Mothers' Day

A lovely spring day spent doing this and that. Two of our three children at home, breakfast in bed, roses, tulips, Lady Gaga CD (my kids are quick to pick up hints!), celebratory meal this evening. 

We don't have a swimming pool, but we do have a small pond. This afternoon we cleaned it out for the first time in quite a while - hard work, but intensely satisfying. Sadly, none of the fish survived the harsh winter (or had the heron eaten them all?) but the frogs were fine, hunkered down in the sludge. We got the cleaning done just in time, there is a frog orgy going on out there as the pond refills. Now we'll be able to see the frogspawn develop and there won't be any fish to eat the tadpoles. Ah, the cycle of life!!

Here's a poem by Seamus Heaney to mark the day.

from Clearances 3
(in memoriam M.K.H., 1911-1984)
When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other's work would bring us to our senses.


So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives -
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.
Seamus Heaney


from Being Alive: the sequel to Staying Alive, edited by Neil Astley, Bloodaxe.

Wandering Lonely as Clouds

Helm Crag - The Lion and The Lamb

Jean Sprackland's poetry workshop today in Grasmere was wonderful. I find classes like this more than a wee bit scary, but as she is such an inspiring and encouraging tutor, I felt challenged yet safe enough to come away with some very satisfying work - considerably more than the foundations for at least three poems, and some good ideas for sustaining and encouraging the creative process - thank you Jean! 

This evening we had a pre-booked cinema deal at Zeffirellis in Ambleside - a two course meal in the very classy restaurant, followed by a film in a charming retro cinema - all for £17.95 each. The film we watched was An Education - back at Zeffirellis by popular demand - a great end to an exciting day.

Grasmere (Lake) continues to be iced over, there are some ice-free patches in Rydal Water, but hey! Spring is round the corner (I've spotted several lambs in the fields) and we'll just have to come back for another weekend that is dedicated to swimming rather than poetry!

Sumer Is Icumen In

Yesterday was the shortest day. Now the lazy, hazy summer is just around 
the corner. Hurrah! 
Today everywhere is buried under a few inches of snow. We let our eight 
hens have the run of the garden as they can't peck and dig through ice.

When the snow turned to sleet, then rain, the hens put me in mind of this poem by Billy Collins 

The Student
My poetry instruction book,
which I bought at an outdoor stall along the river,

contains many rules
about what to avoid and what to follow.

More than two people in a poem
is a crowd, is one.

Mention the clothes you are wearing
as you compose, is another.

Avoid the word vortex,
the word velvety, and the word cicada.

When at a loss for an ending,
have some brown hens standing in the rain.

Never admit that you revise.
And - always keep your poem in one season.

I try to be mindful,
but in these last days of summer

whenever I look up from my page
and see a burn-mark of yellow leaves,

I think of the icy winds
that will soon be knifing through my jacket.

Billy Collins
from 'The Trouble with Poetry' .

Winter Wonderland

Our last night here for this year - a crescent moon, clear skies, a magical swim, followed by a snowy walk home, marvelling at the local winter wild life 

Christmas Cousins

The kids expressed an interest in diving into my blog. While I was swimming I worked out a way to do it using my phone. All my best ideas surface when I'm swimming!

The Kids United

Gabe, Geno, Becca (Honorary Cousin), Maeve, Eddie, Eve, Nancy, Nell, Immy, Malachy, Jem.

Woodland Retreat

It's become something of a tradition in our family to descend upon Center Parcs for a festive get-together the weekend before Christmas. This year we are also celebrating my godmother's eightieth birthday, so here we are, in our forest dwellings, gathered from as far afield as Australia and various points in the UK. Yesterday our eldest daughter flew in from the United States to complete the party, getting away just before the east coast snow storms really took hold. 
Swimming for pleasure is most definitely the order of the day! On Friday night we floated around under a starry sky in this pool at the spa -

Later this morning I will clock up a few laps in the lane swimming pool, then tonight we will be riding the wild water rapids when it's dark and frosty and the crowds have thinned out.

Nantwich Brine Pool

After not swimming at Hathersage last weekend, I checked around to see if any other outdoor pools are still open. I discovered that Nantwich Brine Pool isn't due to hibernate till 4 October, so I resolved that by hook or by crook we'd sneak a swim there before it shuts. I earmarked today for the jaunt. I've not been before, but internet reports were full of praise. Its name both intrigues and repels me. It's too visceral - I associate brine with preparing onions for pickling, and I don't like to mix up that image with swimming, but find I can't stop myself.

The journey took over an hour as the satnav led us on a mystery tour through Cheshire countryside, instead of straight down the M6. As we pulled up in the car park, I had the familiar sinking feeling I always get when I reach an unknown swimming spot. A mixture of nervous anticipation and dread, probably a leftover from school swimming lessons at Rowntrees pool in York. More of that another day. It lingered on in the changing rooms, despite the cheery gang of girls who were dressing after their swimming lesson in the adjacent indoor pool.

Autumn has arrived and there's a chill in the air. The sky was overcast so I didn't hang about on the edge. The steps down were broad and tiled, the water silky and warm. I eased myself in with breaststroke and accustomed myself to the surroundings. The dread was still there, but counting lengths helped focus my mind and convert anxiety into enjoyment. I could smell smoke from coal fires faintly and I started to relax and revel in the pure pleasure of being outdoors and swimming - in October! The emptiness of the pool let me concentrate on my stroke, in time I broke through the gasping to an easy one - two - three bilateral freestyle which felt like it could go on forever. The water was mild and the saltiness pushed me higher than usual. I stopped after 54 x 30m lengths as Troy was waiting. When I got home I found this piece in Roger Deakin's book which perfectly sums up Nantwich today:

'When swimmers talk of fast or slow water, this is the sort of thing they mean. The absence of wavelets, or other bathers, means you can breathe and move in perfect rhythm, so the music takes over. Mind and body go off somewhere together in unselfconscious bliss, and the lengths seem to swim themselves. The blood sings, the water yields; you are in a state of grace, and every breath gets deeper and more satisfying. You hunker down and bury yourself in the water as though you have lived in it all your life, as though you were born to it, and thoughts come lightly and easily as you swing up and down in the blue.'

Bliss indeed.