Our 2018 in Brief

This is one of the first photos I shared in 2018, along with the caption “it’s tough my dear, but so are you” - we had just found out we would need IVF in order to have a family, and were readying ourselves for what we figured would be a pretty difficult year. 

Little did I know that getting through 2018 wouldn't just take courage, but some yet unknown force I didn’t know I had in me, that we didn’t know we had in us. 

It was without doubt the most challenging year of my life, the year I felt what it was like to have to reach out and grab bits of myself to stop them floating away, to have to physically hold my heart together and claw my way through the days. It may not have looked like it, and I’m not sure it’s even a good thing but I’ve become an expert at putting on a brave face, at holding tight.

In January, we had our first specialist fertility appointment, and learned we needed private IVF - we were told the chances of D having sperm were very slim and to start readying ourselves for the possibility of using a donor.  I became the manager of the place I work, took on a third more hours, and began the juggle of holding together a career and a very fragile state of mind. 

In February, we had our first appointment at Bourn Hall in Cambridge. We were told D needed surgery to see if he had sperm. He was put on medication for three months to increase the chances and we were given around a 30% chance of success. 

In June, after three months of medication we had finally reached the day before surgery. D was told on this day, with just hours to go before he was due to go under general anaesthetic to find out if he would ever have biological children, that his teaching contract had come to an end and would not be renewed the following September.  

He had the surgery, and after waiting in his hospital room for four hours I realised, at last, and with absolute certainty, that I didn’t care what the outcome was. I just wanted him back, both back from the operating theatre and back from the very dark hole teaching had left him at the bottom of. 

We were told that afternoon that he had no sperm, and that he would never have a biological child. We already knew we would continue with a donor and D said to his surgeon exactly what he had always said to me, they may not have his DNA but our children will have everything else he has to give them. We booked an appointment to discuss donating some of my eggs, and counselling to talk through the legalities and ethics of donor conceived children. 

In August, we had the most incredible family holiday in Cornwall. I watched as D became best friends with our nephew, and looked on with unwelcome envy as my parents showed him ‘our’ Cornwall, something I have dreamt of them doing with our own children for years now.  

When we came home, I trained six new members of staff in the space of two weeks, and had nine blood tests in the hope of becoming an egg donor. D began a new career which has absolutely changed his life. There is a metaphor somewhere in here about the similarities between a cup of coffee and a bucket being lowered down a well to haul him back into the sunlight. 

In October I was told, over the phone, as I walked on my own through a very drizzly Norwich that I have a chromosome abnormality. This means I have a higher chance of miscarriage, I can’t donate eggs and that we couldn’t progress with IVF without having our embryos screened. 

I thought on that day, thirty four months after deciding to try for a baby and £5000 into treatment that my resolve was finally broken.

But on the next day, my Grandad died. 

Somehow, from somewhere, whatever it is that holds all the little bits of me together found the strength to hold on a little tighter. I went to see him at the funeral home, and a week later I watched my family carry his coffin even though the thought of it had terrified me for more than ten years, since I first learned my Dad wanted to do that last thing for him one day. I spoke aloud at his funeral, and I practiced that poem until I knew it by heart, just like he said you have to when you have to speak in front of people.

In November, we went to Addenbrooks and a genetic counsellor drew my family tree. When Grandad became a little box on a screen with a cross through it, I held on tighter still.

In December, our much loved IVF clinic told us they couldn’t treat us anymore, and that we would have to find somewhere new. I managed our little shop through the most hectic week of the year and we had our busiest Christmas Eve ever. 

And now, that year is over and we’re already a month into a year that feels totally different. We’ve started proceedings with the place that will be continuing our treatment and already it feels like exactly the right path for us. It finally, finally, feels like we might have regained some control, like maybe I can begin to let go of the bits of me I've been so frantically holding together, and instead take hold of the wheel of the ship. 

On New Years Eve, we talked about how incredible we are. Not only have we held ourselves together, but we’ve held “Us” together too. We have so much support and love around us and we could never have done it without that of course, but we realised that had things been the slightest bit different, if blame or resentment had been allowed to creep in, directed in either direction, then that invisible force might not have held. But there wasn't even a whisper of it.

2019 will mark sixteen years of “Us.” Moving forward with treatment will require us to display to someone who makes decisions about funding that we’re in a strong relationship.

Strong? 

They don't know the half of it.  

IVF: The Journey So Far

I realised today that it's been almost six months since I last wrote anything about our journey to parenthood. I haven't really gone into too much detail here, because this isn't only my story to share. It belongs to both of us. 

We've both had a lot of time to process what's next for us now, and ahead of another appointment today, and having just returned from an amazing family holiday to Cornwall which seems to have hit some sort of reset button (and explains the photo with our nephew) I thought it was about time for an update.

So, if you've been reading for a while, you'll know that back in November last year, we found out that there was no chance at all of us conceiving naturally, and that IVF would be our only option if we wanted to have a baby through pregnancy rather than adoption. 

D, my husband, had taken a semen sample to the hospital to be tested, precisely timed and nestled in his arm pit so it didn't get too cold. A week later, our doctor phoned while we were on holiday in Sweden, and initially he told us that there weren’t enough sperm in the sample to test, so it would have to be repeated. I was so relieved. So relieved that there was something wrong. My worst fear had that point had been that everything would be fine and we’d be sent away to carry on the monthly torment by ourselves, but no, this was something we could hopefully do something about. Also, not enough sperm must mean some sperm, right?

The test was repeated the following week and we went to the doctors together to discuss the results. It turns out not enough sperm did not mean there were some sperm. While the rest of the sample was made up of everything that’s supposed to be there, in both samples there had been a total volume of 0% sperm. Not even one. 

‘Not even one’, were my first words once we’d heard the prognosis. In that very moment we became part of a whole different system, a whole different community of people. We weren’t trying for a baby anymore, we were dealing with infertility.

The doctor told us about there are two different types of azoospermia, which is the medical name for an absence of sperm in the semen. Obstructive, where the testicles make sperm but it can’t get through because of a blockage or similar, and non-obstructive, where there is a problem with sperm production. He referred us to a fertility specialist at our local hospital to start investigating which D has, and explained that surgical sperm retrieval and IVF would be our only option if we wanted a biological child. 

We had to wait two months for that appointment, and sitting in the waiting room among all the other couples in January felt bizarre. How had we ended up here? This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. 

The specialist booked us both in for more blood tests, to check my egg reserves and to check D’s testosterone and FSH level, and also to check for any chromosome disorders and to make sure he wasn’t a carrier of cystic fibrosis. I also had an internal ultrasound to check my uterus and ovaries all looked ok. I’d been remarkably ok until the nurse turned the screen towards me, just like they do on the TV, when couples get the first glimpse of their growing babies, and showed me how very non-pregnant I was. Everything looked absolutely fine, but seeing something so inherently linked with having a baby when I wasn’t hammered the whole situation home. 

The doctor told us he suspected non-obstructive azoospermia, most likely caused because of an operation D had when he was child to lower his testicles, and that the blood test results would tell us more. This operation was routinely performed later in a boy’s life during the nineties, but more recently (because those boys of the nineties are now men trying for families) doctors have realised that if left too long, it could affect the fertility of as many as 90% of men who have had it. D was around seven when he had his, and it would now be done before a baby boy turns one.

So, off we went to get our bloods done, clutching a slip of paper with the details of Bourn Hall, a private fertility clinic. This set of blood tests would be the last we could have on the NHS because in our area, male factor infertility isn’t funded at all.

A few weeks later, in February this year, we were trapped in the depths of 'the beast from the east.’ However, we battled though the snow drifts to the Bourn Hall clinic in Cambridge to see their andrologist. Up until this point, we had no idea what the word andrologist even meant, but it transpires that it is the male equivalent of a gynaecologist and he would hopefully be able to give us some more answers. 

He looked at D’s test results, and confirmed that his low testosterone and high FSH level indicated non-obstructive azoospermia. He drew us a very nice squiggly diagram to explain, but basically his body wasn’t producing sperm properly, and his pituitary gland was shouting at his testicles to make some, hence the high FSH level.

He prescribed Clomid, which is off-lable and untested for use in men, and usually only prescribed to women. However, he said he had seen some very promising results and that it has been known to trigger increased sperm production in men in a similar position to D. 

After three months of taking Clomid, D would be booked in for surgical sperm retrieval, where the surgeon would search under a microscope for any sign of sperm, and freeze any he found.  

So, three months later, at the beginning of June, we headed back to Cambridge for D’s operation. We had been given a 30% chance of finding sperm, so were prepared for bad news, but I still felt incredibly anxious about how I would feel if we found out we could never have children that were biologically related to us both. I couldn’t imagine looking at our children and not seeing the man I have loved for 15 years in them, and I worried that D would use it as a weapon against himself when he was caught in the sometimes cruel and judgmental downs of bipolar. I was terrified of how I would feel, but tried to remind myself, as Professor lupin once said “That suggests that what you fear most of all, is fear itself. This is very wise.” It didn’t feel very wise, but as we signed consent forms and the very-funny-nurse explained how to correctly wear the paper pants (i.e, not on one’s head) and D strolled confidently down to the operating theatre, I tried to hold that thought. 

Something quite unexpected happened while I was waiting for D to be brought back up to his room. In between trying to drink the nasty coffee machine hot chocolate, listening to the Harry Potter audio books and watching the clock incessantly, I realised I didn’t care what happened. When D had been done for two and a half hours, and I began to realise that this meant the search must have gone on much longer than the anticipated 45 minutes, and this in turn meant that it had more than likely been unsuccessful, I just wanted my husband back awake and safe, and ready to be a Dad however that happened. 

After three hours, he was wheeled back in by the very-funny-nurse and shortly after the surgeon came in to confirm that he hadn't found any sperm. And we were ok. We said that we thought that would be the case, that we were prepared, and that we had been waiting so long for a family that we were almost past caring how that happened. And surprisingly, we meant it too. 

The very-funny-nurse came back to explain how to correctly place gauze in ones supportive pants (with detailed mime accompaniment) and we drove home. The following day we called the clinic to start the process of IVF with donor sperm, and although we’ve been expecting the weight of the situation to come crashing down on us, so far, we’re ok. 

We still have huge difficulty with the fact that we’re not yet parents, and I’ve found myself feeling really angry that this is happening to us. The price lists continue to appear, and  the waiting for appointments seems to go on forever. We’ve recently had to confirm that we’re not at risk of harming any child born as a result of our treatment which was nothing short of insulting, but as so many people have told me, its just another tick in a box.

We’re hoping to glean as much positivity from the situation as possible. As well as having a family of our own, I’m hoping to become an egg donor too so we can help to complete another family too. On the day we found out we would need to use a donor, I couldn’t help but imagine another family, in the exact reverse of our situation, or a same sex couple hoping to have a baby through egg donation and surrogacy. We’ve been stuck in this nightmare for  over two and a half years, and if we can help someone else wake up from it too I can’t possibly not be a part of that. I’ve been provisionally accepted to donate, so I’ll be writing more about that process too. 

So that's where we are Today we’re having counselling, and an appointment with our consultant, and then there will be another long wait for my final blood tests to come back to confirm I can donate eggs, then it should be full steam ahead with our first cycle. 

I’ve you've made it to the end of this - thank you! The support I've found online, particularly on instagram has been incredible and I cannot thank the people who are also sharing their stories enough. I’ve said it before, but this can be a very lonely place to be, and having other people to call on who know exactly how it feels is absolutely invaluable. 

Inner Stregth is Quiet

It’s funny isn’t it, how the person you feel you are can change in a moment. In the time it look for a doctor to utter a single sentence, I went from someone who was trying for a baby to someone who is facing a very different journey to becoming a parent than I ever imagined. From the day we heard the words ‘so IVF treatment will be your only option’ we’ve become part of a whole different community of people, thrust out of the ‘normal’ circle into a place that we didn’t even really realise existed - and it’s lonely out here. 

Nobody really knows how it feels, and sometimes we don’t really know how we feel either. A single word suddenly has the power to have me holding back tears, and sometime I feel like if I hear ‘you’ll get there, it’ll happen’ one more time I might give up altogether. Because it might, but it also might not, and being out of control is something I don’t deal well with. I stumbled across this 'Notes To Strangers' note in London, Inner Strength is Quiet, and it really spoke to me. On the outside, I’m dealing with this whole journey. I’ve been promoted at work, I’ve been optimistic and glad that we’re moving forwards. I’ve not cried in public or cancelled plans. Some days though, on the inside, it feels like I’m using every bit of energy I have not to literally crack into two. 

People ask if I’m ok, and the reply is always ‘yeah I’m good thanks.’ If I tell people that I almost cried on the train because a grown man pulled a carton of Ribena out of his pocket and every missing thing about having a child came crashing down around me then they might start thinking I’ve gone round the twist! 

Some days it’s the truth and I really am fine. This time last week, after a day at the beach, some laughter and sunshine and a pie for dinner, I felt like this was just the way things are meant to be for us. Optimistic. Hopeful. Today, after hearing that there’s likely to be travel chaos because of the snow and we have to go to Cambridge and there seems to be nothing but bad news everywhere, I feel like at any moment pieces of me might start floating away, like Voldemort crumbling at the end of The Deathly Hallows and all I want to do is wrap myself in a duvet to hold all the bits of me together. 

Of course, does any of this really make up who I am, or is it just the stuff the ‘who I am’ is dwelling on and being consumed by at the moment. The latter, mostly, but being a Mum one day has been so deeply engrained in me for so long that it feels hard to detach the fear, and the sadness of the situation from my everyday life, and remember that there are things that still bring joy and happiness. I am a wife, and a sister, and a daughter and a friend. I love food and art and sewing and decorating our house, going out for breakfast, growing house plants, writing. I am chronically late, excellent at procrastinating and terrible at saying no. The the list of things that make up who I am, underneath the thing at the forefront of my mind, goes on. 

Yesterday we popped into the Tate modern and, although brief, it was enough to top up the feeling that there is more to me than this. 

It’s important, I think, to try to remember that we have so much to be grateful for, and still so much to look forward to. To try and fill our days, where we can, with dreams and plans that are separate from being parents.

But right now, we're off to Cambridge in the snow, in search of the last of the answers, a therapeutic hot chocolate, and mostly, in search of a plan. 

Finding An Old Film

Last week I met up with a friend who I've known for 11 years but somehow hadn't seen in five! We were at uni together in Leeds, and he now lives in Ipswich which is about an hour and a half from us, and where D goes to work every day so there's really no excuse, but somehow it had still been half a decade since we'd spent any time together!

We both did Fine Art degrees, and Rob is now working as a photographer. Meanwhile, all knowledge about photography (other than auto mode) has drained out of my brain so we planned to meet up in Norwich and play with cameras, particularly D's late Grandad's old SLR.

I had totally forgotten there was a nearly used film in there! It's of nothing very interesting, just D and I posing in front of trees and drinking but I had it developed and Rob scanned the negatives for me and I thought it'd be fun to share.

I think it was around 2008/9, so almost a decade ago. I think I look like a totally different person, all oily and forehead spots and dishevelled hair, and D looks like a little boy with no beard, but these years were some of our happiest.

Some Grateful Thoughts on Friendship

I've never been one for big groups of friends. I am a definite introvert (well, webtrovert really but that's a different story) and crave my own company, so without really being aware of it, I've always been quite selective about who I choose to open up to and spend time with.

I've been thinking in the last few weeks about the types of friend I have in my life. One of the lovely, and absolutely unintentional things that happens when you're honest about struggling with something is how many people rally round to prop you up. I've been feeling so lucky to know so many people who may not have any idea what this feels like, but who somehow seem to know just what to say...

There are the friends who were once colleagues and who I miss everyday. The ones I cleaned up bodily fluids with, looked out for and kept safe, argued with over the best approach to a situation, and compared bruised shins with after one of 'those' days. To quote J.K Rowling 'there are somethings in life you can't share without ending up liking each other' and it turns out working in SEN is definitely one of them. When you've wiped someone else's spit off each others faces, laughed till you've cried about how ridiculous your job is, asked 'is my forehead bleeding?' and inadvertently shown them your boobs while trying to prevent a child pulling you over by your clothes, there really is no going back.

There are the friends who were once 'best' but who, as often happens when you go on separate adult journeys, I don't see very often anymore. Every few months, or maybe even longer, we meet up for a catch up and put the world to rights over eggs benedict and tea, and at the end of the conversation she simply says 'let me know if you need anything.'

There are the friends I call family, the ones I've known since we were both babies. The ones who I forget to reply to and catch up with via our parents letting me know what they've been up to but who still know exactly what I'm thinking. The ones who pop in to see me at work, and forgo all the 'stay positive, it'll happen, at least you have an answer' conversation and just go right in with 'this is shitty isn't it, and it's bloody unfair that it's happening to you'.

There are completely unexpected friendships. One of the people I most enjoy spending time with is 13, a big fan of sausages and Mr Tumble and technically my employer. I love hearing about his day, teaching him how to buy his shopping, watching him carefully make choices and most of all hearing his jokes. He is the epitome of doing what makes you happy without giving two ticks about what anyone else thinks; whether that's echolalia re-runs of countdown, jumping, flapping and clapping as fast as you can or telling me, with half a grin and twinkle in his eye 'giraffe, hippopotamus and elephant are too big for a pet.' He has no concept of the worries of adult life, as long as there is gravy, he's happy and that's so refreshing to be around.  

There's the friend affectionately known as 'work-mum', who would be the first person I'd call on if my  actual Mum was away. The one who I have the same shared experiences with as my other colleagues but with whom I also share a love of sewing, house plants, swapping books, drinking coffee and 'putting the world to rights in a safe space' (read: bitching) Always on hand to help me out with the above friend, and he loves her just as much as I do.  

There are the friends I talk to everyday and who I tell absolutely everything to. The ones I send pictures of my dinner to, who know when all my appointments are. The ones who's conversations start with 'what's a Prince Albert?' and who I messaged within 30 seconds of flushing my moon cup down the toilet. The friends who talk so often I wake up with 85 unread messages if I have an early night, and who I can message at midnight with 'who's awake' when I'm feeling like a horrible jealous person and someone will be there to say 'I get it.' These three girls get me through my days.

There are friends I haven't known for very long in comparison to some, but who I knew immediately would be in my life forever. Who I can be completely honest with, cry in front of and tell off for not eating any lunch! The type of friend who knows the minute they look at you that you're not ok, and who will rush over to give you a hug.

There's the friend I hadn't seen for five years, but who can still effortlessly teach me things just like when we were at uni together over a decade ago. Who I can talk with all day as if we've never been apart, and who I'm still convinced lived a parallel childhood to me.

There are the friends I've met online who I've never met in real life. The ones who message after I've shared a vulnerability to say, "me too, I know just how you feel.' The internet has many flaws, and I've fallen victim to lots of them, but one of the things I have always found, particularly on instagram is how supportive the community is, and I'm still always surprised by the number of people who pop up to say, "I'm with you. I've got your back."

There's my best and oldest friend who I sometimes don't see for months or speak to for days but it just doesn't matter. Long distance friendship is a tough thing to deal with sometimes. It's rubbish when all you want is a Chinese and a chat with the person who knows you the best of all, but when you both understand that life just gets in the way sometimes, when you've both got jobs and mortgages and no money left to buy fizzy sweets, never mind train tickets or petrol, you get by with making plans and reminding the other that you love them lots.

I'm pretty lucky, don't you think, and I'm grateful for that every day.

The Future of The Salted Tail

Well hello there, it's been a while. I like to give myself a few weeks away from the internet and (any particularly considered) social media generally over Christmas and it always feels really good to miss writing and to be excited to get back into it again.

Something has changed this time though. When I left my job at a special needs school nearly 18 months ago, I set about trying to monetise The Salted Tail. I had visions of waking up early and being at my computer by nine, writing four posts a week, photographing tutorials and recipes and working with brands. Somehow though, it's just not gone that way. I never expected it to be easy, and I certainly didn't expect it to happen overnight, but what I did expect was to love doing it. The truth is that, for a lot of the time, I haven't loved it at all.

You see, the blog that I have constructed and the way I feel about creating content for it aren't the same. I wanted a place that was all about sharing joy...and that's not the overriding emotion I've been experiencing this past few months...

I feel guilty when I make something and don't take photos, and I've found myself feeling cross about not sharing something when someone else then shares a similar idea.

I've felt frustrated because I generally feel most inspired to make things in the evening, when the light is non existent and taking photos for a tutorial would be pointless. So I end up not making anything at all because by the morning when the light is better I'm not in the right space for creating anymore. I've ended up making less since I left my old job than I did while I was there, and that wasn't the idea at all.

Mostly I've felt an overriding pressure to make it pay. For some reason when I read Big Magic by Liz Gilbert (which if you haven't read you must post-haste) as much I shouted "YES" over and over, for some reason there were a few bits that I just thought didn't apply to me, and not trying to make my work make money was one of them. When I left my last job and announced "I'm going to be a blogger" I immediately felt like I wasn't doing it properly if I wasn't making money from it, and that was always going to be a disaster. Liz explains it better than I ever could:

"I held on to those other sources of income for so long because I never wanted to burden my writing with the responsibility of paying for my life. I knew better than to ask this of my writing, because over the years, I have watched so many other people murder their creativity by demanding that their art pay the bills. I’ve seen artists drive themselves broke and crazy because of this insistence that they are not legitimate creators unless they can exclusively live off their creativity. And when their creativity fails them (meaning: doesn’t pay the rent), they descend into resentment, anxiety, or even bankruptcy. Worst of all, they often quit creating at all."

Guilt, frustration and pressure aren't exactly what I was hoping for. 

Also, I've been thinking a lot recently about why I started all this in the first place. It wasn't about teaching anyone anything, it wasn't about working with brands and it definitely wasn't about trying to figure out who my audience were and not sharing something I was passionate about because my imaginary audience wouldn't be interested in it. It was about documenting our life, quick posts about how much I'd enjoyed a meal we'd made, or a place we'd visited. Book reviews and boot sale finds and whatever else I fancied. It was a record of my life, and not an influence on it which it's definitely become.  

I spoke to D about this before Christmas and it was such a relief to remove the pressure from the situation. We went to a makers market shortly after and he said he could see the difference in me already. I wasn't looking at the work and wondering how I could fashion it into a post, and I wasn't forcing myself into introducing myself as blogger while reeling inside because I secretly can't bear the word


So, as for where things go from this point, I'm not going to be giving myself, or any of you any expectations.  The posts I enjoy writing the most are the ones I'll be writing, and I'll be doing it for me. I'm taking away the stress about numbers and followers and all that nonsense that's really quite unhealthy. I mentioned my state of mind over on Instagram briefly and so many people agreed with me that I'm guessing I'm not the only one feeling less than in love with the internet - and you know what, even if I am, thats fine too! 

There might be some noticeable changes, or there might not be and this whole post might have been completely unnecessary - we'll see.

But I'm doing me again. No apologies.  

Remembrance Sunday: Grandad's Evacuation Story

My Grandad is in his eighties now, and is beginning to struggle more and more with his day to day memory. A subject that still prompts his memories to flood back to him, even more than seventy years later, is remembering his childhood. He was evacuated from his home in Lowestoft in 1940, sent up to Derbyshire on the train to escape the dangers of the second world war, with a little packed lunch and a label round his neck.

I thought that today, on Remembrance Sunday, I would share a little of his story with you. Over to you, Grandad....

"Being a young boy when World War II was declared, it was quite new to see workmen lifting sacks with sand off the north beach and filling lorries with those sacks, then watching them lay bags around the town hall and other buildings, but all seemed quiet and no changes apart from an aircraft now and then, I know that school was carrying on as usual.

This was until I ran home with a form for my parents to sign, I did not read it but other lads said it was an outing by train. As in those days we never travelled, or had even been on a train, I thought it would be good. My brother Alan arrived home with his form for our parents, and he was told it was to live with other people. My parents told us we would not be going as they did not want to lose us, but a few days later I think they had been talked to about dangers, and they said we could travel but only if we were together and lived together. 

It seemed to me the day of evacuation soon arrived, I had just reached my birthday of 8 years and 1 month. I was to report to class with my small bag containing water, a stick of barley sugar, a sandwich, and a comic. Most of the class were present, mostly with parents. My mother had another child by this time, now six months, but another mother tied my label round my neck and told me to hold her daughters hand, “look after her” she said. I did not have much of an education dealing with girls, but I held her hand while we moved from the classroom down to the railway lines. Outside the station I was still holding her hand and trying to find my brother, as the teachers said we would be together. 

On the other side of the road, mothers and some fathers were waving to us and some of the ladies were crying. Then we were told to move into the station in a line, we all moved in pairs onto the platform and then onto the train. I still held hands with the girl and we sat next to each other, no teacher or anyone told us how long we will be on the train, whether it be an hour or whenever, so I did not work out when to eat the sandwich I had in my bag, or even the barley sugar.

We were told to sit. I recall our carriage was very quiet, occasionally some child pointed out types of animals in the fields, then everything went quiet again. I do remember that on one occasion the train stopped at a station for ladies to come and pass us drinks between, but I cannot remember if it was water, milk, or lemonade, but the train was soon on the move again. 

We arrived in Derbyshire, I think about 2pm, I cannot name the station but we had to board a coach for a few miles to a school in Scarcliffe where we had to sit on the grass and were given sandwiches and a drink. This is where my little companion and I were separated for some reason. There were several small coaches outside the school and, with lists in their hands, teachers pointed out to us which coach to board, then after a short distance we were told to leave the bus. After this we had to line up in fours with the children from another coach. We were then told we were going to ‘parade’ and march to the school in the village, Bramley Vale, Derbyshire. It was only 300 yards away, and we must show people how smart we were. 

At the front of my column two boys from Wilde School carried our banner ‘John Wilde School, Lowestoft’. The two streets to the Bramley Vale School I noticed were covered in adults from the villages, some applauding, and some ladies crying which I admit on the day I could not understand. We were shown into classrooms and told to sit at the desks, I sat wondering why my brother was not with me.

After a short while, ladies from nearby were taking children when they were called out, after a short time I was almost alone, and I admit I was on the verge of tears being alone. I know I have read many letters similar to the above, and the writer nearly always quotes he was the last getting a home. In my case, looking around, I saw one lady waiting in the classroom. I later learned she was one of the first to arrive, to pick up two boys, preferably brothers, and that the organiser said “You had better take him, he is the last.” The lady had come over to the desk and said “You come with me my duck.”

There have been many thoughts over the organisation. One idea is that Alan should have travelled with John Wilde School, or that the lady in next door had asked for one boy to play with her son, but had got two brothers instead. I assure you that I got the best of the mix up. 

I have been told many times in my life that I am a lucky person and everything must go my way. I cannot agree with everything they quote but in my evacuation to this lady, I must have been one of the luckiest school boys who left lowestoft in June 1940. The lady who took me home was Mrs May Holmes, and she lived only 7 houses from the school. Her husband was Mr Reg Holmes and he was home having finished his day down the coal mine. I clearly remember them asking my name, to which I replied “Terry Smith Miss”. They had laid me on the sofa, and I fell asleep right away, I think I slept around two hours. They then told me their names, but straight away I called them Aunty and Uncle. ‘Aunty’ lasted all the 4 years, 3 months I was evacuated, but ‘Uncle’ soon changed to ‘Nunk’. Aunty always said ‘Terry’ but Nunk always called me ‘Bloz. 

Aunty and Nunk loved children, but I later learned they could not have their own. When I awoke on that day on the sofa Nunk said “How about a walk, I have to see someone?” Aunty suggested I was tired but I said I wanted to go with ‘Uncle’, and from that day I knew, at my small age, that I had been lucky"

***

From the stories he tells, my Grandad certainly was lucky. From new clothes and trips out, to being given his own little allotment and taught to grow vegetables, he tells stories of a really wonderful four years in Derbyshire. He stayed in touch with Aunty and Nunk for the rest of their lives, and I know he will be forever grateful for the safe home-from-home they gave him. While he was away, his family home was indeed bombed; the bedroom his shared with his brother was destroyed and his own grandparents were killed. Thank goodness that, despite their initial misgivings, my great grandparents decided to send their children away - I can't quite get my head around the idea that if they hadn't, my life wouldn't have existed at all. 

And that's the whole point of this day - to acknowledge and honour the hundreds of thousands of people who have made our country, and our families the way they are today: those who fought, who defended, who did things they never imagined possible and certainly didn't sign up for, and who had to live forever with the horror of the things they saw. Those who operated radios and broke codes and flew planes, who filled the roles of the men and boys sent to war, who welcomed children into their homes to keep them safe, who gave their lives for the sake of future generations, and of course for all those men and women who continue to do so...

"At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them." 

Seeing Out Summer with The Good Life Experience

At the beginning of September, Pedlars very kindly invited myself and D back to The Good Life Experience, a three day festival held on the Hawarden Estate in North Wales that has very quickly become my favourite weekend of the year. 

It was founded by four friends; Charlie and Caroline Gladstone, Cerys Matthews and her husband Steve Abbott. Four years ago they set about creating a festival that reflected the common desire to return to a simpler way of life, the kind of life our parents and grandparents lived where good times didn't depend on money and excess, where we made things and grew things and past times didn't revolve around high resolution screens, but around each other. The festival is a celebration of food, music, books and crafts people - all the good things in life. 

We arrived to find the same glorious blue sky that greeted us last year, but a week of rain the the lead up to the weekend also meant a great deal of mud - and it was all the more fun for it! We put up our tent to the sound of music in the distance and I could hardly contain my excitement. I felt as though I'd come home when we arrived last year, and knowing what to expect made me even more eager to get in and immerse myself in the joy of it all once more.

Yet again, the only negative I can draw from the whole weekend is that you could do with a time-turner; there's so much happening that you couldn't possibly see everything, and choosing which things to miss is such a tough decision to make.

We perused the line-up with some lunch from Claw who we discovered last year and were hoping would be back again. They serve a whole host of crab and seafood goodness, and we went for the crab on fries which is a rather inspired combination.    

We decided first to see Micheal Rosen. I'd been wondering which bit of the weekend would make me cry this year, and it turns out this was it. 

Micheal Rosen is of course famous for 'We're Going on A Bear Hunt' and he saved this performance till the very end. Before that though, he took us on an animated and completely hilarious journey through his childhood, all the time looking just like the Quentin Blake illustration of himself. We heard about his inability to hear the word 'bedtime,' how heading to the bathroom meant it was time to muck about and felt his Dad's fury after finding the top of the toothpaste buried inside his shaving soap. His explanation? Pirates, of course.  

It was really quite overwhelming to watch the command he had over his audience - children and adults alike were repeating his lines back to him, and gasping with horror when his mum discovered his midnight chocolate cake feast. Such a wonderful poet and performer, and we both feel quite honoured to have watched, with tears rolling down our cheeks, him doing his thing. 

Next it was over to the Campfire cooking stage for something else that I found rather overwhelming. As you might remember from my recent post about podcasts, I've recently fallen in love with Harry Eastwood and her ethos on meat. 

Listening to her talking about honouring and savouring each piece of meat you eat was completely inspiring and cemented our feelings about lessening the quantity and upping the quality of the meat we choose to eat. I had one of those joyous moments where I want to jump up and down and bestow thanks on a person for articulating the jumble of feelings that reside in my head. Also, by following the simple tips gleaned from her talk we've since cooked the best steak we've ever had! 

Just look at my happy little face! It's mostly because of Harry and her demo, a little bit because of the table of foraged mushrooms next to me, and quite a lot because of the lavender soda and spiced rum I'm clutching. I spotted the Lurvill's Delight stand at about 300 paces - lavender and rum are two of my most favourite flavours, and they combined to make the most beautiful (and refined sugar free) riff on a 'dark and stormy' - I may have had more than one. 

Both Makers Row and The Marketplace were bigger and better than last year, with some of the most talented craftspeople sharing their skills and the most incredible wares for sale. D had an excellent time selecting a new beard oil from Old Faithful and I spent a considerable time stroking some beautiful knitted baby clothes from Mabli. Most of the purveyors are local and it's a real celebration of Welsh makers! 

We didn't manage to get booked into any workshops this year, but watching people creating things with their hands, sometimes for the first time, was marvellous. Parents and children made screen prints together, arrows were sharpened and leather punched. This isn't craft in the toilet roll and sticky back plastic sense, this is crafting in the true sense of the word, making something real and tangible using your hands. I love to think that for some of the children, and maybe some of their parents, that this weekend might unearth a passion that will stay with them for the rest of their lives.  

The festival site takes on a whole new magic as the sun goes down. The camp fires are lit, and the music turned up. Children get wrapped up a little bit more, eyes wide with the delight of a late night and a hot chocolate and 'yes you can have one more marshmallow' or they're tucked in to wagons adorned with fairy lights to sleep while the rest of the family carry on the party.

We headed back to the campfire cooking stage for Tom Herbert's book launch which was absolutely inspired! After chatting to Tom, and getting a copy of his new book Do Wild Baking - Food Fire and Good Times signed with the dedication 'Bake Together Forever' we hung it up over the camp fire to 'cold smoke,' to infuse it with the wonderful smell of the smouldering fire.

It's well known that the sense of smell evokes a stronger emotional response than any of the other four, and flicking through the smokey pages immediately transports me back to that night, full of inspiration and memory and the reminder to get outdoors and cook.

As we sat huddled around the smouldering fire, drinking beer, inhaling the scent of smoke now tucked within the pages, watching muddy dogs fighting over beef bones and scraps from the days cooking, I had felt the exact same sense of belonging as last year. There's something tribal about it, a sense of camaraderie and shared joy that makes everyone feel like instant friends. 

On Sunday morning, after a breakfast of bacon and fried duck egg sandwiches, I challenged D to a coffee-off. Allpress coffee were teaching people how to make espresso based coffees, and ever the competitors we decided to show off a bit!  

We decided diplomatically that mine looked better, but D's tasted better - so as ever we make a pretty good team. 

We then headed to a talk with Harry Eastwood and Felicity Cloake, guardian columnist and author of four recipe books. They both have such a passion for food, and a fascinating way with words which made their talk utterly compelling. From cycling round France and inhaling the bread basket to a comparison between the compulsive nature of both Mills and Boon novels and a bag of Wotzits, the two of them together sparked an idea in me that perhaps food might play a bigger part in my life than I ever imagined.  

Next up - just to add to the layers of delicious overwhelm now piling up on top of me we headed back to the campfire to watch Gill Meller (long standing fantasy love interest of mine) cook Mussels Eclade - or, mussels cooked with fire. The plan was to arrange the mussels, opening down, on a large piece of wood, cover them with pine needles, set the needles on fire and have the heat and smoke cook the seafood to perfection. However - the lovingly collected pine needles had somehow gone astray, so hay was employed instead and the result was wonderful, sweet, juicy and perfectly smokey mussels.

It was with very heavy hearts that we packed up the tent and headed home. I can't fully express how being here makes me feel. I think I said last year that walking into The Good Life Experience was like looking at the inside of my head laid out infront of me and that was completely true again this year. If you could give physicality to the emotion of joy - then this weekend nails it, and I haven't even mentioned that everywhere you look there's a dog to make friends with too.

It's something really really special - every single moment of it is so felicitous that it all feels like such a celebration. Every person, whether they're a chef or a maker is so passionate about what they do that you can help but be infected by that same passion too. What I find so wonderful is that everything is aimed at adults and children alike, and the utter joy of making something with your hands can be seen everywhere, from children who have never felt so proud, to adults who had forgotten what that feeling is like.

So, as we all fully embrace Autumn and say goodbye to summer for another year, lets raise a glass and chant: Here's to campfires, here's to rum, here's to finding a double pronged marshmallow stick and singeing your pigtails. Here's to setting up a make believe sweetcorn stand, here's to muddy dogs and muddy pyjamas. Here's to steak, to smoke and to going on a bear hunt. Here's to making it with your hands, to rolling down hills and getting drunk on fresh air. Here's to hiding the top of the toothpaste, here's to infusing books with memories and toasting them with ale. Here's to wellies, here's to family, here's to yoga and fire and music and baking and passion and mussels and stories and crying because you love it... 

Here's to The Good Life.  

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