How to feel a little calmer while life has some challenges.

Living by the sea in Whitstable has been a blessing throughout the pandemic.  Being able to walk along the beach always makes me feel better and invigorated.  Seeing the wide, open space of water and mudflats that change each day is a constant source of joy.  I have started to recognise the patterns of bird species depending on the tide.  If walking wasn't enough, becoming a winter "cold-water swimmer" has given me a deeper connection with the wildlife and the chilly sea.  Each time I swim, I'm sure the same black-headed gull looks at me from his perch with slight amusement and recognition.   Last weekend, I popped out for an hour to pick up some last shreds of plastic waste that I had spotted while walking on West Beach.  With wellies on, wrapped up against the bitter wind and damp air, I was shocked and dismayed to see how much plastic was on the beach.  I have been part of a monthly community beach clean here for over a decade, so I intimately know about rubbish on

Recently, my friendly postman wished me a Happy New Year!  He then sighed and added, "I'm not sure if it is worth saying it this year, as it just seems like more of the same..."  From what I know, my postman is not a particularly negative person, in fact he is actually rather cheerful even in torrential rain and icy winds.  But perhaps he was just saying what many of us are wondering at this time.  We are supposed to be starting a happy new year, yet Covid cases are soaring with only limited restrictions in place.  Do we carry on as normal and hope for the best or do we limit our social contacts and hunker down? I wanted to write a positive, happy and upbeat post for the start of the new year.  I have taken some great photos, trying to capture sunshine and freedom away from restrictions.  And there are many moments of joy to write about.  The winter clear skies are stunning here by the sea, with the bright sun reflecting off the expanses of sand.  I have stopped my walks

After last year's Christmas celebrations were "cancelled" for many of us in England due to surging Covid infections, this festive season was supposed to be extra special.  Somehow perhaps we could miraculously heal the isolation of the past festivities by having extra hugs and a third helping of Christmas pudding this time?  Even though I enjoy a quiet Christmas day with Martin, I also relish being out with others.  Whether that is having a mince pie with friends at their beach hut and playing with their twins or even simply having a winter swim and chat with other neighbours.  Last year we couldn't do any of these things due to restrictions, so this year I was going to do it ALL.  Or so I thought.  Except by the Wednesday before Christmas, my snuffly cold had worsened and I was in bed with a fever of 37.8 ℃.  Even though the lateral flow tests had been clear, with a fever I needed a PCR test.  Apparently I had about a 50-50 chance of having Covid rather than a bad co

Last weekend I actually went away for a much needed yoga retreat.  It was all the more exciting and poignant because I have not been to any kind of "group thing" since the pandemic reared its head.  Having delayed getting my vaccine for six months and then being ill for weeks afterwards, this was finally my chance to escape.  It wasn't even far away, just over an hour's drive but that was enough.  I packed a weekend bag (full of thermals) and left my house alone, for the first time in nearly two years! I arrived at my retreat destination, a lovely Quaker House in Surrey, checked into my spacious, warm room and wondered what on earth do I do now?  I had turned my phone off for the retreat, there was no cooking or tidying to do, no work on the computer, no internet, no micro-managing, no yoga books to study.  For a moment it felt rather unsettling and unfamiliar.  And then I remembered, I was supposed to rest, relax and enjoy the present moment.  Or failing that, I cou

I don't know why I keep "forgetting" that my father died in August this year.  Probably because it is too painful to really grasp.  Fully accepting his death would feel more like taking hold of a hot baking-tray straight out of the oven without oven-gloves on.  I can manage moments when I remember that he's not here anymore.  And then the pain gets too strong and overwhelming.  Just today, I popped into a local shop to buy a birthday card and I spotted their array of calendars for 2022.  Automatically I started to look for a steam-train calendar for my dad and then the grief feeling washed over me again.  It is like a wave of shock, emptiness, longing, sorrow and confusion all at once.   The only person who has asked what my grief feels like is my homeopath, Lucy.  Amazed that someone is interested and can cope with this emotional process, I begin to tell her.  "This is going to sound odd, but I miss his physical presence so much".  She is nodding and lookin

Yesterday we finally embarked on the last section of our "coast to coast" walk continuing from our previous stop at the village of Etchinghill on the Elham Valley Way.  This final part of the route would take us all the way to the south-east coast of Kent, finishing on the beach at the seaside town of Hythe.  As with many things during the last 18 months of the pandemic, the walk has not gone to plan.  We intended to walk this section two weeks ago, but my on-going health struggles following my second Pfizer jab had other ideas.  Twenty-four hours after completing our previous section of the walk, I was suddenly ill again with more post-vaccine symptoms.  It has taken until now (alongside my GP's firm instruction to not suddenly over-do the exercise) to feel able to walk this far. Etchinghill was bathed in the most glorious morning light with clear blue skies above us and a definite autumnal chill in the air.  We retraced our steps for a mile or so from our last section a

Apparently the UK has been dubbed "viral island" by some of those living further afield in places with low covid cases (eg in Australia or even closer to home in parts of Europe).  Since the supposed freedom day here on the 19th July, I haven't even wanted to write about the situation. How could I begin to describe my overwhelming emotions as the Prime Minister announced "freedom" from all restrictions, despite an alarming surge of the Delta variant.  I just wanted to bang my head against a brick wall and rant about the lack of common-sense involved in this decision. I also sensed than no one wants to talk about the pandemic anymore.  I hear surprising and confusing phrases about how we are supposedly "post-covid" or "post-pandemic" now (oh I wish).  If I have tried to talk about my concerns, I am not often met with the reply "oh well, we have to learn to live with the virus."  I've even worried that I'll be labelled "n

Last week, we continued our "coast to coast" walk along the Elham Valley Way starting before the pretty village of Elham.  As soon as we arrived back at our starting point, I was cheered by being among the rolling gentle hills and green vistas of this beautiful area.  The Elham Valley Way has its own marked signs along the whole route, each time giving a little boost of reassurance that we are on the right footpath.  However, this morning we planned to deviate from this path for one reason only - cows. Much as I like cows, I am a little hesitant about walking through a field of them.  So Martin kindly spotted an alternative route avoiding the potential cow field which was worth the extra distance.  Or so we thought!  After cleverly following our diversion, totally cow-free we rejoined the planned route and promptly came to a stile with a florescent yellow hazard sign.  "Cows and their young present in this field" it warned.  We studied the map once again and this ti

The strange thing about living so near to the coast is that very often the inland areas are forgotten by visitors and even the locals.  Even though I will never tire of the endlessly different seascapes that I am so blessed to see each day, the one thing I miss are trees.  Something about trees has always inspired me, soothed me and filled my heart with joy.  So with this in mind, I was very happy to set out on the next stage of our walk heading further along the Elham Valley Way.   Leaving Bridge, a pretty Kent village, I was already excited because we were about to walk across my favourite field.  This field has an almost regal feel, winding past a huge mansion where for a moment I could imagine being in a scene from Pride and Prejudice.  Even the sheep seem relaxed and friendly, almost smiling at us hiking past.  The grass feels soft underfoot and the clear path leads to another picturesque village and ancient church.  We actually know this area as it is near a very popular pub/hote

Doing a walk to help raise some much needed funds for Cortijo Romero in Spain has been an idea for a while.  As many of you know, Cortijo Romero has been a hugely important retreat/personal development centre for many thousands of people for more than 30 years.  CR provides a healing sanctuary where it feels safe to recharge, grow and rest in a world that often feels increasingly challenging.  It has been hugely impacted by the pandemic and has only managed to run a handful of courses in the last two years.  So while travel is slowly becoming more feasible and there is definite hope that CR will survive the ups and downs of the pandemic, it also desperately needs our help. Having studied maps of Kent and considered a whole host of options, I decided to keep it simple and local. With the Delta variant still surging, I wanted to walk close to home so that we could travel back after each section.  I decided on a "coast to coast" walk starting from the beach near my house in Whit

Since the life-changing phone call telling me that my dad had died, I have been living in a "bereavement bubble". I swapped the warm evenings and relaxing sunsets over the sea for arranging my father's funeral.  Each time I dashed out to the beach for a quick swim, I wondered why people all looked relaxed and jolly.  Should I warn them to keep their distance from me in case I spoil their holiday vibe?  It has been an intensely focused few weeks, busier than I'd ever imagine and heart-wrenching all at the same time. When people ask me "how did the funeral go?" I find it difficult to answer.  The first person who asked was a neighbour and I struggled to speak.  I managed to mumble something along the lines of "difficult" and she looked surprised asking "didn't it go to plan then?".  I quickly realised that she wasn't asking how did it feel to be at the funeral.  She was asking about practicalities.  Having spent a week choosing mu

How do I begin?  It was only a little over two weeks ago early on Saturday morning that I heard the phone ring.  I was in the bathroom at that moment, so all I heard was Martin saying "it's your sister, it's your sister, she has to speak to you".  First thing in the morning calls from my sister have never been good news, so I already knew this was about my dad.  I begged the universe for him to be poorly but still with us, so that we could dash to be with him but my wishes were already too late.  He had died peacefully in his sleep at his care home, having had a totally "normal" day previously.  He had been getting weaker in the last few months, but nothing that gave concern. Perhaps the sudden, unexpected part of this loss makes it more difficult for it to sink in.  The weekend passed in an emotional blur with a strange mixture of adrenaline and grief.  I had such a strong impulse to do something, to rush to his side and help.  But there was nothing we coul

Summer swimming has been presenting a few challenges recently.  Rather than dealing with extreme cold and freezing winds during my winter swims, I am now coping with jellyfish!  These fascinating, unusual creatures show up unpredictably during our warmer months.  I had a theory that they only appear when we are in a middle of an English heatwave, which proved correct during sunny June when I was lightly stung by a jellyfish that was caught up in seaweed.  The sting only felt like a stinging nettle, which felt both reassuring and a reminder that jellyfish do exist here. Since then, the weather has cooled and jellyfish have been gloriously absent.  Until last week, when I spent three mornings in the sea with my friend's nine year old daughter, Saskia.  It was her first time swimming in the sea and I pledged to teach her to canoe while they were visiting.  On the second day, I calmly spotted a jellyfish washing up towards the shallows of the beach, at which point Saskia leapt from the

If this last pandemic year could be compared to taking a year-long cruise around the world, today we would be heading into Drake Passage, south of Cape Horn.  This notorious stretch of water lies between the southernmost tip of South America and the South Shetland Islands in Antarctica.  It is significant because the Atlantic Ocean converges here with the Pacific Ocean, creating some of the most difficult sea conditions in the world.  With no land mass to dampen the merging of two enormous bodies of water, waves of up to 12 metres are common.  The conditions are often described as between "bad and terrifying" unless you are one of the lucky travellers presented with calm conditions. As the UK government today abandoned all covid restrictions at the same time as infection rates are soaring, things are starting to feel rather unsettled again here in England.  It is as if the power of one "ocean" saying it is time to get "back to normal" is about to collide h