This anniversary week has felt tough. It’s been a year of Zoom and local walking; a year of tiers and tears. We’ve struggled through landmark dates without a proper celebration.
In the first few weeks of sunny weather, and lighter evenings, we became accustomed to finding new ways to fill our days. Fortunate and blessed, our income was unaffected. Many were saved by furlough. Others weren’t, for them it was much harder.
There have been days of joy when we’ve had re-unions. A special service in late summer saw two granddaughters baptised in their village church; both wearing pink tutus, selected by the elder sister. Tutus that have come in useful. Worn with wellies, they are perfect for twirling in the garden.
A scaled down Christmas; no new year’s parties. We lived through some dark days with sad news. Then, the joy of a first grandson, arriving in the midst of winter.
I dusted down my running shoes in this anniversary week. Ran a slow 5k.
Passing a milestone early last year, I joked that it would only require one annual parkrun to stay ahead of my age. Not a funny joke, less so now that it’s over a year since the last parkrun (my 63rd). I ran, at ‘chatting pace’, with my daughter in the shadow of Fountains Abbey. Foolishly, we crowded into the café for a post run coffee. Now, there’s news that parkrun will soon return; I’m not sure I’ll be up to speed but I’ll maybe plod round at the back. Someone’s got to be last.