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)

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(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.