits for no man…

So, of course I orbed this too!

So, of course I orbed this too!

Brambles Antiques marketing ploy - an elderly delivery cycle

Brambles Antiques marketing ploy – an elderly delivery cycle

The antique shop on the corner by the crossroad holds a plethora of delights to be explored another day; the bakery’s fine produce provided a delicious lunch and trinkets of sublime synchronicity bade us a fond farewell.

My daughter and her daughter's names called out to us...

My daughter and her daughter’s names called out to us…

We will definitely be back!

As always, thanks for reading!

 

 

 

 

Lovin’ the lens!

My grandchildren are always gorgeous of course.

The week before last they came to visit and we headed over to Betton Farm  to look at the animals and play on their super outdoor play area. I took several photos of the chickens, the sheep, the pigs, the goat, the bunnies and the ducks that wandered in to check us out. I’ll post some of those pictures when I’ve got round to editing them sufficiently.

I’m considering perhaps entering one of these portraits in the Bedlam Farm Photography competition – although I can’t decide about that til much nearer the closing date I think. The trouble is… how could I choose only one? Nah, I think it’ll have to be some other subject!

Harrie looking contemplative under the fort

Harrie looking contemplative under the fort

Josh and Katie - cuddles are not always Josh's favourite thing!

Josh and Katie – cuddles are not always Josh’s favourite thing!

Scarlett, driving the little car. Perhaps a hairbrush might help?

Scarlett, driving the little car. Perhaps a hairbrush might help?

 

Mr Fish

This is Mr Fish.

Mr Fish, who hangs below the wind chimes, is a long way from Naxos.

Mr Fish, who hangs below the wind chimes, is a long way from Naxos.

He’s a small wooden fish that hangs below the multi-coloured wind chimes that I bought for Toby when I was about 5 months pregnant, back-packing our way round parts of Western Europe.

We found him in a small tourist-tack shop on the island of Naxos where we spent the last two weeks of our trip. We’d been traveling for almost a month by the time we reached the island and decided that enough was enough, it was time to kick back and just relax.
There’s a whole story to tell about that journey – two teenage daughters and their 35 year-old mother, who had recently moved into her second trimester of this unexpected pregnancy, back-packing through  France, Italy and Greece in the adventure of a lifetime. I’ll get to that story soon – there are others vying for my attention before then.

Mr Fish has hung in Toby’s bedroom since the day he came home from hospital; every time we moved, Mr Fish has been carefully taken down, lovingly wrapped in tissue paper followed by an outer blanket of bubble-wrap. Then he would be unwrapped once again and placed in the window of Toby’s new bedroom. He’s been wrapped up seven times since the first time. His reassuring tinkling chime has chirruped every time the curtains have been opened each morning and again when they are closed in the evening. He has witnessed Toby’s entire life, so far.

But about two or three weeks ago, Toby brought him to me and said those words that mothers dread hearing.
‘Maybe, I’m too old for Mr Fish to be in my bedroom’.

Toby watched my face carefully as he made his suggestion. When he saw the tears well up in my eyes, he knew this was a step too far for me.

He smiled knowingly and then turned around and returned Mr Fish to his rightful place, keeping watch over his window, keeping watch over his life.

Perspective on Amsterdam

Two years ago yesterday we made a short trip to Amsterdam. It’s really not far from here, relatively speaking and there was a special reason for us to make the trip that year. My in-laws, Mum and Dad used to make the trip every year around Mum’s birthday, which was the 13th February. People would always think they were on a Valentine’s date but they were simply celebrating her birthday doing stuff they loved to do – taking a short break.

When Mum passed away in May 2011 it was clear to all of us that the day that would have been her birthday needed to be marked in a special way and so the family made a great effort to accompany Dad on his annual pilgrimage to help him through the day.

We raised a glass or two in the bar on the ferry over and I wore her pearls, which Dad had given to me in memory of her. It was an interesting trip, although the weather was bitterly cold, which was not entirely unexpected! The Amstel river was frozen solid so boat trips were off the cards, which was a pity. We did find the Van Gogh museum though, which was magnificent and truly made my day!

Architecture unique to Amsterdam

Architecture unique to Amsterdam

I played about with this image to give it a more Impressionist 'feel'

I played about with this image to give it a more Impressionist ‘feel’

I took a few photos that day and have just revisited them.

Bicycles are everywhere in Amsterdam!

Bicycles are everywhere in Amsterdam!

I love this image, orbed!

I love this image, orbed!

The Cheese House in Amsterdam - orbed!

The Cheese House in Amsterdam – orbed!

I always think of Mum when I see them.

Wishing it so…

If wishes were granted it would be a whole lot warmer that in currently is. I watched a very short video yesterday of a small child shovelling snow from his front garden path. He worked at it diligently for about five minutes and then threw back his head and groaned loudly. This was followed by a plaintive beseeching to The Almighty ‘Jesus! Make it WARM!!!!!’ It was charming and mildly amusing indeed, although perhaps witnessing a small child’s first ethical dilemma (presumably it is his first) should probably not be entertainment. But I digress.

I’m guessing that we two are not the only people right now who are heartily sick of being cold, wet and vitamin D starved. In my efforts to wish myself warm – which there’s no need to thank me for, honestly, I’m happy to perform this miracle for the benefit of all – I was trawling through some photographs of a holiday taken more than seven years ago to Cyprus. There are lots of lovely images of sunshine and smiley faces to cheer me up. It is very therapeutic!

Balcony door

Balcony door

I thought I’d share a couple with you, in case the warm and fuzzy feeling is contagious – I hope your cockles are warmed by them too. Spring is coming. Spring IS coming.

Boats in the harbour

Boats in the harbour

Chillin' in the sunshine

Chillin’ in the sunshine

Mediterranean colours

Mediterranean colours

Blue sparkly sea

Blue sparkly sea

Natural shade

Natural shade

Then, SUMMER will be here!! Until then… cheers!

Cocktails at sundown!

Cocktails at sundown!

 

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