Mud holes, heroes and homes that nurture

My grandfather was a brave character. He enlisted in World War I and when he gave his age of 16 years the enlisting officer told him to walk around the table and come back and say he was 17.  He was then accepted into the Irish Fusiliers and subsequently shipped via Folkestone to France and the killing fields of World War 1.  When he returned to his village after the war had ended he hardly ever spoke of what he had seen.  Perhaps, the horror could not be shared with family and friends, it had to just be endured.  He seemed to regard the world differently as if fear of death had been erased on those blood-soaked muddy fields.

He was mentioned in dispatches and his photograph and the message from Churchill are on the wall here in my parent’s home.  He was shot in the arm and badly wounded but was indomitable and even volunteered to go out on extra missions from the trenches. This was no small thing as often the commanding officer would a handgun ready to shoot those who wouldn’t go over the top, such was the fear felt in those wretched mud holes.  On emerging from the shelter of the trench, too often, young soldiers were simply walking into deadly machine-gun fire as this article describes.

“On 24 June 1916 1500 British guns began a week-long bombardment to smash German defences on the Somme before the infantry attacked.  Many of the shells they fired, however, were duds and when the infantry advanced it soon became clear that the artillery bombardment had failed.  German troops emerged and gunned down advancing British infantry, killing 20,000 on 1 July alone.”

20,000 in one day, no wonder soldiers didn’t want to go over the top into a hail of bullets! In the battle of the Somme, the loss was even higher with 60,000 British troops dying in one day.  Several awards are given to those who show exceptional bravery on the battlefield in the face of the enemy.  I just had no idea how many there were   It turns out that being mentioned in dispatches is one of the lowest awards given and at the other end of the scale is the Victoria Cross (VC) which is one of the rarest.  This medal was introduced in January 1856 during the Crimean war and has only been awarded 1358 times. You need to do something pretty spectacular in order to get the VC,

“The VC is awarded for most conspicuous bravery, or some daring or preeminent act of valour or self sacrifice, or extreme devotion to duty in the presence of the enemy.”

That degree of bravery can get you killed. For example, a quarter of all the Victoria crosses given during World War I were posthumously awarded.  Any VCs medals made since 1914 have come from two antique Chinese bronze cannons (captured during Opium Wars in the 1840s). At present, there are only 85 medals left. However, don’t worry, this supply will not run out soon as only 15 VCs have been awarded in the last 76 years. 

The Victoria Cross (VC) is the highest and most prestigious award of the British honours system.  Quite recently one VC has been sold for half a million pounds. So, it is startling to learn that Captain Noel Chavasse won two Victory crosses during World War 1.  This is a unique achievement even among the elite of VC holders.   Even before being awarded his VC he had already been previously mentioned in dispatches and awarded the Military Cross. It is surely worth knowing more about this unusually brave man and just why he received these awards.

He was awarded a VC for his actions on 9 August 1916, at Guillemont, France when he attended to the wounded all day under heavy fire. The full citation was published on 24 October 1916 and reads

"Captain Noel Godfrey Chavasse, M.C., M.B., Royal Army Medical Corps.

For most conspicuous bravery and devotion to duty.

During an attack he tended the wounded in the open all day, under heavy fire, frequently in view of the enemy. During the ensuing night he searched for wounded on the ground in front of the enemy's lines for four hours.

Next day he took one stretcher-bearer to the advanced trenches, and under heavy shell fire carried an urgent case for 500 yards into safety, being wounded in the side by a shell splinter during the journey. The same night he took up a party of twenty volunteers, rescued three wounded men from a shell hole twenty-five yards from the enemy's trench, buried the bodies of two officers, and collected many identity discs, although fired on by bombs and machine guns.

Altogether he saved the lives of some twenty badly wounded men, besides the ordinary cases which passed through his hands. His courage and self-sacrifice, were beyond praise."

 Chavasse's second award was made during the period 31 July to 2 August 1917, at Wieltje, Belgium; the full citation was published on 14 September 1917

"His Majesty the KING has been graciously pleased to approve of the award of a Bar to the Victoria Cross to Capt. Noel Godfrey Chavasse, V.C., M.C., late R.A.M.C.,

For most conspicuous bravery and devotion to duty when in action.

Though severely wounded early in the action whilst carrying a wounded soldier to the Dressing Station, Capt. Chavasse refused to leave his post, and for two days not only continued to perform his duties, but in addition went out repeatedly under heavy fire to search for and attend to the wounded who were lying out.

During these searches, although practically without food during this period, worn with fatigue and faint with his wound, he assisted to carry in a number of badly wounded men, over heavy and difficult ground.

By his extraordinary energy and inspiring example, he was instrumental in rescuing many wounded who would have otherwise undoubtedly succumbed under the bad weather conditions.

This devoted and gallant officer subsequently died of his wounds."

In another version of the same incident, it was recounted that Noel Chavasse received a blow to the head, from an exploding shell, fracturing his skull. He took off his helmet and bandaged his own wound and then carried on working as a medic treating the wounded.  He went on to experience two more head injuries as a result of additional shelling but continued to work arranging for other severely wounded soldiers to be stretchered to safer areas. Meanwhile, he continued to search for wounded soldiers still on the battlefield.  On the 2nd of August 1917 he was injured in the stomach by a Shell blast and died on the 4th of August aged only 32.

He is buried in Belgium in the military cemetery and is the only headstone in the world to have two VCs engraved on it.  

He did not have a promising beginning. Both he and his twin brother were so small and weak at birth that their baptism had to be delayed.  They were very ill with typhoid in their first year of life and as adults were below average height. Noel’s school report of 1897 was not complimentary and refers to him as an ‘Imp of mischief’.  

There were another pair of twins in the family May and Marjorie who were born in 1886 would live for over 100 years old.  Apart from these two sets of twins, there were three other siblings.  When Noel’s father, Francis James Chavasse, was a young man he felt he would never even find a wife because of his hunched back, bad stammer and state of poverty. He went on to marry have seven children and became an eloquent Anglican priest. Later, when the position of Bishop was suggested Francis wrote to a friend doubtfully, "A man with my feeble body, average ability and temperament can hardly be intended by God for such a diocese”.   Despite his own misgivings he was appointed as Bishop and served the community well. The family would start each morning with prayers in the chapel and although a fairly remote father Francis had a clear vision of how a home should shape a child’s character.  He wrote,

“Every moment which tend to make the home more bright, more orderly more clean and more healthy, above all more full of love … helps to ennoble the privilege and dignity of bringing up little children … and is the greatest factor in the formation of the character“

In fact, his wife must have contributed even more greatly to the atmosphere within the home.  It is recorded that,

“The kindness of the whole Chavasse family soon became legendary even among their servants who were taught to read and write by their mother.”

Noel himself described his parent’s home succinctly.

“There was an atmosphere of calmness and integrity in the house, which we took as a matter of course!”

Noel as a teenager provided sporting opportunities, Bible classes and singing lessons for boys in an Industrial School in one of the poorest areas of Liverpool.  Even when he subsequently went to Oxford University to study medicine Noel kept up his connection with the school giving up his vacations to help.  Noel’s attendance at Trinity College Oxford involved mixing almost exclusively with boys of a public school background but he clearly had the capacity to relate to people of quite different backgrounds.  As a qualified doctor, he was travelling in a poor area near the docks and saw a disabled child crawling on the road.  Noel stopped and gave the child his card and arranged for the boy to be treated by him at the Royal Southern Hospital.  After nine operations the boy was able to walk upright and went on to have a full and active life in the Merchant navy.   Both Noel and his twin represented Great Britain in the Olympic Games in the 400 metres.  When one reads of such a wonderful character from such a family the loss of such a life becomes even more painful.  That is what war does it steals from the world often the very best of us.

PS other siblings of Noel,

Aidan Chavasse served in World War 1 and died in Flanders 1917. “His Brigade-Major (Bernard Paget) considered him to be the bravest man in the Brigade due to his willingness to volunteer for dangerous missions. It was during such a mission to inspect German wire near Sanctuary Wood in July 1917 that he was wounded in the thigh. He sent his patrol back to safety and took cover in a shell hole. Subsequent attempts to find him, including three separate attempts by his brother, were unsuccessful and Aidan was never found.”

Chrstopher Chavasse, Noel’s twin became Bishop of Rochester, was awarded OBE and the Military Cross

Francis Chavasse, was awarded the Military Cross, and became an eye specialist

Marjorie and May (Noel’s twin sisters) volunteered at a convalescent hospital for soldiers.  Later May would travel out to France to work at a fully equipped mobile hospital during World War 1 and was mentioned in dispatches.  She qualified as a nurse and also served in WW2 as part of Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Service.  Marjorie worked for Barnardo’s for most of her life.

“Regard man as a mine rich in gems of inestimable value. Education can, alone, cause it to reveal its treasures, and enable mankind to benefit therefrom.”

Baháʼu'lláh

 

Cities of bodies

Thanks for calling yesterday and truthfully sharing your feelings. I appreciate your honesty and openness. May you ever remain so translucent. You have no idea how you are missed, how you fill every space with light, love and music. So many people were touched by your presence here. I never got to meet the magic/fighting/colleagues at work but I did meet teachers/Belgium Nadine/Catherine etc and they all speak of you as if you are belonged to them! I have no idea how you worm your way into people’s hearts but it is a mighty capacity. You had it at a young age. I remember Ursula returned from a long absence from the island and she spotted you across the room and both of you run to hug each other. I must admit to feeling jealous. I wanted her to have missed me as much! 

My mum loved having you in her home. “So easy to live with and love”. Not a bad verbal portrait. Remember her telling you the story of the bird? Difficult, painful days when you were broken physically. I remember thinking how often can someone be de-cored like an apple until they bleed on a regular basis and not lose their very sanity. Life has been full of trauma for you. But your radiance has never faltered. You will ever be loved. As a wise man so eloquently put it, “if I was in a lost place and you were a complete stranger I'd want you to be my friend”. Likewise, if I was facing hell, I'd want no one else by my side. 

I heard what you said about the Big city and the people. Don't underestimate big cities. I've always felt, even while visiting for a few days, in big cities, as if there was a glass ceiling and, not only could I not really pray but, God felt so distant. I know it wasn't because God moved away, so I put it down to that toxic big city effect. Perhaps, they are places so filled with pain, loss and suffering they hurt the heart. So totally the opposite of Jimmy and the Eleni’s vegetable garden and barbecue space in Rhodes. Remember that dirty, lonely space you are living in now, is surrounded by all the lovely places around the world filled with people who love you deeply and sincerely. Whose love you have had a chance to bathe in year after year. Then, feel for those city dwellers, “cities of bodies” rather than the “country of souls”. They may not have experienced Ursula's hugs, Jimmy’s roasted goat balls (and yes, they were real goat’s balls!), mum’s soda bread and pancakes, your nephew’s hugs (albeit squeezed out of him), grandad’s endless teasing or your dad’s wonderful food. Your family and friends are bound to you in ways that the lonely can only howl in anguish that they know not such brotherhood. Bonds tested in battles, blood stained with backs against the wall, against all odds. 

I sat down at a table at Bucharest surrounded by strangers from Poland, Bulgaria, Kosovo and got talking to a young woman from the south of Poland. As we spoke, she looked familiar and I asked a few questions. She said she knew Sarah. Our Sarah! Then, I remembered visiting her home with Sarah on a two week trip in the 1990s in Poland. Suddenly, it was as if Sarah was sitting at the table beside us. My goodness the coincidences in life surprise and bewilder one. I am so grateful for having knowing Sarah and having seen her ability to love others. I remember us sitting together in a car and she confided to me that she missed her breast so much after the operation. Wondering what they had done with it. Burnt it, dumped it? We both sat and wept together for this lost breast. We can't do much for each other in this world at times. Sometimes we must just feel each other's pain and loss and just weep.

Home Alone

The last child has flown the nest

The emptiness is sudden.

Music has left our home

But also his mess.

To be fair he is now a man 

no longer a child

but it seems that just when

Conversations become illuminating and inspiring

Offspring migrate.

Thank God for Skype, email and text

They allow precious connection to continue

vicariously through the virtual world.

How many times do my sons take me by surprise

With their views and insights?

So much more capable in this world, than I.

Better equipped to manage this disintegrating system.

Made of stronger stuff entirely.

I watch them and try to learn from them

much needed survival skills, very late.

I learn humility is appropriate in parenting.

They are not works of art

that I can strut before

explaining their character and meaning. 

No, these are independent entities

who have found their own path.

They are of me 

but forged in climes and culture 

far from my own.

They look at this world differently,

And I have learned to respect their view 

is broader and more complete.

I was bred in a tiny village

High in the Sperrin mountains in Northern Ireland.

The road was impossible in winter. 

We had one grocery shop 

in our one street but over twenty pubs.

There were two communities, Catholic and Protestant.

I examined them both,

like an amateur anthropologist.

Alternatively, amused and angered at their antics.

An outsider whose only connection

With my communities was a deep conviction

That life had to be more than this.

Mean more than this.

I’m grateful for the regular discussions at home

On life, science, religion and the solar system

That swept around our family table.

My mother hated the heated debates

And tried to herd us to more quiet pastures.

But the arguments, the marshalled defences

the cut and thrust, blew like a healthy wind 

through our minds.

Making this table of discussion

Not village-sized but of the universe.

Shouting aloud, truth is the only community.

Being alive to everything in this world,

The only antidote to ignorance. 

Not knowing is when you’ve

chosen not to see with your own eyes. 

This changes what we are.

What we can be.

Everything we will become

Is there in that choice.

To remain like granite what we are now

Or to embrace the person we could be.

The difference between the two 

is simply light years apart.

Hoshi Ryoku, oldest spa in the world? Built in 718 AD

In the year 717 AD a Buddhist monk climbed Mt Hakusan in Japan.  

Mt Hakusan

To put this period in historical perspective the Roman Empire had fallen and the world was dealing with the aftermath.  There would have been people alive in those days who would have lived in the time of the Prophet Muhammad.  Great Britain had not yet been invaded, but soon would be, by the vikings.  That lets you know how far back we are talking about.  

His name was Taicho Daishi and he spent a year there carrying out rigorous spiritual practices.  At the end of this period he had a dream.  In the dream he was told, 

”Lying 20-24 kilometers from the base of the mountain is a village called Awazu. There, you'll find an underground hot spring with wondrous restorative powers that Yakushi Nyorai (the Physician of Souls) has bestowed upon it. The people of the village, however, do not known of this good fortune. Descend the mountain and head to Awazu. With the people of the village unearth the hot spring-it will serve them forever."

Daishi went down to the village, uncovered the hot spring, and it was noticed that some sick people immersed in the water were cured immediately and their health restored. He bestowed the task of building a spa building at the site upon his disciple Garyo Hōshi, who really took this task to heart.   In fact, Hōshi’s family have diligently run a modest business at the site for nearly 1300 years. Hōshi has survived the rise and fall of the Samurai, the Ninja, many Japanese emperors and two world wars. His family have been running the business continuously for 46 generations.  It is still running to this day as a spa.  One of the oldest spas in the world. 

With such a history, when the Guiness Book of Records investigated the Hoshi Ryoku, for inclusion imagine their disappointment to discover that there was in fact an even older spa in Japan. This spa had been founded in 705 and had been running for 52 generations, the Nishiyama Onsen Keiunkan!  But I reckon the Hoshi Ryoku has a whole mystical side that keeps it high on my list of favourite places to visit.

http://www.gizmag.com/worlds-oldest-hotel-hoshi-japan/13017/

We all need that toehold at times!

I am persuaded that happy people are a rare sighting.  Not to be found at the table to my right, a British family on holiday in the Med.  Two parents and two sullen teenagers imprisoned for two weeks on a package tour.  The couple’s dislike of each other is only trumped by their adolescent’s loathing of their parents.  They all sit in miserable silence at a table. 

The teenagers hold their iPhones as shields to block out all those they dislike.  Even being quizzed as to what they would like to drink, brings a roll of the eyes and a disgusted look at the menu.  The young waiter is holding his order pad patiently waiting.  Both teenagers are taking their time competing to see who will be the last to order, to succumb to parental pressure.  The wife orders a coffee and the husband a beer.  She remonstrates with him, as they have rented a car and he’s already had a beer earlier.  He glares at her and then changes his order to a whiskey in a belligerent tone to the waiter.  He shrugs his shoulders at her as if to say what are you going to do about it, now?  The waiter is now awaiting the teenager’s order.  There is an awkward silence followed by an expletive from the husband.  The wife interjects,

“You’d like the iced tea, Sonya, I’m sure you would!”

Sonya stares at her parents as if trying to decide which she dislikes more.  Meanwhile, her brother says he’d like a beer.  The waiter shakes his head and explains that he cannot serve alcohol to someone underage.  The father interjects,

“Look boy, bring me a whiskey, a beer, a coffee and an iced tea!”  He stares at the waiter daring him to argue.  As the waiter leaves to get their order, the wife objects to the beer for the boy and he holds up his hand to her,

“I’m on holiday and am not here to be lectured by you!”

All four lapse into silence after this outburst.   It reminds me of that hurtful quote.

“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

I am left wondering are they more unhappy at home and this is their ‘happy holiday mood’.  Or is this, their miserable holiday trapped together while at home they can exist in happy isolation from each other?  Anyway, what makes a happy family?  Perhaps, like many of us this family has reached the brick wall of despair.  We all meet it sometime in our lives.  That point in one’s personal life when absolutely everything has gone bad.  You question everyone in your existence because it has all become so truly awful you can see no way ahead.  No hope for change, no light, no relationship that can be mended.  No trust capable of being rebuilt.  Most disturbing of all, when not disliking everyone around, you examine yourself and can find little of worth there either.  Whatever youthful spark of capacity has been douched by life.  At such a point, every slight, upset, hurtful comment, injury, illness, loss becomes the last straw.  The tiny nudge that can put you over the edge. 

I remember too, the random acts of kindness of strangers, family or friends that gave me a toehold out of nowhere.  Unexpected, they reached out with love and compassion, as I plunged ever lower down a slippery slope.  They may never know how tiny words of kindness, letters of encouragement, calls of comfort, turned the tide.  Even a look of understanding across a crowded room nurtured hope.  I appreciated those who were prepared to listen, really listen. 

This happiness business comes and goes.  We all hit walls.  I can only pray that when you’re face to face with it somewhere, sometime, someone, somehow provides that toehold that makes all the difference in the world. 

Charlie Horse playing cards

Came across this video on a camera, which someone had taken while we all played cards together.  I am simply the most un-photogenic person on this planet and it does not bode well that I also have just about the most irritating laugh imaginable.  But I love the way it captures family times when playing cards.

A salve to their hurts

It was a drawing class and you were excited by your first nude.  The art college had arranged for a sitter and the entire class of art students were ready for this new challenge.  I remember being amused by your description of the reality of that first session.  Into the art room walked a large rumpled middle-aged woman whose flesh folded in creases, varicose veins in abundance, cellulite tricky to catch on paper, puckered like her upper lip.  What a shock you all had from the much-expected smooth pink stained cheek with velvet youthfulness on display.  A real lesson in drawing and in life that day, two hours of detailed depressing preview on aging for those just beginning their youth.

I have happy memories of you sitting on the carpet, leaning against your Dad’s knee as laughter ran out in the home in St Austell.  Family should be like this, I thought all the faces filled with smiles and huge gales of laughter.  More tales shared, music ever present and food, abundant tasty food.  Your Mum weaving everyone together with her smile, letters, visits and love.  Do you remember how she screamed in delight when a son or daughter appeared on the path outside the house.  Arms held wide open as if to greet and thank the universe at this magical spectacle. 

You moved to London and had two jobs.  Even this did not dampen your enthusiasm or serve to exhaust you.  Youthful energy drove you on and when you moved to Northern Ireland with a bunch of friends we delighted in your company.  Having you close by was a treat we took for granted.  Your generosity was constant and how many lovely meals did we have from your hand.  You bought my sons, toddlers, tiny cute judo outfits and they delighted in wrestling you to the ground.  Your home a designer’s dream of grey and chrome and the air full of fresh ideas, business ventures, painting and friends. 

Then your own kids arrived in abundance four bundles of love who gravitated to your side and I remember you lying on the floor covered in small toddlers and babies clinging joyously.  Jostling for the best position.  I watch as you have continued to draw people to you, kindness is such a rare commodity in this world.  So not surprising to find you, even now, years later with a large extended family of friends, neighbours and associates. Your home is fortunately large enough to accommodate all these people. 

I sense the load has grown as of late and the glow of kindness is still there but a price has been paid.  Is it ever so that gentle kindly souls are burdened beyond endurance?  I reckon all of us, on rare good days can cloak ourselves in the array of kindliness and goodwill.  Smiling benevolently at this world, wishing all in it well.  However, certain rare individuals seem to have kindness imprinted to their core, like a stick of rock.  Even when worn down, weary to the core they continue to impart love and service to those around them.  It is such a privilege to know such souls and they remind me of that high standard we should all aspire to.

“Should other peoples and nations be unfaithful to you, show fidelity unto them; should they be unjust towards you, show justice towards them; should they hold aloof from you, attract them to yourselves; should they disclose enmity, be friendly to them; should they poison your lives, sweeten their souls; should they inflict a wound upon you, be a salve to their hurts.”                                     

Baha'i Writings 

Across Canada and The USA by Campervan

We were in a camping van recently, my family and I, recreating a road journey of over fifty years ago. It’s rare such things happen.  You always mean to do such trips but usually never do.  Life kind of gets in the way or runs you over.  Half a century ago my father decided to immigrate to Canada from NI.  He had a teaching post offer in the plains in Saskatchewan in a tiny hamlet called Piapot. So with his young wife and two toddlers (My Mum and brothers are shown in photo above) they headed out westward, where so many have gone before.  All of them in search of something better, I expect.  Later, he moved to Maple Creek a larger town nearby with proper shops.  On his holidays his persistent restless urge got the better of him, so he set off on an epic journey across Canada and The United States in a large car with his family.

It was this journey, which took us across Canada to Vancover and down the US through loads of national parks, that we redid in 2010.  It felt epic driving a massive camper van through country you associate with movies.  Coming from a small island the vastness of a huge continent is heady stuff.  The campervan rattled and shook as we drove and handled like a small house on a trailer.  As before, there were five of us but there were changes too.  I was merely an embryo on that first journey and my Dad had died five years before the trip.  He has left a huge gap in all our lives and he was the missing passenger on our journey.  He would have loved it. The lakes, glaciers, forests, plains all unfolded before us.  Then, when delight or weariness got the better of us, it was time for a nice cup of tea in our campervan.  Elbow to elbow with my brothers for the first time in three decades felt like revisiting your childhood as an adult.  Only this time around instead of fighting we enjoyed the closest company of all, family. 

There were challenges, my eldest brother’s boots (which had smell one cannot begin to describe), my mum’s skin reaction to mosquitoes (huge swollen pus filled protrusions), a hernia and more (don’t ask!).  But it was all great!  The open road, a huge campervan and total freedom.  We saw real live wild bears in the forests, swam in glacier lakes, explored and have photographs to prove it.  I’m so grateful for all of it.  In Maple Creek the school had been preserved as a museum, so my Dad’s classroom was there exactly has he had left it down to the posters on the door and exercise books.  There was even a picture of my Dad, looking so young, with his class beside him.  Strange sadness as well, as if we were close to him, but he was gone, out of reach, despite our longing.  

Piapot was different, the whole prairie area has suffered economically and there has been a huge exodus of inhabitants to the bigger cities.  So Piapot, which had always been a tiny hamlet beside the Trans Canadian Railway line, had shrunk still further.  The school here had been disserted for years with grass growing waist high around it.  Peeping through the front door everything was still there desks neatly lined up as if it had been left just yesterday and not a few decades.  It felt strange, as if we as a family had been transported back to the same spot 50 years earlier in a time machine. Then, as my brothers stood shoulder to shoulder next to the train lines, a huge endless train trundled past and sounded its horn.  It completed the miracle and we were all awash with the past, delighted to have caught this exact moment on the wind.  There is a photograph of my Dad with my brothers next to the same railway crossing and you’ll never understand it – but we were all there, every one of us, together again at that spot.  It felt like, this is the moment that we had come so far for.

Are people blind or just doing it to annoy me?

It is so sweet when homesickness bites to have a visit from loved ones.  It is the greatest antidote to that illness.  This week my Mum and aunt arrived fresh from N Ireland to Malta and I am tickled pink.  I even love overhearing them talking to each other in the bedroom early in the morning as they converse from their single beds.  

They talk non-stop about family things, relatives, past incidents, present events and it all serves to remind you that we are connected in so many important ways.  You gain an appreciation of how hard life was in their days.  How much even young children were expected to work, how little they had and how grateful they were for even the smallest gift.  Each week my grandfather, on the farm, would take down the sweet jar and each of his five children would get one sweet.  That was it just one and then they would wait a week for the next one.  They didn’t resent this, they looked forward to this special occasion.  

My mother would get up on a Saturday and cycle all the way to her hockey match and then after a hard game cycle home.  Immediately, she would start on the weekly baking on the old range, which was notoriously temperamental.  Any burnt offerings were given to her eldest brother, Hugh, to eat.  She produced soda farls, buns, cakes, wheaten bread in abundance and did this year after year from the age of thirteen.  Every morning they would start the day with porridge, which had steamed on the range all night, covered with fresh cream.  Then it was a cooked breakfast with a cup of tea.  This was the daily routine and all five of those children thrived on this fare.  What child would get this today?  Who has the time to bake, prepare a cooked breakfast each morning and walk miles to school.  Yet don’t those days sound strangely idyllic compared to today’s soulless snatched biscuit or cereal shovelled down before racing out the door.  Imagine waking up to the smell of food and sitting at a table full of good food and family sitting elbow to elbow round it.  The chats, the laughter, the shared space, without them is it any wonder that most of us today need paid therapists just to get through the day?  So, these mornings when I have breakfast with my lovely visiting relatives round the kitchen table I am so grateful for the abundance of everything.

PS the only thing that bugs me is the number of people along the sea front who stop and ask if we are sisters, my mother, my aunt and myself.  Are people blind or just doing it to annoy me?

PPS yesterday in MacDonalds (they do the cheapest coffee) an elderly Maltese man approached the three of us and said that his wife had died two years ago and he wanted to show us her picture.  He showed the Maltese ID card with her photo on it and I kid you not she was identical to me.  My mother claimed it looked exactly like me, in fact she thought it was me and misunderstood him and thought he’d taken a photo of me.  How weird life can be and how moving too and he said goodbye to me with such exaggerated courteousness.