Parkrun is back in the comfort zone. I’ve been up and out there every Saturday in August. Running further feels much harder. The mid-October ten mile target may be deferred. I blame the summer sun. Other excuses are available.

Last week Mr A and I completed the three day walk along the stanza stones. It’s taken just a little over three years.

We’d planned to walk the 47 mile trail from Marsden to Ilkley in August 2019. Accommodation booked, backpacks at the ready, weather forecast bad, we decided not to commit to three wet days in the hills. We agreed, weather permitting, to do each day individually, using public transport at the start and finish.

Day 1, completed with the Rain Stone; the rest of that summer was a washout. We’d walk days 2 and 3 next year. Twenty-twenty foresight would’ve told us this was not a year for plans.

Day 2, completed in 2021. We arrived at Hebden Bridge to pick up where we left off two years earlier, walked to Bingley. We’d walk the final leg later the same week. An emergency call for childcare put the day on hold.

Day 3, August 2022, took us out along the canal from Bingley, passing the three and five rises of locks before heading across the moors to Ilkley.

On Ilkley Moor we met a solitary poet from Toulouse. Three years is nothing she said. She’d waited ten years to make her poetic pilgrimage. She warned us that the Beck Stone can be hard to find. She was right. The path is overgrown; there’s not much evidence of passers-by deviating from paddling beneath the bridge.

The Ilkley poets’ seat, offering a space for reflection of the landscape and perhaps to leave a poem, seemed sadly neglected, overgrown with nettles. Less than tempting for a short clad walker to linger.

We rushed on. We believed we had a bus to catch. The online timetable told us they’d been reduced to a 2 hourly service. We arrived at the bus station in good time to read the handwritten notice: X52 no longer runs from Ilkley, it starts and ends in Otley. We went in search of a train, back into Leeds and out again.

It’s been a hot day.

The hottest ever in the UK. It’s a day to stay indoors, to drink iced water in a shady corner. Outside, temperatures soar. It’s reported, not so far away, to exceed 40°c. Mr A’s old thermometer, an inheritance from his Grandad, pushes towards the dizzy heights of 100°f.

The climate emergency feels real. Air conditioned spaces feel comfortable. It’s a mixed blessing, the cooling units are part of the problem. It’s not a record we hoped to see.

It’s not a day for running.

Half a week ago it seemed easy to say yes to running ten miles in mid-October. Two weeks ago, I watched endurance runners battle on to 100 miles and more around a five mile loop. We camped, with two daughters and two grand-daughters: their dad began to run at lunchtime, kept running through the night.

My target’s just a tenth of his. There’s 3 months left to train. With 3 miles back in my comfort zone, 10 miles sounds like a possible challenge. Place secured, I planned to make a plan. Thirteen weeks to go. It can’t be that hard to gear up my running and put in the extra miles.

I started a training spreadsheet, opened my diary in search of uncommitted time. It will be neither easy nor impossible. There’s time to make a plan, break it, struggle round the route. The plan is simple: run further, not faster; prioritise the headspace; enjoy the running me-time.

#thisgrannyruns is back. Or will be, once the temperature falls.

June is a month of roses and, for us, of birthdays. Our youngest daughter left her twenties, Mr A achieved 64, who could ask for more. We celebrated with a sunny weekend in a Yorkshire folly large enough to accommodate three generations. Even with a combined age of 94, these two birthdays cannot compete with Great gran, Gi-gi. The same age as the queen, it’s her turn to celebrate today. I took cake and roses, we had a short walk in the sunshine.

Our neighbour’s a collector, mostly of art deco. She was talking of roses this week. She’s got a lovely garden, but she’s also quite besotted with the red and white English Rose kitchen she keeps in a garden room. It looked familiar, and prompted nostalgia in a child of the late fifties. She began to tell the story of how the kitchens were produced post-war in redeployed aircraft engineering works. The story sounded familiar, ‘I think our family’s cooker might have been English Rose’, I said.

I described its hob. An oblong griddle, warmed by the grill, a round hot plate and a single ‘red-ring’, a fierce element that was slow to glow. I was regularly warned it could be hot even when it wasn’t glowing. I tested it for myself, and lived for a while with parallel blisters across my fingers.

Its oven was small, it struggled with a Sunday roast; its grill burned everything. Toast was scraped each morning. It was tough, survived a minor fire to cross the Pennines in our uprooting. It fed our family into the 1970’s.

Marion doesn’t have the cooker. She’d like one, says they’re hard to find.

We walked St Hilda’s way, extending the route to start and end at Whitby, beginning with a walk along the coast to Runswick Bay. Planning for the twice delayed trip began pre-pandemic; after a long wait, we were blessed by perfect walking weather.

One oversight in our planning: we didn’t think to check that all St Hilda’s churches visited on the route would be open. Things have changed in lockdown. We became skilled at identifying Hilda in stained glass windows, viewed in reverse, from light to dark. They were impressive but doubtless less so than back-lit as intended.

This wasn’t a solitary pilgrimage, but there were opportunities to walk alone, to take time out, recharge my batteries. Many years ago, Myers-Briggs scored me, by the smallest of margins, as an extrovert. It never felt quite right, I don’t always become more energised in company; I can feel drained after too much time with others. Especially those who really do take their energy from those around them.

I prefer the label, ambivert, I first came across it in Susan Cain’s book Quiet. She quotes Jung: “There is no such thing as a pure extrovert or a pure introvert. Such a man would be in the lunatic asylum.” Such a woman too, I echo. I don’t like the language, it’s outdated, but the fact remains that achieving the right balance seems to be the key to wellbeing.

Inspired by those I’ve met this week, not least a passing conversation with a supermarket cashier, I began to review how I’m currently using (or neglecting) my own strengths. I was reminded that the M-B profiling that suggested I was energised by extroversion also identified my lifestyle preference as, almost off the scale, ‘J’: planned, organised, decisive. All positive strengths, when used in the right measure.

Alone, or in a group, I can be full of energy. So long as there’s a plan.

Our Friday morning writers’ group met on Thursday evening. We’d been invited, by Pauline, to join her at ‘Salon North’. She’d been given complimentary tickets. We were mesmerised by three speakers, three TED style talks. The theme of the evening: revolutionary, uncontrollable, assertive women. It was a bonus that many were Northern. The downside, that many of their individual achievements had been forgotten; airbrushed out of history.

Next month I’m walking St Hilda’s Way, a pilgrimage to Whitby. It’s a trip planned pre-pandemic, twice delayed. I’m delighted that this 7^th century woman featured high on the list of early influencers.

The talks were fresh in my mind as I perused a box of old photographs. My granddaughter was asking for pictures of her grandparents’ schooldays.

‘They’re doing you in history’ laughed my daughter.

I dug out a family tree. Several years ago, I started to make some notes on family stories. Mostly based on living memory, it began when my daughters were looking for help with a primary school project. It’s a happy memory now that, in the last decade of the 20^th century, they were able to meet my Grandpa’s sister, born at the end of the Victorian age.

I began a line of female pictures next to my family tree. My grand-daughter, her mum, her granny and her great-gran, G-G. A picture of me with my gran. Finally, a newspaper cutting, with a picture, reporting my gran’s grandparents’ golden wedding celebration. Mr and Mrs Robert Robinson of Thornley, no mention of Mrs Robinson’s fore-name in the article.

I had photographs of six out of seven generations of women. I hadn’t identified a picture of Mrs Robinson’s daughter, my great-grandmother. There was an unidentified picture, of around the right era. I asked my mum, G-G to my grandchildren, if this was my great-grandmother.

She was sad to report that no, this was the wife of one of her great uncles. She said she didn’t think she’d ever seen a picture of her maternal grandmother. My gran barely spoke of her mother, she’d brought shame on her family. Her crime? She’d been abandoned by her husband; she was rumoured to have married a bigamist.

He’d left her as a single mother. She’d become an embarrassment to her mother and her daughters; they’d almost airbrushed her out of their history. It’s a sad story, one needing to be told.

The party, for a five year old, coming after two lockdown birthdays, was long anticipated and well planned. The cake was mum-made and, as requested, very pink; the party favours were all bagged up.

No-one expected that the birthday girl would test positive for Covid on the eve of her party. A tricky evening for the adults coming to terms with this result. A resilient girl, in the final days of being four, she took it in her stride.

By morning, the sun shone. Resourceful parents and the blessing of the weekend weather saved the day. A stream of visitors left presents on the doorstep, sent best wishes through the window, brought foil wrapped helium parcels:  ‘We thought a balloon would cheer her up’.  Not the hoped for manic hour or two of games and tears, but a gentle day of constant celebration.

There were no games in the village hall, no blowing out of candles on the cake. We had a mini garden party, with fish and chips, in the sunshine. For some, T shirts and shorts came out. For the birthday girl, a summer dress. Being at home, she was able to change as soon as a swirlier and pinker dress was unwrapped. Games in the garden for a March birthday, not something for which they would have dared to plan.

Next day, spurred on by the sunshine, I had a trip to Harlow Carr gardens. Tempted in the shop, I bought some young delphiniums for the blue garden I’ve been planning in my head. I planted them in a warm and sunny spot.

This morning, I dusted snow from them. This afternoon, maybe too late, I covered them in makeshift cloches, crafted from repurposed dry-cleaning bags. This granny is learning as she goes, picking up lessons in gardening and resourcefulness from ramblingrose. Hopefully, the young shoots will prove tough enough and thrive through this adversity.

The headlines remain dark. The glimmers of light seem few.

I’ve not yet stumbled on my Lent reading of the psalms; there’s more comfort there than in the news. Words written millennia ago seem fresh and appropriate. Day 10, today, I read yet more words of lament: Why do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble? But there’s words of reassurance and encouragement too, the psalmist speaking out that evil will not prevail.

It was just over a year ago that presidential poet, Amanda Gorman, inspired us all with her powerful words: For there is always light. If only we’re brave enough to see it. If only we’re brave enough to be it. Contemporary echoes of poetic hope emerged from the radio again this morning. Our much loved poet laureate, Simon Armitage, read his new poem ‘Resistance’. It ends with hope: An air raid siren can’t fully mute cathedral bells. Let’s call that hope.

My walk today took me, in spring sunshine, to the writing group. A place where we can celebrate our freedom to speak out. A place of much chatter as we set the world to rights.

I was distracted in the class by a WhatsApp message. A reminder that this is the weekend of a particularly hilly ‘just 10k’ that I’ve run before. Back in 2020, it was cancelled as pandemic began to affect daily life. Entries were rolled over to 2021, then delayed another year.

This year, my knees said no. Just don’t do it. So I won’t. That said, they are well rested now and they’ve managed two short, and fairly level, runs. With care, they may climb that hill again. There’s always hope.

Easter is late this year. Which means that it was already March before we celebrated Shrove Tuesday and marked the beginning of Lent on Ash Wednesday.

Lent is sometimes viewed as a time of ‘giving up’; some abstain from sugar or chocolate or alcohol. The tradition of pancakes on Shrove Tuesday stems from using up rich food ahead of Lent.

This year I am aware of busy-ness creeping back into my life. I’d like to regain some balance; restore a daily rhythm, get back to running…

I thought I’d try a daily discipline of reading a psalm and walking with it. There’s forty days of Lent, 150 psalms. A rough calculation takes me past mid-summer…or longer if I stumble. I’ll see how it goes.

Today, being day 2 of Lent, I haven’t stumbled yet. I read psalm 2. It begins: Why do the nations conspire and the peoples plot in vain? And ends: Blessed are all who take refuge in him.

I walked one of my running routes. If I’m honest, I haven’t run at all this year; my knees have been complaining.

As I walked, my mind turned to those driven from their homes by the horror of war. I have heard stories this week of people travelling to rescue family and friends from the border of their invaded homeland. They have brought glimmers of hope and light into the darkness.

Through the morning mist I heard people talking, loudly, disagreeing on an issue of the day. ‘And another thing,’ a voice boomed out, ‘they wouldn’t want to come here, where everyone’s a foreigner.’

How sad I felt that there seemed to be so little compassion in the voice for those who’d lost everything they owned, who’d been uprooted from their homes. The sentence haunts me, maybe I misheard or misunderstood the context. Surely we will welcome those whose lives have been so shattered?

‘Where will this all end?’ I lamented; ‘when will thy kingdom come?’

I spent too much of this week procrastinating, delving into online media. Amidst the bleak news, and worse fake news, I spotted a CAMRA survey on diversity. It seems that they are seeking to address diversity issues; to recruit minorities, including women.

I’ve been a beer drinker for nearly half a century. It began in a Cheshire pub, with a pint of Boddingtons, it seemed normal enough to me. My Dad did suggest that pints weren’t very ‘ladylike’. I discovered, as I mixed more widely, that his view was not unique.

I also learned from the week’s online meanderings that, from 2023, there is to be a new public holiday on 1st February.  It seems that Ireland’s lesser known national saint, Brigid, is to be more widely recognised.

An annual holiday, to celebrate the end of January, sounds a great idea. But don’t get too excited, this is limited to the Republic of Ireland.

Brigid is renowned to have been a woman of great hospitality. A practical woman, a skilled brewer. No doubt, a useful skill in days with no drinking water on tap. There is even a story that she turned bath water into beer.

Googling further on St Brigid, I discovered that she was also known as St Bride. The Fleet Street church of that name is associated with journalists. It’s ironic that I fell down this rabbit hole of thought whilst running from the news.

No, I won’t be joining CAMRA, but I will raise a glass to getting to know more of Brigid. She must have been good company.

January blues have been in the news. We’ve passed the grey sadness of blue Monday; that moment of sinking into the reality of a new year that looks so similar to its predecessor.

Spare a thought for those with birthdays around this time. We didn’t choose our date of birth, our wintry celebration. Maybe for us, blue Monday could be marked by sapphire blue, sparkling sunlit skies; a brisk crisp walk beneath a dawn of red blue hues.

We had fish and chips for my birthday tea, washed down by fizz and Yorkshire tea.

Of course there was cake as well, essential, to differentiate our party from a meeting. Risk assessment presented me with a Covid friendly cake, no candles to blow out. Instead, a firework that looked set to hit the kitchen ceiling.

I shared my birthday weekend with a one year old grandson.  We celebrated his baptism too. Teaching from the book of Proverbs, the minister spoke of Solomon’s wisdom, and asked us what we’d wish for.

It’s my wish this year to fail. To fail wisely and to fail well. To fail big. To show I’ve tried, and through it failed, dusted myself down and tried again. I shared my wish with friends. We agreed together to celebrate our failures; and risk success, the icing on the cake.

I don’t wish failure as an end in itself on myself or anyone else; but I do wish the blessing of learning from good failures.