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Where I gloat about how wonderful it feels to be able to run.

Running on the moors

…and, blessed as if a soul escaped from purgatory, I bounded, leaped, and flew down the steep road; then, quitting its windings, shot direct across the moor, rolling over banks, and wading through marshes…

-Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

I leapt across an icy puddle up on my moor this afternoon. The ground was frosty and hard, except in spots where dark mud oozed through and my trainers sank and the cold reached my feet and I thought ‘eww’. And I laughed.

Another such habit that I am reliant on is going outside. Not just walking between the house and the car, or hurrying along the street to get from the car park to the hairdressers, but being and enjoying being outside.

“I’m never doing this again,” I swore after the father dragged me up Snowdon as a rather unfit teenager. And yet, now I’ve taken responsibility for my body and I’m not so squidgy, walking is something I really enjoy doing. It’s bliss whether it’s giggles and chatter with a companion, the slow unravelling of life’s problems, or a quiet occasional exchange of peaceful thoughts. When I’m on my lonesome, where fellow walkers glance around expecting any moment to see a dog leaping through the heather there’s an undistracted, invaluable calm.

If I could go back and convince my younger self of anything, it would be that I need to use my hands, and I need to feel the sun on my face, or if not the sun, the bitter coldness of a fresh winter breeze, or the murky drizzle. My body doesn’t feel alive seated in front of a computer. It doesn’t matter how ergonomic the chair is, I’m still missing the joys of movement.

Swooping down the hills on my bike is the closest I know to being an eagle. It’s not so easy as walking. Initially, my body resists giving up its comfort. It’s understandable. We’ve got hills here. There’s also a haunting fear associated with being reliant on a piece of machinery which I don’t entirely understand. When I swoop down those hills I’m depending on the breaks to work. As the wheels spin faster, and gravity pulls me down, I’m praying that I’m not about to end up in a hedge. It’s a risk. Adrenaline. Fun.

And then there’s running. For me, cycling is the better sport, but it’s also the one I fear more. If I fall over running, I’ll have a grazed knee. I know I can manage a little disaster. I’ve run back to an apartment in a foreign town, 3km, with blood pouring out both my knees and been fine. However, if I come off my bike, the damage is likely to be more than just a grazed knee. If I get stuck on a run, I’m going to be a couple of miles from home at the most. On a bike ride, I’m hopefully going further. The risk is higher. I’ve still never managed to mend a puncture on the side of a road, or replace an inner-tube. And yet, to soar…

But running has its own delights. When you go running for the first time in a long while, or after a cold, or when you’re forcing yourself to go rather than wanting to go, it can be miserable. It can be more than miserable. It can be horrendous. You feel like you’re dying. However, for those days where you’re running and your breath isn’t wheezing or drowning out the rattle of your house keys, you feel powerful. That satisfaction of all the cogs in this great machine working together. I look alive.

Exercise makes me feel better – stronger – and it makes me feel more confident about my body. As sad as it may be, the truth is that for most of us, image and self-worth are intricately connected. It’s all too easy to develop a negative relationship with your body image. Which is another reason I like running and cycling. It’s hard not to like yourself when you can climb a steep hill on your bike, or when you glide past a couple walking their dog and they smile at you with respect for the efforts you’re extolling.

Even if I can’t see it in the mirror, I can feel how amazing my body is. With exercise, my confidence exists independent of the mirror’s reflection. This isn’t to say I’m not insecure about how I look, or at other times vain, or that I don’t love make-up, high heels and pretty clothes. I do. Applying make-up is painting on the most interesting canvas I own. But make-up can’t give me the belief in myself that pushing my heart can.

I know which one I value more.

For me, respect for my body isn’t simply theoretical, it’s a physical sensation that’s earnt through hard work. The more I see and feel what I can do, the more I realise that my ideal body isn’t an idea sold to me through a magazine or an advertising billboard. It’s a body that knows how to ache joyously.


Just some things I did last year

last year

Last year I sat on the edge of Horemheb’s tomb – he’s the king that came shortly after Tutankhamun – and I shared tea with three Egyptian men. One invited me to be his third wife, I declined. We laughed about football and he told me about his kids.

Last year I said yes to a young Egyptian man who wanted to buy me coffee. I beat him at pool, and he took me out for dinner. I drove his horse through the villages on the west bank. We saw cows being slaughtered and he bought me chocolate even when I told him not to.

Last year I went to a beautiful club on a boat on the Nile. My dress was the longest dress of all the women. I wore the least makeup and had my shoulder’s covered. In the middle of the dance floor, I belly-danced, for the first time. I was never short of a partner.

Last year I danced on the beach after the sun had set, earphones in, feet bare, not caring who was watching, just because I could.

Last year I spent 9 days in noble silence, doing serious meditation, with more disciplined, more focused and more patience than I had ever imagined.

Last year I woke up early to run up the hill and watch the sun rising on the horizon.

Last year a guy stopped me as I was walking past and apologised for his impropriety, but he just needed to tell me that I was beautiful. I beat him at pool.

Last year I watched my sister stride across the stage, greet her chancellor as an equal and take her degree. No other woman showed such confidence.

Last year I watched my sister fall in love.

Last year I became fitter than I have ever been. I ran up my mountain and swam in the sea. I cycled up a 20% hill and almost fell off my bike at the top.

Last year I created a network of au pairs so that I’d always have someone to have coffee with. I learnt about Italian food, Irish fears of commitment, German heartbreaks, Swedish grit, American religion, philosophy and gynaecologists. We ate chocolate croissants that melted in your mouth.

Last year I ate carrot cake pancakes, and told my secrets. Even the ones that I didn’t want to tell.

Last year I did the grape harvest and made wine.

Last year I caught a black donkey in a dark wood.

Last year I designed, traced, sawed, sanded and painted Christmas lights for the centre of Palermo. I walked beneath them and realised I’d made something real.

Last year I taught nature studies in Catalan, babysat in French (in a really big castle), and did woodwork in Italian.

Last year I read 58 books.

Last year I watched the sun set, orange on a winter’s sky.

Last year I saw the milky way and hunted zombies in the vegetable patch.

Last year I was told thank you by more people, with more sincerity and for more reasons than I could have imagined.

For last year, I am truly grateful.


Swallows and Amazons


Today I went to church. This isn’t a usual event for me. It’s not even a usual event for me on Christmas Eve, although I do admit I attended church the last time I celebrated Christmas Eve: an orthodox church on 5th January in Egypt.

But today’s church trip wasn’t for religious reasons, or for learning about a different culture. It was to watch Swallows and Amazons.

You see, we live in a rather adorable village where the local church doubles up as a cinema twice a month. From my pew (not as uncomfortable as I’d imagined), I drank my mug of proper coffee and instead of endless adverts watched a short film of a slightly edited Christmas song led by one of my favourite Yorkshire men. Afterwards my midget sister leant forward, looked down the pew and asked if I’d found it funny.

Then they served ice-cream.

Then we watched the film.

No messing. No excessive advertising. Just two boats, six children and a holiday of play.

And although I woke up this morning in the sort of mood that would make Father Christmas think twice before giving me any presents, I laughed. It’s a beautiful film and a gorgeous story. If you’re a British kid like me, then I do hope you’ve read Swallows and Amazons. If you haven’t, you should. It was probably one of the stories that started me drawing maps. Combined with the Famous Five, it was the source material for numerous games I played with the Midget.

But more than that, I also have a great respect for the film’s setting, the Lake District. The film was a reminder, on a bittersweet day, that amid that landscape, the important thing is let the wind take your sails, call out and play.


On growing up and Leonard Cohen

Are you sitting down?

As I type this post, I am listening to Leonard Cohen. A fascination with his voice and lyrics began a few weeks back. It began when I read some article about him, about the strange swirl of loneliness, adoration and longing he plays his life in, and it got me wondering about his music.

Those who know me well might know how his music can anger me. Indeed, the closest I’ve ever felt to hatred is in reaction to Cohen’s voice. Sometimes his music feels like a physical attack. It vexes me with the instruments bouncing around against a backdrop of darkness. To me it’s both awkwardly disconnected and at the same time, hauntingly reminiscent of the disparity between what we so often feel and what we pretend to be. As a result, when I hear his voice, I fight to have him muted. I don’t want to feel that.

So what surprises me the most in listening to these miserable tunes now, is the distance I hear them though. I’m unexpectedly calm. There’s no sinking feeling tugging me into Hades realm. I’m not desperate in my craving; my claws aren’t out. It seems that Leonard Cohen doesn’t control me anymore.

This represents some greater movement in how I think. Fundamentally, I often assume big, overwhelming emotions drive me, they tug, as if tied to a ring though my nose. But this hypothesis is crumbling. Last autumn perhaps I was the harnessed donkey endlessly turning the mill stone long after the grain has run through, worn out and unimaginative. Then came spring, dictated by hot red anger like I’d never touched before. My relationships seemed tainted with disappointment. The disappointment evolved. The summer was more arrogant and self-possessed. Inevitably things keep changing – now I’m looking back with a smile.

Frequently, I wonder where I’m going. The freedom I craved, I won. To destroy a boggart, you merely laugh at him. Perhaps I’ve learnt to laugh at myself. And at Leonard Cohen too. It leaves a wondrous relief.Freedom.


On mowing the lawn


Feeling brave, I took the lawn mower for a spin around the garden. Typically, it’s not me who cuts the family lawns, however it was sunny, the grass had got a little shaggy and everyone else was busy or physically unable.

The current lawnmower is petrol powered. My previous experience with such machines has not instilled me with confidence. I often can’t get the thing to start. Historically, I’ve been embarrased by lawn mowers which start first time, every time, for the Midget and never for me. With this newer lawn mower I’m having a little more luck.

I managed a loop of orchard before things started going a little strange. The machine’s growl seemed to deepen and a trail of cut grass remained on the grass behind me. It should have been scooped up. I stopped and checked if it was full. It wasn’t. I went to start it again. But of course, this time it didn’t start. The cord slipped and pinged back to the machine. From here it takes an especially hard tug to get it back to the right place. The first time this happened to me I panicked thinking I’d destroyed it. Mid tug, a cheerful chap chirped up from behind the garden wall:

“You having difficulty starting it love?”

He caught me off guard. I laughed to cover my embarrassment and told him something incoherent about it requiring some strength. I tried to start it again. Success.

But the problem of the grass being left on the lawn and the dodgy sound hadn’t been solved. I walked along a little more. Then concluded that I needed a second opinion. I stopped again and glanced up. The man and his rambling companions were still peering down over the garden wall. Knowing they’d seen me walk only a few metres with the lawn mower, I was further embarrassed.

I started to cross the garden when the chap called out again, his cheerfulness matched the bright sunshine, but was at odds with my own feelings of failure and inadequacy. He asked a simple question about the local area. If I’d stopped and thought I’d have been able to advise him correctly, but, as it was, my mind was overwhelmed with emotion. Flustered, I told him the wrong answer (the answer he was looking for). He and his delighted companions continued their trek.

Of course, the Mother was stood watching the whole performance from the patio. Still feeling hot in the cheeks, I explained my failure to understand the lawn mower and the two of us headed inside to ask the Father for help.

He, of course, fixed the machine in a matter of seconds.


Incompetent me, who can’t possibly do manual labour…

I’m pressure washing the patio. It might not seem like the most ideal way to spend a Tuesday afternoon, but it needs doing. There are many things that need doing. Including dealing with the fence. My aim for the summer is to not touch the fence. The fence is very long and making it respectable again is the sort of tedious job that mean gods might give to someone troublesome like Sisyphus to keep them out of trouble.

Anyway, returning to the patio. It is made of huge stone slabs that have gone green over time and need cleaning up. Incompetent me, who can’t possibly do manual labour, set the pressure washer up, despite the yellow beast being stored on a high shelf in the garage and being a little bit broken.

Now as we don’t have an outdoor tap, I had to use the one in the garage. Surprisingly I actually managed to find the key. I opened the window careful not to disturb the spiders. Through this I poked the hose pipe. One end was attached to the tap (there was a pot beneath it because it drips) and the other end was attached to the yellow beast.

At the other end of the house, in the kitchen, I put the plug in the electricity socket and told the Mother to stand guard as I ran from one end of the house to the other switching on the electricity and the water. She was instructed to shout if anything appeared to be acting in an outrageous manner. A bit of water pooled out of the beast which purred slightly, but nothing went bang.

I began work.

Forty or so minutes later, just as I was in the rhythm of things, the yellow beast stopped growling and refused to cooperate any longer.

I squeezed the trigger a few more times and nothing happened, so I put the water gun down and went over to see why the beast was upset. I switched it off and took a closer look. Interestingly, it had stopped pouring out water. For a foolish moment or two I just stared. And then it dawned on me that I was looking in the wrong place.

I raced to the garage, which involved going up a step, through two doors and down a few more steps. I leapt through the jungle of tools, wood, ladders and random pipes scattered on the floor.

There was a waterfall. The end had popped off the hose pipe, soaking everything. A river flowed through the garage adding more victims to the chaos, including the Tall Aunty’s bed (no she doesn’t live in our garage).

And so, with much regret, the yellow beast was caged for the day. I attended to the flood and put the Tall Aunties bed and a few other damp things outside in the sunshine. Everything done, I gave up with the cleaning efforts and sat down to write this blog post.

Then it started raining.