I had a day trip, on the train, to visit my grandson (and his mum) at their home on the North East coast.

Returning home, I arrived at the station early. I often do. I don’t like to rush to catch a train and I don’t mind waiting, watching others rush. I bought my tea from M&S. I love a train journey, and don’t mind delays if I’ve got a decent book.

I did have a decent book, I’m enjoying it on Audible: Miss Bensons Beetle. I couldn’t listen to it. I discovered on the journey that there’s no headphone jack on my new phone. It’s time to upgrade to Bluetooth.

My train from Newcastle was delayed just sufficiently that it seemed I would arrive in York in time to see the tail lights of my local train. In the days of British Rail, a local train would be held if the intercity was delayed.

It was cold and it was dark. I wanted to get home. I’d had an early start. I tweeted northern rail asking what was the chance the local service might wait.

My first tweet was ignored; I had tweeted northern railways India, they couldn’t help.

I deleted and retweeted the more local northern rail. They wouldn’t help.
No they said, it’s only an hour till the next one.

The train pulled in on platform 3; there was less than 2 minutes to cross the bridge to platform 8. I told myself that some can run a mile in less than 4 minutes; this short run should not be a challenge to a running granny.

The train slowed then stopped. The doors opened at their leisure. Back in the day, we didn’t need to wait for the train to stop before we opened the door. Life’s safer now.

I leaped and ran. Not easy running in a mask. A man carrying a suitcase stopped right in front of me at the top of the stairs. I dodged around him, kept running over the bridge.

I made it onto the local train and heard the guard shouting to others following me down the stairs. I tweeted back to northern rail; yes, this granny runs. Maybe not a 4 minute mile, but definitely a useful pace.

‘What are you reading at the moment?’ asked Jackie.

It was a simple enough question. The answer was more complicated. I’ve got several on the go. The one for the bookshop book club, the one for the road readers’ group, and a history of Scotland that I thought I’d read in anticipation of our holiday next month. Not to mention any number of half read books scattered around the house to dip into when the mood strikes.

It triggered a moment of panic as I tried to give an appropriate and not too rambling response regarding my erratic, and possibly attention deficient, reading habits.

Other, seemingly trivial, questions can provoke a similar reaction in me. The classic two, so beloved by Cilla on Blind Date: What’s your name and where do you come from?

Easy, if you are well rooted in a childhood town, with a clearly defined place of origin. More complicated for those uprooted at an early age leaving their heart on the far side of the Pennines. And then, in adulthood, finding that there is no family settlement to which to return.

As to my name, my label, my designation. I can tell you the name to which I answer on a daily basis – but you won’t find it on my birth certificate or passport. If you want to write me a cheque or buy me an airline ticket, you’ll need to use my proper name. It came as something of a surprise to me too. The day I started school.

The girl who didn’t answer to her name is still looking for easy answers to the simple questions.

We had family celebrations at the weekend. There were birthdays and anniversaries to catch up on. Not least, we celebrated Gigi’s first social outing since Christmas 2019. GG is great gran, last year she astounded us as a Covid survivor.  She’s had window visits from her great grandchildren; this weekend she was finally able to see them without a glass screen.

Four generations gathered in the garden, the weather was kind. There was cake and more to eat. Football, belated Euro 2020, for the sons in law.

It was a little chaotic as we remembered how to socialise. Granddaughter#1 took herself away with a book for a while. With hindsight I am reminded of the childhood me, escaping from noisy adult chatter with an Enid Blyton.

Yesterday, it was my turn to be alone. I dusted down my bike and cycled along the disused railway, over the Nidd gorge and into Ripley. I stopped on the viaduct and leaned against the parapet. I listened to the sound of living water flowing some hundred feet below my feet. Away from the noise of the town, just running water and birdsong. In the green spaces of the town’s edge lands that had sustained me throughout lockdown, I felt restored.

I’d read last week that, some miles upstream, the river had been polluted by silt. Thankfully, I saw no sign of it here. I stayed awhile enjoying the solitude. Alone,with memories of a happy, busy weekend; and wondering when we might all be together again.

• 

• 

Post lockdown haircut day: my hair is tidied up. Embracing its four months growth, I kept a softer look; I celebrate my grey.

The faded bench in the garden; mature silvered teak, bought at an offer price we could barely afford over 30 years ago, has also had a face lift. There was an advert in the Sunday paper, declaring it to be a bargain. I sent off the coupon, with a cheque, posted in a small brown envelope. That was how we bought things in the eighties.

It’s lasted well, done good service. But it was beginning to look in need of a little care. ‘Maybe it needs some oil’, I said, ‘to keep it moisturised’. No sooner said than done, Mr A is nothing if not thorough. He likes things kept in shape.

I came home to find him hard at work. ‘That oil looks dark’, I said. ‘I hope that it will fade.’ ‘It’s wood stain’, he replied. ‘Teak. I couldn’t find the oil.’ He stood back, agreed it didn’t look so happy with its fake tan look. He power washed it, but the stain has sunk in deep. Perhaps it will fade back over time, we agreed.

He’s repentant and forgiven. And we’re both a little sad. It’s only a bench, past its prime, but still much loved. It’s screaming at us rather loudly, rather than blending in right now.

It was Pauline’s birthday last week. Some of us from the Friday writers’ group planned to meet together, under the rule of six, to celebrate. We booked tickets to visit RHS Harlow Carr Garden. The sun shone down on us, blessing the day, lighting Pauline’s bright red hair to perfection.

This group has supported one another through the toughest of years. A year of change and isolation that none of us had anticipated. A year of plans ditched, dreams shattered, a year of bereavement.

It’s been a year of opportunity too. In the internet age we came together via Zoom and WhatsApp. Friendships deepened, new friends arrived. Some arrived in the flesh, in 3D for the first time for the birthday celebration.

We gather together, online for now, each Friday, dare to call ourselves writers, give each other the courage to do it. We have written poems, memoirs, stories, even a radio play. We laugh and cry together.

We’d gone to the gardens to read the poetry tweets scattered around like seeds. They went largely unnoticed in the chatter and celebration of being together. Until that is, Pauline announced: ‘I am 70. I am going to sit down for a while.’ She sat, just by a poem that we had previously debated over WhatsApp.

We had already agreed that this piece was not our favourite. But we also agreed that we will be adventurers in our writings.

Now that we are on summertime, the clock in my car is showing the right time again. I get used to making a mental adjustment over the winter months. Mr A gets confused by this and has, in the past, ‘put it right for me’. He was surprised by my lack of gratitude.

My own time management was bad last week. Monday, thinking that I had double booked myself, I left a zoom call early to meet a neighbour for a walk. She wasn’t ready. ‘I may be a little early’ I said.

‘Yes’, she said. ‘A week early. You said you were busy today.’ She was right. It was there, in the text I had sent.

Tuesday and Wednesday went to plan. I even managed to meet the previously 2D Liz, from the zoom writers group. We both turned up, in 3D, at the right time and place.

Thursday, I was getting ready to go out for a run when the doorbell rang. Hazel was there, looking confused. ‘Hadn’t we planned to meet for a walk today?’

Whoops, yes we had. She’s a fast walker, so it made some sense to join her in my running kit. I’ve written our next walk in the diary and on the calendar. And she will text me a reminder.

Now that we are permitted to do a little more, I need to make a summertime resolution to get myself organised again. And maybe, make more use of the calendar in my phone.

• 

• 

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 63^rd). 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.

• 

•