one froggy morning

You couldn't quite determine if the sun was up or not yesterday morning. It was misty and murky and you could almost drink the air. We pulled on our boots and waterproofs and headed out across the fields. I love it when it's like this - the surreal feeling of not being able to see or even recognise the paths you walk every day. By the time we got to the sea creek it had lightened up a bit, and the banks glistened with moisture-laden webs. They looked like holiday garlands - elf lights - and we dawdled back, pointing out web after beautiful web.

Later in the day we were crossing the rail bridge near our house, and a man and his collie were crossing the other way. The dog was super excited, and we thought he was greeting us, but he ran right past us to the middle of the bridge and looked across, panting with anticipation. We looked questioningly at his owner, who sighed, shrugged, and said, "train". Sure enough, in a few seconds, a train pulled in to the accompaniment of frenzied barks and back-and-forth manoeuvres. It was the first time I've ever seen a dog herd a train and it was impressive. When the train stopped, so did the dog, in the middle of the bridge, grinning happily and looking very pleased with himself. A job well done.

 

winter sky

 

This is the path back through the farm from the Shipwright Arms, our favourite pub and our escape, our bolt-hole, and one of the places that makes Faversham so peculiarly special. In the summer we sit on the seawall with our pints and watch the boats and the birds - the swifts darting over the marsh and the occasional kestrel and kite hunting from far above. In the winter we shed our muddy boots in the entryway and curl up on the sofa in front of the log fire, afternoons slipping away with good company (and knitting of course), and a slippery, cold walk home in the late afternoon darkness. 

The Shipwrights had to close for months in the spring, but was able to open up for takeaways in late spring. This was perfect, as the pub is in the middle of nowhere (you have to walk an hour along the sea wall to get to it - there is a road - the one in the picture - but very limited parking). We could get takeaways and sit up on the sea wall, happily distanced and safe. Social distanced seating was introduced inside in late summer and it was a quiet safe place where you could be somewhere else. The last lockdown ended that, and now Kent is to be placed in the highest tier of restrictions when that ends which means all pubs can only do takeaways. It is dire news for our small pubs, who depend on Christmas trade to see them through the winter. 

So takeaways it is - in the hopes of keeping the Shipwright going until the Spring when hopefully some of these pressures will ease up with the introduction of vaccines and warmer weather. I cycled up at lunchtime today for some weekend pints - it was far colder than I thought it would be - my eyes were streaming in the wind and my hands were numb with the cold. But the sky was beautiful - a swan took off across the marsh as I took these pictures and the light on its wings was breath-taking.

I ordered a pair of sheepskin gloves when I got home.

Home entertainment

One of the nicer aspects about spending almost all of my time in the living room is watching the birds and squirrels. We've put window feeders on all three windows, and we have a squirrel feeder outside on the fence (James's Squirrelmatic 3000 is still going although a good chunk of the lid has been chewed through). The bird feeders are like a busy rail station at times - blue tits, great tits, chaffinches, robins, and Alfred the blackbird all zoom in and out with varying degrees of intensity. Dunnocks, wrens, wood pigeons, and collared doves wait for whatever drops onto the ground (a veritable buffet when Alfred is around).

A blue tit in the sunshine

But squirrels will be squirrels. No matter what delicacies we put into their feeder (and there are delicacies - we actually bought squirrel food - it's a mix of nuts, seeds, and some dried fruit. We are SUCKERS), they cannot resist the lure of the window feeders, which they cannot reach. The outside window ledge is at least a metre high, extremely narrow - less than an inch, and angled downward. I have become attuned to the subtle yet unmistakable soft thud of squirrel belly on glass and when I hear it I drop what I am doing and watch eagerly to see what mad scheme they're attempting this time. I'm impressed by their tenacity. I think one day, one of them will succeed. I hope I see it.

Tardy

Well it has finally happened. I have become bored enough to write. There. How's that for admitting two distasteful and unflattering sentiments right up front. Part of it is, I suppose, the feeling that I don't have much to write about. That in itself is a blessing - this is not a year where you want to have war stories. To lay low and hope to emerge, ideally in one piece, at the end of it seems a logical approach.

Neal is back working at the printing warehouse for a 6 week stint. He's working 12 hour shifts, and enjoying being back with his friends and working and (please oh please for the love of everything dear on earth and in the heavens above) not catching Covid. (There are a lot of protocols in place - masks, visors, temperature taking - it is a big warehouse and he is not near others - but still). For the first few weeks I enjoyed having the time alone but it's starting to flag. For all you who are managing this living alone I salute you. You are amazing. Keep going. Hang in there. (And tell me - is it normal to talk to yourself quite a lot? Do you also answer? When should you start to worry?)

We're in another lockdown as well so it is very quiet in my life. Work is also quiet (locking down is much less labour intensive than opening up it turns out. We've gotten better at it). I think in the first lockdown, I was knackered, and the rest did me good. Now I have probably never been so rested in my life, infancy included. All that energy has to go somewhere, and if I don't get rid of it in the day it starts hammering around in my brain and that is not a good thing. So I've been covering a lot of ground - on my bike, running, long walks. It's exhausting, but it's working. 

And there are worse places to be out and about...

A hawthorn tree on the sea creek

Seasalter at high tide

The path home alongside the creek in an impossibly early sunset

Still here....

 

At once totally normal, and totally surreal

 

A partial brass band rehearsal...it got COLD when the sun dipped below the trees. That's me straight ahead - didn't realise how long that braid is getting.

That sky though.... full of swallows and even a pair of buzzards circling round and round. Made it rather hard to concentrate - kept looking up and loosing my place.

I have a week's leave this week and my goal is to be outside as much as possible before the dark days return.

The trusty steed is dead. Long live the trusty steed!

In the end, the trusty steed did not live up to its name. It had a good run, for sure, and I loved it dearly, but 2 flats, a wheel blow out, and 2 sets of broken spokes and enough is enough. 4 long walks home in as many weeks, several weeks in the shop, and a frankly terrifying acceleration of money required to maintain equilibrium led me to inquire about the possibility of replacement, mostly at Neal's bequest. "For god's sake, get a new bike," he kept repeating with increasing volume and intensity.

"Actually," said the bike shop man, we have two ladies bikes in the shop right now but you'll have to be quick because they'll go in a day." ladies bikes I sniffed to myself. I mentioned my bike woes to a few friends at knit night, and the response was eerily familiar. "For god's sake, Karly - get a new bike!" They did however tell me about cyclescheme, which it turns out my work does as well. This means I can spread the cost over 1 year, and pay before tax, making a decent savings as well. 

So I went to look at the ladies bikes. Turns out they were the ones I have been ogling in the bike shop windows for years, never imagining I could justify the cost. But with the cyclescheme, and compared to what my old one was eating up - well - 

Meet the new steed:

It's a vintage style touring bike but with a lightweight frame. It's made in Italy (ooooooh!), and comes with fenders and chain guards, lights and a bell, and (this is where you know it's Italian) a handmade white suede seat. I feel sorry for that seat and am slightly concerned about what it will look like after a few weeks of my sweaty, sand-and-sea-encrusted arse upon it.

It's no racer, but it's smooth and fun to ride. All I need to do now is attach my milk crate on the back and we're back in business!

My day started out with surprising a HUGE spider in the draining rack who then scuttled away with lightening speed while I gibbered and gasped like a landed fish and is now SOMEWHERE in the kitchen. 

It has not gotten appreciatively better either.

Not that it is a bad day, no. Just - I'm tired of adulting and fixing things and always putting a brave face on things and staying motivated and practising and cleaning up after myself and researching and problem solving and I just really feel like having a good old strop and moan even though I know it won't solve anything and won't even make me feel better. And I know I have nothing to complain about not truly and that is also not making me feel any better.

Harrumph.

Well tomorrow is another day. Marvellous. Bloody marvellous.

 

Knit night for the win!

I just got in from an evening of sitting in the rec ground drinking wine and laughing with friends. It was so much fun. Am I 19 again? No - this was so much classier (ha ha - maybe!) - this was socially-distanced knit night. I've seen most of my knit night friends around town once or twice but we haven't been together since the beginning of March. It was hot, and we sat under the chestnut trees and knit and laughed. It felt so good. Now that I'm home I feel slightly manically hyper with all the socialisation - this was the largest group (all 9 of us!) that I have been with in person for 5 months. 

On more general terms, I don't know where we're going virus-wise. I feel nervous about what's ahead and what we may be compelled to do, and what compromises we may be forced to make - but for this evening - it was really lovely. 

I have this sudden image of a fly being lured down a pitcher-plant's throat. 

I really hope this is not like that.

I spent this afternoon, like so many afternoons and mornings these days, in back-to-back video meetings. But one of them was different. It was a meeting to discuss, on a wider level, how we work, how we want to work, and what our priorities are and how we communicate them in the next 4 - 6 months. So far, so normal. What wasn't normal, was that 9 out of the 10 participants were women. Women heading departments. Women making decisions. Women doing the data crunching. Women running with it.

I have been working full time (more or less) for 28 years (give or take). I have been the sole woman in meetings so often it has become normal. I have chaired meetings where I am the sole woman more often than I can count. 

This was a first.

It's like the composition of jazz bands - of course it doesn't matter what gender you are, or identify as. But how do you BE what you never SEE? So yes, it's important, and it matters. And right now - more than ever - we need ALL the brains around the table - regardless of the casing. 

I looked at that screen and thought.

Still thinking.