Clearing Out and Moving On to Not-Quite-Retirement

My crochet business has been neglected lately and I'm getting more than a little cross about it as I have so many ideas I want to progress. I have managed to launch my latest blanket design. Smiling faces have been plastered all over it to spread a little joy and happiness. It's available in my Ravelry and Etsy shops. 

At the back end of last year, MTM’s employer decided to close the local office he works from (only 4 miles up the road). They tried to persuade him to relocate to their main base further away, but he wasn’t keen on a longer commute so, by mutual consent, he has now left their employ. 

We’ve resurrected our old limited company, Rauxa, and MTM is doing odd bits and pieces freelancing on a strictly part-time basis, picking and choosing projects that interest him. We always promised ourselves in NQR (Not-Quite-Retirement) that we would live closer to the sea, so we’ve been planning our escape to the coast. We want a smaller home, preferably all on one level for when (or if) mobility becomes an issue in the later part of life. 

Downsizing has meant a significant amount of our accumulated “stuff” has had to go. Our previous moves were always to similar-sized homes, so we’ve never had to do this quite so drastically before. 

The last four months have been something of a whirlwind of clearing out and getting the house and garden ready for sale. We’ve been living in a kind of messy, half-finished jobs chaos: the smell of paint, dust everywhere, and I’ve looked a right sight more than once—dead leaves in my hair, dirt under my fingernails, permanently in either gardening or decorating clothes. 

Shrubs have been pruned, old fern fronds cut back, borders weeded and mulched, the jetty cleared of winter debris, and steps, paths and lawn edging wire-brushed free of moss and algae. 

Pergola, decking and shed all repainted. 

The greenhouse is currently full of cuttings, pricked out seedlings and other tender plants, waiting patiently to go out into window boxes and pots when the frost risk has passed. That still needs a grand tidy up after they've been put out. 

Some of the jobs have been stressful and—if I’m honest—stressful and a little upsetting. 

My old lampwork studio has been dismantled, the contents sold, and the space converted into an insulated home office. I haven't made any beads for at least a couple of years, so it had been gently fading into disuse ... reclaiming the space was well overdue.

I spent so many happy years in that shed, turning glass, frit, and old bottles into beads—days spent listening to the radio or audiobooks, pausing to watch birds at the feeders or the river winding past with its wildlife: ducks, little egrets, moorhens, and the occasional flash of a kingfisher, each sighting is still such a thrill. Every spring, sheep and lambs would appear in the field across the water. Our dog Missy—and later Bongo—would lie in the sun outside the door on warm days. It was an idyllic way to live and it didn't have to stop during Covid.

Carefully labelling everything and packing it away for its new home was a melancholic task, but also therapeutic - it enabled a slow goodbye to a previous tranquil chapter of my life. I’m comforted by the thought that the jeweller who collected everything will put it to good use. 

My indoor craft room (the other one! the loft we converted ourselves), packed with supplies, has also had to be radically rationalised. I freely admit I am a hoarder when it comes to craft materials, and I wanted to keep it all—but realistically, there won't be room for everything. Plus it needed to look like a calm, less cluttered creative space for the estate agent photos in a few days time. Not everyone works in the rather disorganised chaos I do. 

I had a huge box of old wine corks I’d been saving for years—one day, I told myself, I’d turn them into a cork artwork or wrap them in crochet, fabric, or paint for a necklace. They went onto a local Facebook group as “free to collect”, and a gentleman arrived in a car to take them away. I have no idea what he’ll do with them. 

Some of my yarn stash has also been let go, sold off - again, Facebook to the rescue - at bargain prices. I still have plenty, but it’s now at least more organised—separating what I genuinely plan to use from my ongoing design projects (of which there are many… and one day I will finish them). 

My jewellery-making tools are mostly staying—I still make pieces for myself—but I had a mountain of empty boxes from my years selling at All Saints Art & Craft Market in Cambridge. As I’m not planning to sell again, those went via another Facebook group and found new homes, freeing up a huge amount of space. The multitudinous beads and crystals in their numerous tins are still under review… for now, they remain.

Three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves have already been rehomed via the local community page, collected by a woman who sent her husband with a van. The books they contained - so many books - were difficult to sort through, but I’m pleased to say the ones we could bear to part with have been donated to Coningsby Dog Rescue’s charity shop, where they’ll help support rescue dogs. 

We've changed the carpeting in the ensuite bathroom (very dated we're told), that's been replaced with vinyl. A brand new carpet was fitted in the lounge three days ago. Our estate agent—who describes the house as a “lifestyle property”—is taking photographs on Thursday. 

And it is a lifestyle house. I’ve lived an artisan's life here for thirteen years: first making jewellery with my lampwork beads, then focusing purely on bead-making, and more recently selling crochet designs online. 

Everything we’ve done to the house has been for us. We’ve loved it here - we still do - but through the process of letting go of possessions, the emotional detachment has begun. 

I feel exhausted, but also excited, by the prospect of a new chapter beginning. 

I’m (nearly) ready. 

A Vengeance Prayer to the Tech Gods

Is it me or have the Tech Gods taken to hiding the things we need to use their stuff in not-so-plain-sight? For example 

1. Apple thought it a good idea - after an upgrade - to make the lock screen clock display on my iPhone and iPad virtually invisible with their new liquid bubble unreadable display and then move all the settings that enable me to make it solid and readable again 

2. Paypal changed the menu choices I am presented with depending on my entry point, browser or device so I keep getting lost on their site

3. Microsoft made it very difficult for me to download their software onto a new computer without buying a new subscription - I have a family subscription already, I don't want to have to get another, there were no options for existing subscription holders 

4. Blogger made me clear my cookies yet again before photos would upload. 

5. Apple (yes, you again) have changed the place to clear cookies in Safari and the way you do that now. In fact I still have no idea how to delete individual cookies, I had erase all my web data to get rid of them. And whilst I'm on an Apple rant, I thought my camera icon had disappeared until it dawned on me that the black round thing is not a new on-line pool or snooker game, it is supposed to be a camera lens .... thanks very much, it's all so much clearer now (not!)

6. Messenger's blue "Send" button appearing and disappearing randomly. Several times recently, the button hasn't appeared. I select a photograph in a message and ... poof! It's gone, how the heck do I send this? I try again, still not there ... on the third go, it re-appears, sitting there as smug as a cat that's just been fed, making out it's always been there. Meta gaslighting its users - this happens far too frequently and don't try to tell me I must've missed it - I am not imaging this! 

7. BBC's i-Player's sound settings are so much louder than the normal TV, we're always having to adjust it down 

8. LG's black buttons on black devices - I can go along with the black buttons that have white numbers on them but note the Volume + and - slider has raised black symbols, I can't feel them and I can't see them in anything except extremely bright daylight, why couldn't they also be white? We mostly watch TV in the evenings - in low light conditions - we have to turn the big light on in order to alter the volume!

9. When MTM exchanged his Samsung phone for a newer model, it looked virtually identical to his old one so he had high hopes it would operate similarly. But no, the Volume and On/Off buttons on the side of it have been transposed for some reason. Out of sheer habit, he is forever accidentally turning it off when he just wanted to alter the volume. Why-oh-why change this? It just seems to be change for change's sake, someone justifying their huge design fee? 

10. Scroll bars have been sacrificed for the sake of a "clean look" on virtually all the Tech interfaces I have been using recently. I have lost count of the times I have assumed there are no more settings because a dialogue box hasn't got a scroll bar. Scroll bars are sometimes still there, they're just incognito now; you have to intuit that there may be one and click in an ever-narrowing area to get to see the rest of a box or page that might - or might not - exist. I now call them Schrödinger's scroll bars 

The way I find the setting I need seems to involve me putting myself in their shoes "Now, if I were a programmer looking to put this in the hardest possible place to find it, where should it be?" 

This then - my Vengeance Prayer - is for all the errant Tech Gods who have inconvenienced me and robbed me of hours of my time whilst I try to figure out their impenetrable thought processes: 

• May their phone unlock with Face ID only after the third try ... every. single. time. 
• May their AirPods connect instantly ... to the wrong device. 
• May their bin collection be missed, but only when the bin is absolutely full. 
• May every USB plug require three attempts despite being symmetrical. 
• May their screen brightness auto-adjust just after they’ve got it just right. 
• May passwords that “definitely worked yesterday” suddenly … not. 
• May all their loading spinners pause at 99% long enough to raise hope, then despair. 
• May their tea go cold whilst scrabbling about in drawers trying to find a teaspoon 
• May their on-line shopping packages be delivered to the one neighbour who has gone away for the weekend 
• May the batteries in their remote give out just when they've settled down to watch the finale of a series they've been looking forward to seeing all week. 
• May their one working biro disappear when there's a vital document to sign
• May they be forever trapped in the state of thinking "I'm sure this used to be easier"

We could be giants

We don’t ask for much ... just a dry winter’s day and a stretch of beach to stomp across like giants. 

Last December the low sun turned us into towering figures on the sand - taller, braver, and at least three feet more impressive than usual. 

On yet another grey, rainy day of 2026, we’re eyeing Saturday’s forecast … could we be giants again?

Clearer vision, cloudy logistics

MTM’s appointment finally came through for cataract surgery on his first eye. As I’d be driving him home afterwards, we sensibly decided to do a trial run to the hospital the Sunday before, just to familiarise me with the route. 

I don’t enjoy driving on the A1 (those slip roads feel alarmingly short), so we took the A15 instead. We got to Peterborough absolutely fine, turned round in the hospital car park ... and congratulated ourselves on being very organised. 

On the way back, steam started pouring out of the back of the MGf. I hadn’t noticed the temperature gauge climbing because I was concentrating on unfamiliar roads, but a kindly MX-5 driver alerted us to the dramatic plume behind us. 

I pulled into a supermarket car park and called the AA. They arrived in about an hour, during which time we bought sandwiches from the supermarket - not quite the Sunday lunch we’d planned, but needs must. 

The AA man suspected a faulty coolant cap. He topped us up with water, did a pressure test, and said we should be OK to drive home, provided we got the cap replaced ASAP. It was a good job we stopped when we did; much further and we’d have been looking at a very expensive engine problem. We're very grateful to the fellow roadster driver who went out of his way (literally) to help us avoid disaster. 

We bought five litres of water (just in case) and I drove home watching the temperature gauge like a hawk. Mercifully, we made it back without further drama. What we didn’t do was trust the MG to get us to the hospital on surgery day. 

There was nothing for it but for me to drive MTM’s extremely reliable Lexus. Just one small problem: it’s an automatic. I have never driven an automatic car, but needs must when the devil drives — and on the Monday before the operation I embarked on an intensive course in how to forget my left leg. It all went remarkably well. I now don’t know why I was ever nervous about automatics; they’re much easier than manuals. 

The last time MTM coached a manual driver through the transition (one of his mates), there were a couple of unexpected emergency stops as muscle memory kicked in and he tried to change gear by stamping on the brake. I’m pleased to report no such incidents with me. MTM’s former life as a driving instructor came in very handy. I took to it like a duck to water, though it did take me a while to get used to slowing down without using the gears — I hadn’t realised how much I rely on them as a kind of speedometer. 

Meanwhile, the MG went off to our usual garage. They replaced the water with proper coolant and booked it in for further investigation, which it’s undergoing today. They don’t think it’s the coolant cap. Fingers crossed it isn’t too painful for the wallet. 

Now for the important bit. MTM has now had one eye done. In the end it was a 12-week wait rather than the 16 we were warned about, and he now has a shiny new lens in his left eye. Once the cloudiness and gritty sensation cleared (about five days), he was amazed by the colours. His right eye still sees the world through a sepia-tinted cataract — he describes it as “pub haze”, from the days when smoking was still allowed indoors. In his left eye, whites are now as dazzling as those in a Peter Crouch advert. Blues and silvers, in particular, are startlingly bright. 

At his follow-up appointment yesterday, the consultant confirmed he's cleared to drive again. The downside? He’s gone straight back to the bottom of the list for his second eye, with another 16-week wait looming. This is especially galling when friends elsewhere have had their second eye done within a week or two of the first. 

The NHS used a private hospital for MTM’s operation - apparently this is increasingly common to help reduce waiting lists. As the nurse explained the delay for the second eye, we were sitting right next to a sign advertising cataract surgery for £2,750 (or £65 a month) with no waiting time at all. Is it terribly cynical of me to wonder whether that sign was there by design? 

Still - one eye down, one to go. We’ll keep the Lexus fuelled, the MG under observation, and our sense of humour firmly intact. The next episode of this saga will no doubt cover the adventures of MTM's right eye, a gradual return to full-colour living, and whether the garage can restore our faith in the MG’s (usually quite good) reliability.

Under the crab apple tree

I was reading a posting on our local Facebook community page today, there's a discussion about how Crabtree Road in our village got its name. This sparked memories I thought I'd forgotten of growing up in Cambridgeshire. 

There was a gnarled crab apple tree on a big patch of grass on a housing estate near to my childhood home. Ball games were prohibited because householders didn't want their windows breaking. To us kids it was still a playground and a battlefield. 

The fruits were tiny, rock-hard, and mouth-puckeringly sour (one bite was enough!) One older boy, whose name I can’t even remember now, had a particularly lethal aim. I learned to avoid the green whenever the crab apples were falling in abundance. Hidden in longer grass, they wouldn't even break but roll underfoot and trip you up. There would be a sudden whizz of airborne fruit, and either shouts of laughter as you dodged out of the way or groans as one hit home — it was chaotic, exhilarating, and terrifying all at once.  

I wonder where he is now. Maybe he became a world-class cricketer, honing his yorkers from an early age beneath that very tree. Or maybe he’s just an exceptionally accurate paperclip flicker in an office somewhere. 

Thinking of recent news reports of England’s latest Ashes series, I can’t help but draw a comparison: I’d rather face a rain of crab apples than the bowling in the last Test! Dodging those balls requires all the same reflexes, not to mention courage — and maybe a helmet too. 

It’s funny how a chance comment stirs a small slice of childhood back to the forefront of your memory. Unnamed school friends, impossible-to-eat fruit, and the lessons learned beneath a humble crab apple tree all coming back to me unbidden but most welcome. Despite England losing the Ashes, I enjoyed a smile recalling a lawless patch of grass from decades ago.

The Lady Wasp Vanishes

I am being terrorised by a queen wasp, it has been in my house for three days now. I think it must've been hibernating in our outdoor wood pile and accidentally got transported inside via a log for our wood burner.  

The first evening, I noticed it flying around in a dozy, drunken kind of way. It nearly drowned in our aquarium but the mesh to stop the fish jumping out saved it. 

I am not very frightened of insects, over the course of my lifetime and eight (? I think) homes, I have rescued many bees, wasps, daddy long legs, moths and spiders alike, transporting them back to the great outdoors by way of a glass and sturdy piece of card. 

The only things I do not save are house flies. If they make life easy and buzz around a window, I'll let them out that way. House flies carry campylobacter; food poisoning laid me so low for 9 long days a few years ago, I cannot suffer flies to live and so swat them without compunction. 

Anyway, back to the wasp, it damply flew up to the ceiling, banged itself on a beam and then dropped like a stone behind our sofa. I tried to locate it but it was nowhere to be seen. 🐝 

As long as it didn't get in our bedroom, I decided I could live with it spending the night in the lounge, I'd try to find it in the morning. 

The next day was really nice, cold but sunny, MTM doesn't work on Fridays so we wrapped up warm and had a daytrip to the seaside (Sutton on Sea). 

 

We had a lovely lunch at the Beach Bar with a glass of cider, cup of tea to wash it down. I just love these groovy patchwork chairs they have. Afterwards, we had a walk up to and beyond Sandilands and Huttoft. 

The National Trust is doing a fabulous job of converting a golf course into a wetland nature reserve. 

I forgot all about the wasp. 

We went to bed after the 10 o'clock news that night, tired out by all the fresh air and fun. I was just about to turn the light off when I spotted the wasp flitting about the Velux windows on the sloping ceiling. It had clearly been awoken by the heating, it really needs to be somewhere cold. Sighing, I collected my glass and card from the lounge where I'd left them the night before. 

The dratted creature did exactly the same as the day before, flew up to the vaulted ceiling, reached the apex beam, plunged in a headlong dive behind my bedside table and then did the same disappearing act. I became annoyed and agitated, pulling out the cabinet, moving things around under the bed trying to find it. 

MTM: Just turn the light off, it will go to sleep. 

Me: I can't sleep with it in here, especially on my side. 

MTM: I'll swap sides with you. 

Me: It might crawl into our mouths, sting us, our throats will close up with swelling. We'd be dead before an ambulance ever arrived to give us a tracheotomy. 

MTM : You sleep with your mouth closed ..... remember? Because of spiders? (I read somewhere that the average person eats 8 spiders in a lifetime this way). 

Me: I can't take the risk, we'll have to sleep in the guest room. 

MTM: I'm staying here 

 

So I reluctantly headed to the guest bedroom, taking a loving, last look at my husband who would - I was certain - die in the night.

Saturday morning arrived, I was surprised to find all was well, the first thing MTM said to me was "Bzzzzzzzzz"! You can perhaps understand why his nickname is Micky Taking Monster. We had a cup of tea in bed, did a crossword together and then started to get on with our day. After showering in our ensuite bathroom, I was halfway through applying my Merwave products to my dripping wet hair (you get better waves if hair is really wet) when .... 

I reached for one of the products but *there* was the same gigantic wasp crawling around the base of one of the bottles. I swore profusely, leapt naked into the bedroom to retrieve my glass and card, dripping water and product all over the hardwood floor. I was mad as heck, once I caught it, this wasp was going to die, no more Mrs Nice Guy. 

When I got back, the wasp had disappeared ... again! It had possibly dropped down onto the floor and crawled into the laundry basket. 🧺

I had to finish my hair nervously glancing around all the time, watching where I trod in case it was on the floor. After getting dressed and putting on my makeup, I left the wasp in the ensuite bathroom with the door shut but there is probably enough room underneath for it to crawl out. 

I have shaken out every item in the laundry basket, looked under the mats but it's nowhere to be seen. Now I can only wait in nervous anticipation for its next appearance!

Part III - The Last View

BBC Radio 3 reported the other morning that a survey by Sheffield University had found one in three of us believe in the supernatural. I have had too many spooky experiences to dismiss ghosts out of hand. As promised, here is the final instalment in my series of real life Halloween stories - things that have actually happened to me. 

One summer in the early 1990s MTM and I took possession of a derelict barn we planned to turn into a home. MTM works in the construction industry, so we had the right contacts, and after eight months of dust, noise, and plaster, we moved in. The double garage we’d been granted permission to build, however, was still just an idea on paper. 

One of our nearest neighbours, Reg, was already in his nineties - a retired farmer and former cavalryman from the first world war. He’d lived most of his life in these fields. On fine afternoons, he would stroll outside and gaze across our garden to the field beyond, watching sheep graze or, occasionally, a chestnut mare cropping the grass. 

It was only later we realised that if we built the garage, we’d block his view entirely. We hesitated for years, torn between respect for Reg and the reality that our planning permission was expiring. We meant no harm, but we were practical, busy people in our thirties. When the time came, we built the garage, feeling guilty but resigned. 

Time moved on and sadly, Reg passed away. 

That winter, strange things started happening. The new fluorescent light in the garage began flickering and buzzing at random - always when no electrician was around to see it. Sometimes it flickered, occasionally it would dim to near darkness, another time, it would be overly bright, casting long, trembling shadows across the walls. We replaced bulbs, switches, fittings - nothing helped. The buzzy hum seemed to follow me out of the garage like a reproach. 

One cold evening, MTM stood staring up, frustration stiff in his shoulders. A construction professional and he couldn't get a bloody light to work properly! The light buzzed and flickered maddeningly above him, sputtering away in provocation.

Decisive action was called for. He stood in the centre of the garage, hands on his hips, addressed the flickering bulb and then muttered in an assertive tone “Now look, Reg, I know that’s you. You never wanted this garage, and I’m sorry. But it’s here now - so please, just … stop it, will you?” 

He flicked the switch off and stomped back inside. There was a heavy silence afterwards; the garage was holding its breath. 

Believe it or not but from that night on, the light NEVER played up again. Did MTM really exorcise the ghost of Reg by asking him to stop? 

We lived in the barn for twelve years altogether and we never had any more electrical problems. Wherever you are, Reg - thank you for giving us a bit of peace. 

As the nights grow longer, the temperature cools and the wind whispers through the trees, I know whenever I catch sight of a fluorescent light or hear its hum, it'll remind me of Reg, a man who watched over the calm, green Lincolnshire fields for nearly a century. 

Rest in Peace, Reg and Happy Halloween. 🎃 👻

[Name has been changed for privacy].

Clear-eyed cateract surgery

MTM had a hospital appointment to assess his eyes for cataract surgery yesterday. Apparently where you live makes a big difference to how quickly you can see again. 

In Peterborough, they’ll have your cataract sorted in two to three weeks. But if, like us, your GP happens to be over the border in Lincolnshire, you can look forward to a leisurely wait of about four months. Apparently, those living on the edge of the Fens need sharper eyesight than those of us actually in them - probably so they can spot the postcode lottery coming. 

With the additional news Rachel Reeves plans to raise taxes in the next budget - but not necessarily on the people who can most afford it, I went to bed last night feeling dispirited. Then, in a moment of nocturnal optimism, I dreamt I met Jeremy Corbyn. Last I heard, he was forming a new party. In my dream, we brainstormed the name for it. We rejected 4Front for sounding a bit too right-wing and settled on 4Most.

The idea was simple: put the ordinary people first, tax the rich and properly fund public services so no one has to wait months just to see straight again. If I stood as a candidate for 4Most, would you vote for me? I promise better vision - literally and politically. 

We could certainly do with a government that sees clearly too: one that recognises the value of public services and invests in them accordingly. Until then, we’ll keep squinting across county lines, wondering why fairness depends so much on where your GP happens to be.

Part II - The Ghosts of Suffragettes

Ready for my next spooky story? 

This one takes place in the same 19th-century cottage we rented about fifteen years ago. A few months after the “walking behind me” incident, MTM and I were sitting across from each other at the dining table, finishing dinner. 

Twilight had begun to settle, the last pale light streaking the windowpanes while we ate. The Great War by Justin Currie was playing on the CD player, looping on continuous play. 

Then everything shifted, all at once. My fork jerked violently from my hand and clattered onto the table. MTM’s gaze darted toward the other end of the table, and the CD player skipped, the disc stuttering like it had a pulse of its own. 

We froze, staring at each other. What just happened? 

“I think I just saw someone.” MTM said. Out of the corner of his eye, he’d glimpsed a young woman, swaying back and forth, laughing - but when he looked directly, the room was empty. 

The CD was fine again, the track At Home Inside of Me was still playing, filling the space, but the atmosphere had changed completely. 

“It looks like we’ve got a ghost!” MTM laughed, a bit uncertainly

“Yeah?” I grinned, joining him in trying to keep it light. “But how do we really know?” 

The words were barely out of my mouth before the overhead light flickered off and on again, twice as if answering my question. The grin fell from both our faces. Later, I checked the lyrics of the song playing during the strange events: 

Armies of children / And ghosts of Suffragettes / Make merry in the cauldron of my chest 

In that old cottage, with twilight turning to dusk, the CD skipping, the lights pulsing, and a fleeting figure within reach of my fork, I couldn't help but wonder if the spirit of a young girl was trying to tell us she'd been a suffragette ... I don't really believe in such things, do I?

My Jack O’Lantern Jar Cover pattern is now available in my Ravelry  and Etsy  shops. Perfect for adding a little eerie glow to your own autumn evenings - friendly ghosts optional. 

And if you're curious about the man behind the music, Justin Currie's The Tremolo Diaries is out now - a look at life on the road, playing music whilst living with Parkinsons. It's a treasure of a book, moving, funny, honest and utterly readable. Recommended.

Do you believe in ghosts? (Part I)

j

(Hint: I’m not sure I do… but I’ve had a few moments that make me wonder!) 

Halloween is fast approaching, the evenings are drawing in, and it’s the perfect excuse to get cosy with a little seasonal crochet. My Jack o’ Lantern jar cover crochet pattern adds just the right touch of spooky glow to a mantelpiece or table — cheerful by day, a little bit eerie by candlelight. 

You can find it in my Etsy and my Ravelry shops. To celebrate the season — and the run-up to Samhain — I thought I’d share a few spooky things that have happened to me over the years. I can’t say I’m a true believer in ghosts… but I’m definitely not on Team Sceptic either. 

First up: the time someone (or something?) walked right behind me in a rented house ... 

Back in 2009, we were living in a characterful early 19th-century cottage, two cottages knocked into one. It was quite isolated — surrounded by arable farmland with just a handful of other houses dotted about. It was chocolate-box beautiful, the sort of place that was in that film The Holiday — picture-perfect, complete with climbing roses round the door and a welcoming glow from the windows. 

Every evening before bed, I’d let our little dog, Missy, out into the fenced front garden. I used to stand in the hallway, just inside the open front door, while she sniffed around and did her business. One fine, moonlit night, as I stood there gazing up at the sky, I heard MTM walk behind me from my right (the lounge) and go into the dining room to my left. 

I heard his footsteps on the laminate floor — that soft tap-tap-tap — and even felt him pass close by. He’s a jocular sort of person, so I half-expected him to make me jump, but he didn’t say a word. Odd, I thought, but maybe he was just tired — it was past 11pm, after all. 

Missy came scampering back in. I locked the front door and followed MTM into the dining room, which leads straight into the kitchen. But when I got there — he wasn’t in either room. 

He must have gone into the back garden, I thought. Despite the moon, it was really dark, there were no streetlights at all. Maybe he’d gone to the car for something. But the back door was locked — and the key was still in the lock. 

I checked the small downstairs loo (the door was slightly ajar). Empty. 

There was absolutely NO WAY he could have snuck back past me. Feeling a bit shaken, I grabbed a glass of water, retraced my steps through the dining room, down the hallway, and into the lounge. I went up the stairs — and there he was, already in his PJs, getting into bed! 

When I asked if he’d just walked behind me, he looked genuinely puzzled. He swore all he did was turn off the TV, unplugged it, and gone straight up to get ready for bed while I was with Missy. 

So… who (or what) did I hear walking right behind me? Even now, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up when I think about it. What do you think — just an overactive imagination, or did I really have a supernatural visitor that night? 

I’ll be sharing a couple more spooky little moments over the next few days as we head toward Halloween, so stay tuned if you enjoy a good shiver down the spine! And if you’d like to add a bit of ghost-free glow to your own home, my Jack o’ Lantern jar cover pattern is waiting in my Etsy and Ravelry shops — perfect for flickering tealights, fairy lights, or a touch of cosy autumn charm.

From Quayside to Skinner Street (a Whitby adventure)

A second x-ray at Lincoln Hospital confirmed my foot was healing nicely, so we decided to make another visit to our caravan. The weather was mixed but mostly kind; the rain mainly only visited overnight. Here are journal entries written while we were there. 

I was woken at 4:30 a.m. by gentle precipitation on the skylights of the caravan. It wasn’t thundering down - its tip-tap rhythm was so soporific I’m not sure how it had roused me. I quickly drifted back to dreamland. 

A few hours later, the rain had picked up a bit. I told him about the tip-tapping overnight but MTM said it sounded more like the local wildlife were having a barn dance on the roof! When a gusty wind joined in, it turned into the soap cycle of a full-on car wash! But inside our little bolt-hole, we felt warm, dry, and cosy. I love it here. 

After the drama of the recent moorland fires, it seemed only fair to let the rain soothe the damage. As the tide went out, the sun made a welcome appearance and the rain dissipated. 

I’m more mobile now and can manage short walks on firm, even surfaces. I’m off the crutches, my injured foot can bear weight, and I’m just using a walking stick for support. Bumpy footpaths or sandy beaches were off-limits for this visit — after all, I’m still wearing my “Darth Vader” boot. 

I did manage one outing into Whitby, though it had to be very carefully planned. We parked close to the harbour, knowing the Fish Box wasn’t far for lunch. Sitting outside, we listened to the chatter and bustle of the quayside — a lovely way to feel part of the town without too much effort. 

The main aim of the day was to reach Holman’s Bookshop, which has a great selection of stationery. I needed some squared paper for crochet design ideas I wanted to sketch while still fresh in my mind. 

It was relatively quiet for Whitby, which I appreciated. On previous visits, the town had occasionally felt oppressive when crowded. On a late September Monday, though, it was pleasant and easy to move through the streets. People were about, but not uncomfortably packed. 

It seemed to take an age to climb (and later descend) the steep slope of Flowergate. The tall buildings on either side of the narrowest section made it feel like a secret passage to the upper town. The cobbles underfoot were mercifully even, giving me time to appreciate the small independent shops, galleries, bakeries, and quirky fudge or Whitby jet stores — far more “local” in feel than the harbour front which is dominated by the Co-op and some new building works. 

By the time we turned onto Skinner Street, the walk had flattened out. Clinging to MTM’s arm, he joked that our slow progress reminded him of walking with his mum when she was in her eighties. It gave me a fresh perspective on the challenges faced by people with mobility restrictions — and gratitude that mine are temporary. 

Inevitably we spent more time in the car than we would usually.

The burnt moorland was sad to see, but nature has already begun her slow regenerative work. 

MTM made his escape from my restrictions for a couple of solo walks. The footpath we had walked a few short weeks before only re-opened to the public on the 28th September. 

I stayed behind in the caravan awning, happily crocheting for a few hours and listening to Bold as Love by Gwyneth Jones — an almost dystopian near-future novel where rock stars rule and violent, armed eco-warriors are roaming England. Scotland, Wales and Ireland have all been left to their own devices. 

The first thing MTM set out to find was the little Christmas tree I’d been fretting over. 

I was ridiculously happy to hear it had survived, despite one of the burnt areas coming perilously close.

Many trees and shrubs were less fortunate. 

 

The footpath, with its hard-trodden surface, had in places helped contain the flames’ spread. 

This boardwalk spans a boggy area. When we walked over it before the fire, we startled a striped lizard basking in the sun. It flitted out of sight too fast for a photograph, but remains a precious memory 

I hope the little lizard is okay after the fire burned most of his home away. 

By the time we packed up for the journey back to the East Midlands, I felt quietly triumphant. I’d survived Flowergate (albeit slowly, with MTM’s arm for support), admired the moor’s slow recovery, and even found time to lose myself in crochet and audiobooks. MTM had his solo adventures, I had mine, and our little Christmas tree stood resolute against all odds. It was a gentle reminder that, like the moor, life mends itself — one cobble, one stitch, one careful step at a time

  

Sneaton Church and the Stones That Tell Stories

My blogger friend Jean, over at A Very Grand Pressigny recently shared her wanderings through some of Brittany's towns and villages. Her posting stirred a memory of my own: a visit last month to Sneaton, a village perched just two miles south of Whitby, where stone, sea, and legend entwine. 

From the churchyard, the view sweeps down to the coast, Whitby Abbey's silhouette as brooding as the myths that cling to its ruins. Sneaton’s church has its own stories to tell. 

The present building, dedicated to St Hilda, is the third to stand on this ground, raised by James Wilson in the 19th century. Yet the place feels far older—as if the layers of prayer, folklore, and memory linger in the very air. 

By happy chance, our visit coincided with the church’s bicentenary. The nave was filled with floral displays and tributes—joyful balloons mingled with tender memorial bouquets. 

Among them, I paused at white lilies dedicated to Frank and Jane Parker and Reginald Perrett—quietly beautiful, touched with reverence. 

But one arrangement drew me close: a tribute for Sally Peacock, with balls of yarn amidst the flowers. What a perfect, personal gesture for someone whose life was twined with craft. I found myself wishing I could have met her, to share stories and laughter over wool and the meditative rhythm of crochet. 

And here rests the font—an immense Norman stone carved in 1108. Astonishingly, when it was removed for the rebuilding, it was left to languish in a garden before Thomas Chapman rescued it and returned it to its rightful place. Its zigzag carvings of Norman artistry, and ammonite spirals echoing the cliffs and fossils of Whitby. 

The ammonites carry the legend of St Hilda herself. Folklore tells how the saint, faced with a land overrun by serpents, turned them into stone with her prayers. The cliffs around Whitby yield their fossil coils as if to prove the tale, serpents forever frozen in time. Even the town’s coat of arms shows these petrified snakes—a reminder of faith interwoven with the land’s geology. 

This striking stained glass window was created by Alan Davis of Lythe to mark the millennium. It celebrates “The Song of Caedmon,” the oldest surviving English poem, born in Whitby Abbey where Caedmon found his voice. The window glows with story and song, a bridge across a thousand years. 

Just down the road is The Wilson Arms. Sadly, the pub wasn’t open when we visited but I took a photo of the times so we can plan it better next time.

I have a feeling we’ll be back at Sneaton soon. Between the sea views, the stories, and the sense of history wrapped up in this little church, it’s a place that lingers with you.

Blogging Isn’t Dead — It’s Just Waiting for Us

Lately, I’ve found myself frustrated with social media. Reels, influencer noise, and clickbait seem to drown out the things I’m genuinely interested in. Everything feels louder, faster, and more cluttered than I want. 

I don’t always love the way technology insists on “upgrading” my life. Half the time, it just leaves me relearning things that used to be simpler. What I really want is something easy, calm, and familiar. That’s why I’ve wandered back here. 

In Bloggerland, the pace feels slower. Yes, the interface has its quirks (hello, photo upload issues), but at least it doesn’t change every five minutes. I feel a little more in control here — and a lot less bombarded.

Hardly anyone blogs anymore, which makes this feel a bit like opening a time capsule. It’s nostalgic, comforting, and a reminder of how online spaces used to feel: more personal, more thoughtful, more… human. 

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if blogs had a little renaissance? If you’ve been toying with the idea of dusting yours off, consider this a gentle nudge. I might be standing here alone in the quiet … but honestly? 

I don’t mind.

It’s peaceful. 

And to me, that’s exactly the point

A Room With a Bruise

Downstairs in our home has steps. Lots of them. All over the place. Our abode moulds itself round an incline. The ground floor is where all changes in level are accommodated with these steps. Steps are very tricky when you're on crutches. Steps are why I'm in this mess. 

Due to the quirky layout of our home, a former blacksmith's forge, our bedroom is downstairs. Consequently I've decided to temporarily base myself upstairs in the spare bedroom while my foot heals. With its ensuite shower room on the same level, it's much easier to get to the loo without resorting to undignified bum shuffling. 

I can see out of a window from my perch, where I rest my ankle. There are sheep in the far field wandering about grazing on brown grass. The farmer delivers barley, dispensed from his trailer. The sheep start to run, eager to greet it. 

The morning light today is clear and bright. A breeze is teasing extremities on the trees which sway gently as if waving good morning. It makes me smile. Occasionally they stir with more vigour, as if they have caught the drift of a new piece of exciting gossip they must urgently pass on. 

The spiky silhouettes of my dracaena houseplants stand to attention from their spot near the window, a hauty salute to the new day ... we accept the generous radiance you bestow even if we can't get out to enjoy it.

It's all kicking off, Sue

I had an accident going down some steps. This is maybe the fourth time I have hurt myself there. I rush about, distracted by something else I'm thinking about. Consequently, I don't pay sufficient attention to what I'm doing. 

There are four steps from my kitchen going down into the utility room. They go down on a curve turning a left handed right angle. The steps are therefore narrower on the inside of the curve than the outside. My foot missed the final tread and I ended up in a groaning heap on the floor. 

The last time I did this, it was only a twisted ankle but on this occasion, an x-ray revealed a broken bone on the top of my foot. It doesn't hurt when it's immobile but moving about causes some pain. I've got this snazzy new boot to wear which keeps it still, it's very helpful. 

Putting weight on it is excruciating, I have a pair of crutches to help me hobble about about. I'm waiting on a call from the Fracture Clinic who will want to x-ray it again after a few days. The doctor in the Urgent Treatment Centre thinks I may get away without having to have an operation. I remember breaking my toe way back in the 90s, that was the same, you just have to wait for it to heal.

I had great treatment from the UTC at Grantham, Doctor Henry, nurses Julie and Karen, the receptionist ... all were fantastic. The NHS is full of caring, helpful, valuable people like them. I am in their debt.

Wild fires in North Yorkshire

 

This is a screenshot of NASA's satellite FIRMs surveillance. It shows areas where thermal activity is taking place.

I've marked where our caravan is with a small black X (half way down, to the left). This shows the pass the satellite made on 28 August after the Fire Brigade put in fire breaks only 1,000 metres away to stop the fire spreading further North.

This photograph was taken from the static caravans on the other side of the road, our caravan is located just beyond the security barrier you can see at the top of the image. The Fire Brigade evacuated the site, roads around the site were closed whilst a "farmy army" of volunteers joined them and worked around the clock to keep settlements safe. It must have been a frantic time moving livestock to safer areas. At the time of writing, roads re-opened closest to our site only yesterday.

The fire stops worked and we're glad to say they halted the fire's progress. The Fire Brigade, farmers, National Trust rangers and volunteers have done an amazing job of preventing the fires from destroying settlements. We are very thankful. 

Moorland, which will regenerate, has been scorched over a large area. We know many trees have been lost, some ancient woodland also destroyed, which is the most upsetting outcome, given how much wildlife it supports.  I hope all the creatures were able to escape, inevitable that there must have been casualties. If we had lost the caravan - it can easily be replaced. 

Only a few days before we heard about the fire, we had been up there walking on the moors. This is a photograph taken looking towards the alum mine which was also evacuated. The fire went right up to it, only halted on the opposite side of the road running by it due to the tireless good work of everyone involved.

There was a small fir tree we passed, close to the path. MTM joked about it. It was so small, less than 2 ft tall. If someone cut it down and took it home, he wondered if it would become known as Christmas Tree gap(!)

I know ... it's in very poor taste, he has a dark sense of humour but it made me laugh. I resolved to take a photograph of it as we came back to remind me but ... I forgot. 

Isn't it daft of me to be upset over that little tree every time I think of it now?

The heather was out and everything was looking quite beautiful. Our thoughts and good wishes are with everyone who lives and works permanently in the area.

Time slip

I was reading through a few blog posts to discover the date we moved into our latest home and I suddenly realised 2024 has been and gone and I posted nothing!

Furthermore, nearly half of 2025 has also vanished!

Amongst the biggest news is MTM is now working only 3 days a week. He ended up staying working for his employer despite handing in his notice. There then followed a period of uncertainty when - only a few short months after they begged him to stay - they seemed intent on forcing him to leave! As he had turned down the offer of another job opportunity, he saw a lawyer and filed an official complaint of constructive dismissal based on some very strong evidence of ageism. This led to a truce which has pretty much held since then.

We got another dog, Diesel, he was ten when we got him from Coningsby Rescue

 I saw him on their Facebook page a few weeks after we lost Bongo. No-one had applied for him, he hadn't had a single application.  My heart went out to him. We visited a couple of times and soon he was on his way to live with us. He's a very calm, placid Staffordshire Bull Terrier.

He's thirteen now, lately he has developed arthritis in his back legs which limits how far he can walk, bless him but we still love him to bits. 

I'm still doing my crochet patterns and selling them on Ravelry and Etsy, here's the latest one, a zebra print striped blanket with a scarlet edging.

Earlier this year, we nearly bought a beach hut in Sutton on Sea

But we changed our mind and got a new (to us) caravan, it's about four years old. Here it is at Glossop caravans, the day we put our deposit on

We've got it parked on a seasonal pitch up on the edge of the North Yorkshire moors, with the seaside towns of Whitby and Robin Hood's Bay both only a very short drive away. We could easily walk to both if Diesel was up to trekking that far. 

Wainwright's Coast to Coast route passes within a (long) stone's throw and the famous Cinder Path goes through a nearby village. 

Here are our sunloungers in the generoisly sized awning, it's a very relaxing place to to crochet and drink wine!

Diesel crashed out on his daddy's legs inside the caravan after a busy day.

The caravan faces West so we get glorious sunsets, here's the view from inside looking out

Some ransomes flowering near to the site in May

Here's our favourite bench for eating fish n chips

We're on a very quiet over fifties (no children) site, there are eight other caravans there and around two dozen static holiday homes. We pay a very reasonable annual fee which includes electricity and water, we can visit as often and as long as we like between 1 March and 31 October. So far this year we have managed to go six or seven times for 4-5 nights at a time. Diesel enjoys early morning visits to the beach before it gets too warm for him. 

I have grown my hair very long (for me) and post menopause, it's now really quite wavy!