Ten

Ten years. That is how long it has been since I left my job as Head of English and Assistant Headteacher in the tough Sheffield secondary school where I worked for twenty two years. 

I think that if I had stayed much longer the job would have killed me so I got out when I could, securing a decent early retirement package. Perhaps I was lucky to be able to escape just before my fifty sixth birthday but I had been  involved with teaching from the age of eighteen - thirty eight years in total. 

Some of the residue of those final years still remains with me like scum on the side of a bathtub. I just cannot wash it away. The thing about teaching in a school like that is that you give so much of yourself, you give so much and yet it's all about developing the pupils in front of you. It's never about personal enrichment or self-development. You give, give, give and then the system wants more. Squeezing the very air you breathe.

Two years after retiring, a former colleague and friend named Jon got me out to Bangkok, Thailand to fill a vacant teaching post. I was there for six months and returned in 2013 for a further six months. From a teaching point of view that experience was both healing and uplifting. It reminded that I was always a damned good teacher. It was in my blood. Working there was a  lovely way to truly finish my career.

Ten years. How the time has flown and I have to admit that I have squandered a lot of it. I could have done more. More reading, more writing, more playing my guitar, more song-writing, more home improvements - but I shouldn't beat myself up too much.

I've been to Easter Island, New Zealand, The Pacific North West, various European destinations and several previously unvisited places in The British Isles like The Isle of Man, Anglesey and The Mull of Galloway. And of course I have walked and walked, taking photographs along the way. Countless miles have I walked, seeing new things, learning new things. It has been such a joy. And then there has been Oxfam, the geograph website and this blog too - a creative outlet, a window on the world, a special link with other people - all accidentally encountered, all different from each other.

Will there be another ten years? Who knows? Sometimes I think that I am already living on borrowed time. My lovely father Philip died soon after his sixty fifth birthday and my amazing brother Paul died just before his sixty third birthday. I am a long way past them now and though my health is robust - no pills or other medication and no significant "conditions" - I know that The Grim Reaper could strike me down at any time - like a sheep in a riverside pasture.

I do not regret taking early retirement for a single moment. Looking back now, I am  certain that it was the right thing to do though back then - in the summer of 2009 - it seemed like a skydive. Happily the parachute opened immediately and I am still floating down, enjoying the view.

September

"Now your next post should show the beautiful countryside. I expect to see my friend and his wife who are touring some of the islands by bicycle." - Red Kline, Alberta, Canada.

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Always eager to please visitors to this blog, I managed to track Red's friends down yesterday afternoon. See above. It's surprising that no maple leaves were visible. Red also put a request in for a country walk with pictures.

It was a lovely afternoon and Clint  drove me the short distance to Hathersage in Derbyshire. He parked near Leadmill Bridge that crosses over the babbling River Derwent. 

Garner House Farm and The Hope Valley

Glover Barn -  now in a ruinous state

My plan was to walk by the river for a couple of miles and then head up the valley side to plod along Glover Bank before descending in a loop and returning to the riverside path.

It took two and a half hours. There were no unexpected problems. I was not savaged by a dead sheep or butted by an angry bull with a brass ring through its nose. I did not fall into the river from the stepping stones and I was not chased by screaming girl guides seeking my autograph. I did not encounter any axe murderers, fishermen or nudist sunbathers. Best of all both of my knees felt strong - with not a ghost of  historical pain.

Above and below - images of the river stepping stones near Hathersage 

At the door of Kentney Barn

It was a lovely day at the very end of summer. Already I could see leaves subtly changing their colours. Gnarled hawthorn bushes were heavily laden with scarlet berries and blooming heather cloaked the moortops. Being a Tuesday there were hardly any other ramblers about and I only said two words all afternoon - "Thank you" - to another walker who had kindly waited for me on a particularly narrow section of the riverside path.

Sweet, sweet September. 

How very lovely to be alive...

The Odour of Death

"Beloved"

I was looking forward to reading this novel - inspired to do so upon hearing of the writer's death just last month. I expected an uncomfortable but engaging experience and understood that the book would explore the legacy of slavery. A song from the heart of Afro-America. I came to it with an open mind and a willingness to be wooed by Toni Morrison.

I read it carefully - chapter by chapter when we were on holiday in Croatia and finished it as our plane was touching down at Manchester Airport. But I have to report that I found "Beloved" to be  a frustrating read and quite a hard novel to get through.

I rarely expect a novel to advance steadily in time from Point A to Point B in the future. One expects a degree of backtracking, various literary asides and the presentation of different viewpoints but "Beloved" was all over the place and I often found it  hard to keep in mind who was narrating and when. It was frequently confusing.

There are mythical semi-fairytale elements to the novel and I did not take well to the strange lost girl known as Beloved who provided the novel's title. What is she? Is she human or imaginary or is she a ghost? I am a big fan of reality when it comes to writing and this novel often veered away from honest believability into a different realm where I was reluctant to go.

There were powerful and tenderly written episodes and at times Toni Morrison's much-acclaimed craftsmanship shone through. "Beloved" is filled with a range of human emotions and strong feelings and has an intimate historical sense of the Afro-American experience. Her use of language is often rich and original, moulding words, using them deftly.

Yes I can really see that Morrison is quite a writer but ultimately I didn't really like her characters - Sethe or Denver or Baby Suggs or Paul D.. I just did not warm to them and felt no real investment in their interrelated stories.

It's not how I wished to react to "Beloved". I wanted to say that it is one of the best novels I have read in a long time but sadly for me that was just not the case.

Toni Morrison 1931-2019

People

Back home now.

Of course, we were not alone in The Aminess Grand Azur Hotel in Croatia. There were around two hundred other guests there too plus a small army of staff. In the course of a week, many mental notes were gathered. I guess we are all people watchers.

There was a thirty something Croatian couple with two small boys. The mother was clearly pregnant a third time. At dinner or breakfast, the two little boys were a law unto themselves. They just would not remain seated at the family table. They wriggled down and ran around, getting under other guests' feet and yelling or laughing crazily. Eventually the mother would get up and herd them back to base while "daddy" continued eating, oblivious to it all.

One evening, the smallest boy seemed keen to investigate the coolers where desserts were displayed. Being only two feet tall he simply could not look in so rather cleverly he proceeded to shove a dining chair over there. Soon both boys were standing on it, looking in and they managed to grab some cakes before "mama" appeared to spoil their fun.

There was a German man with one of those hideous raspberry coloured birthmarks. It covered half of his face and was raised and pitted like the surface of the moon. The other half of his face appeared perfectly normal as did his pretty blonde wife. Another German woman - probably in her mid fifties -  was clearly recovering from a stroke that had affected all of her left side. She was slim and elegant but ambled around with much difficulty

Round the pool, flesh was of course exposed. There were several huge women with blubbery bodies shaped like barrels and a young fellow whose belly was so big that it wobbled right over his swimming shorts pulled up beneath. From the front, it looked as though he wasn't even wearing swimming shorts!

Every night in the far corner of the restaurant, a fifty something man sat on his own. He seemed perfectly content as he guzzled free beer and wine and  gobbled several towering  plates of food along with numerous desserts and pieces of fruit. Surprisingly, he wasn't especially fat. We referred to him as "The Axe Murderer" and after two hours his consumption would be halted by images on his smartphone which he beamed at with disturbing glee. It was an odd place to pick for a solo holiday.

Perhaps the strangest people of all were a sixty something English couple. The man dressed like a ragamuffin wearing a "Panama Beach" T-shirt, khaki shorts and worn out dusty sandals. In contrast, the woman was well-groomed and nicely dressed each evening. She picked away at salads while he sought to follow the dining habits of "The Axe Murderer". They seemed to spend much of their time observing other guests and as he lay by the pool I noticed that the grumpy old man was reading "Beloved" by Toni Morrison.

Over

Our week in Croatia is almost done. The transfer bus will arrive at 5.45 in the morning so we want an early night.

It's been good here. The weather gods blessed us and the sea was clear with a pleasant temperature. Green pines and cedars fringed the coast. Mostly, we kept ourselves to ourselves and ate well. As you could drink as much wine and/or beer as you wanted with dinner we imbibed rather more alcohol than  our weekly quota normally allows.

This morning we had another ferry trip across the water to Korčula town and there I bought a souvenir T-shirt. A cruise ship had anchored off the coast and American tourists were being brought to shore by a relay of tenders. Many of the passengers appeared elderly.

In Korčula

While we were observing paintings in an art shop, one of the Americans came to the entrance and said to the proprietor, "Do you know where there's a water closet?" The owner, a Croatian woman, was confused. She thought the elderly lady needed a drink so I stepped in to translate. None of the Americans asked me about Brexit which was a relief.

A final view of  Korčula

A bit more aimless wandering around and then we caught the twelve o'clock ferry back to Orebic for an afternoon of lounging and reading and swimming before another delightful buffet dinner. Only the desserts have disappointed.

Back to England in the morning.

View from the monastery boathouse, Badija Island

Plodding

At Kućište today - typical Croatian scene

This morning I put my walking boots on and marched west - four miles along the peninsula. Shirley was happy just to veg out by the hotel pool with a book.

I stopped two or three times to read more chapters of "Beloved" by Toni Morrison. I am finding it hard going. It's not the kind of novel you race through.

At one of my shady stops I was joined by a thin fellow from New Jersey. He had just got off a motor launch.

 "Mind if I join you?"

"No. Go ahead."

"Say. Where are you from?"

"I'm from Yorkshire. Yorkshire, England."

And that was his invitation to hammer home half-formed views about Brexit. He wanted to say something along the lines of - We've got Trump but your shit is worse buddy! No nice questions or remarks about family, pastimes, music, the meaning of life or the loveliness of Croatia - just straight into Brexit like a bird of prey. Quite annoying really. Perhaps he didn't realise that he had rudely interrupted my reading.

After ten minutes he got into a black Mercedes people carrier and was whisked away with his holiday companions. I was glad to see the back of him but I waved anyway. I suspect his name was Dick.

View from our room on Thursday evening

It wasn't the loveliest walk I have ever plodded but it was nice to be right next to the sea, burning off calories. I found a small village supermarket in which I bought a bottle of Diet Coke, an orange and a curly sausage roll. This was my lunch and soon I was walking back in the direction I had come from.

Back at the hotel it was time to swim - both in the sea and the pool. I fell asleep briefly on the white sunlounger and then came up to our room to polish up a short story I have been working on for an annual competition that is held in Sheffield. One thousand words is not very many.

Meanwhile our daughter Frances is now on the island of Hvar about thirty miles from here. It is a long weekend office getaway beano and she is there with fifteen work colleagues - all paid for by her company. That kind of thing never happens to schoolteachers.

Finally - a mummy cat and her four kittens in the hotel grounds. They have attracted a lot of happy attention from guests:-

Niceness

"We hope for reports of blue skies, sunshine and pretty scenery, and the occasional description of good food to cheer us..." - Coppa's Girl

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Bronze bust by the wharf at Badija

No ambulance reports today.

This morning we were down for breakfast before eight o'clock. I had a glass of orange, two white coffees and the following food items - a bowl of muesli with some extra dried banana slices, a plate containing a scoop of scrambled egg, two slices of grilled bacon, a spoonful of fried mushrooms. some fried onions and a sausage. I also had a buttered bread roll.

I threw a crust of bread into the sea at Badija

Then we walked to the wharf at Orebic where we boarded the M/B Papa just before 8.45 am. We had booked a leisurely day trip. It took us along  The Pelješac Peninsula - almost to the very end and then  across the channel to the coast of Korčula. 

We travelled along it until we came to the island of Badija where we had a three hour stop for exploring, swimming and perhaps visiting the large Franciscan monastery there. At 1pm we had lunch aboard the boat. The blue skies were blue, the sunshine was bright and yellowy and the scenery was pretty and green or aqua blue.

On the M/B Papa

Shirley and I hiked all the way round the island that probably has a population of no more than twenty including some surprisingly fearless deer. After lunch we were on our way to Lumbarda which is a seaside village to the east of Korčula Island. We were there for two hours and found a surprisingly sandy beach. No diving shoes required. 

The Franciscan monastery on the island of Badija

Deer chewing melon rind

I swam far out like a sealion but I did not clap my flippers nor shout "Arf! Arf!" and I certainly didn't balance a beach ball on my snout.

Naturist bloggers like Tasker Dunham please note.

There - the blogpost is done. I sincerely hope that it meets with Coppa's Girl's approval. After all, I don't want to upset anybody, do I?

Returning to Orebic