The Shipping Forecast

Wild outside. All boats in dock and a raging gust which screams uphill - through woods and slate and roof.

We are under lock and key. And children - under wooden rafters - fast asleep.

My turn this evening, to tuck my daugher into bed. In a tiny nursery room, by the back stairs and directly below our own. Thick thick walls, wooden window frames, and this night - a smell of smoke.

Woodsmoke from the house next door, which - when the wind blows our way - affects the back stairwell and the rooms beyond.

But after that another smell. Fluid, leaking from an old radiator, transports me 26 years in the past. To a cottage further south and a stones throw from the waters edge. Where, of the occasional weekend, we played and ate and slept.

3 girls and a boy. Board games and cards in the event of a storm. TV favouring an Irish signal to our own. Miles from home.

I went back - 3 years ago. With my husband and toddler son. Expecting, not quite, the past to rush as I walked through the door. Like a storm of its own. And the smell - familiar and musty and old.

Like the years had never gone. Shrunken in jeans and wellie boots and met myself head-on.

We remain closer than we know. A scent - forgotten for decades - has the power to restore. And music, a voice, or the late night radio.

Memories tossed in a storm - by the waters edge when we were young. A place at the sea. Painted white on the road by the beach - sea and salt and wild breeze.

Not - I found - changed much in all these years... x

40 Years Young

40 tomorrow the man of the house. So east then - on trains through snow, to wander cobbled lanes and warm frozen hands in stone built city pubs.

He is, a little these days, feeling his age. Busy with kids, busy with work, busy with those he loves.

But 40 is young. To a generation who have children late. At 36 I fear not the end of a decade. Babies 5 and 1 - these are our early days.

Yet others grow old. Parents of generations before - some grown weary of this world. Missing those they have loved. Shadows on a wall - an empty chair and all the years before.

I write not to mourn - I am well, I am strong. But I see it all around - autumns and winters and early frost. Life grown old.

To dwell should wear us out. Youth within will help without. So east and north - spring eternal follows frost.

I wish not again to be 21, (perhaps today my husband does).

40 and loved - in health and work. Not at all bad luck... x

Late Snow

In a country hidden beneath a blanket of snow, our corner of the north is missing out. Grey skies, sub zero - and persistantly dry.

The 5 year old is unimpressed, losing hope of snowmen before the spring. He has known proper snow before - glittering woods and white fields for miles - 2 years ago.

But the baby not. And she would love the snow. On crisps dark nights she cranes her neck and points skyward to the stars. Calls aloud. 

Let it snow. Not on train lines or busy roads. But our home. Slate roof and stone - carrot awaiting a snowman of its own... x

No. 1

Tucked into bed and awaiting a kiss, the five year old tells me he is having bad dreams.

'Think of something nice' I say, as I pull up stripy sheets.

In a bed, in a room, in a house - stuffed to the brim with the paraphernalia of being five - my boy settles on his favourite thought of the day. 'The next sleepover'.

Head full then of a happy place. No. 1 with the iron gate.

My child is his Papa's boy - since the day he was born. And I see it now in the baby girl. Face lit up - arms outstretched to be lifted up.

And my Mum - the lady who lives at No. 1. Also very loved. But something about the man. Children's hearts and children's hands.

May it lessen not with time. Papa, hero, stand up guy... x

Finding Feet

The baby is finding her feet. Pulls herself upwards using any surface free.

Short chubby legs make for not too high a fall. She is keen to stand and practices - tentatively - letting go.

Learning curves and the only way is up. Falls and bumps and straight back up.

Like us. Like me. If at first we don't succeed...

She would run before she could walk. My girl - a chip off the old block... x

Mirrors

Bath fresh, I blow-dry my daughters hair on cool setting with a soft brush. Our third time - suspicious of the dryer she twists and turns, and crawls from my lap - a blonde head of damp curls.

Or kinks. Curls I imagine will come. Like my own - which I've straightened in vain like my mother before.

Weather dependent and wayward prone, yet I wish this on my daughter in the hope that - as she grows - she'll resemble me a little more.

We may all be found in the faces of our past. In cheekbones and in smiles. Made of more than we know, a mixture of those who lived before.

I am like my Mum - in looks, in build, in walk. Though fair instead of dark, and burn in the sun where she turns tan.

But I saw myself the other day, like Gran. 30 years old in '51. A tot in a pram on a shopping run. Red hair and curls.

A snapshot on a busy street - a room of people said it looked like me.

I searched afterwards, in the mirror - for Gran. In freckles, in hair, in hands. In the makings of me. To glance her in the mirror would make her easier to keep.

And a black and white snapshot for my daughter to see. The likeness of her mother stood 62 years past in the street... x

Bleak House

Decorations cleared today. Glitter swept and Christmas bundled in a box. Cardboard lid and back to the loft.

The 5 year old mourns their leave and wanders glum faced at a room left bare. I'm glad - in truth - to see them gone. A new broom and an empty wall.

I enjoy the annual promise of a slate wiped clean. But January and February - few would argue - are the bleakest months of the year.

To spring then, and lighter skies. Were I by the sea I should walk, huddled in layers, dream the year ahead and hope things go our way.

In reality we shop for shoes. For the baby girl who's stockinged soles slip on wooden boards. In the store she sobs, feet trapped unwittingly by leather straps. Tear stained and unimpressed by purple size 3's, boxed and wrapped in a bag.

But come summer she shall run and jump, toes thoroughly scuffed. Chase a boy too fast to catch - sunhats, kinks and plastic clasps.

She is growing and changing so fast... my resolution this new year - to enjoy it while it lasts... x

Papa's Cottage

A year ahead of change. To a bathroom disintegrating at the seams, and single glazed kitchen windows which retain no heat.

Workmen and mess. But worth it in the end. For tiles and taps and solid feet. And warmth. In the coldest rooms of the house, where - when sub zero - we may regularly watch ourselves breathe.

The 5 year old, loathe to change, wishes not to trade our broken room for a deeper tub in which to play. I remind him of a bathroom in another house. Where, a sometime guest, he lays bare feet on cool tiles, and cleans teeth by a shallow square sink. And a bath - free-standing and deep. Proportions befitting a whale shark to keep.

A boyhood holiday home, big and square. A hungry horse and new spring lambs - Mum and Dad and Papa and Gran.

A bathroom like here he agrees. This building he loves, which - these days - we should burst at the seams.

A farmhouse cottage built of stone - like home. With a new bath deep enough for any boy. To soak and to dream and to swim. To escape. From the world and from change. From growing too big. The common problem that childhood brings.

This year my boy wants nothing more than to stay the same. His people, his places, his 5 year old games... x