Roland Ladley's Blog, page 7

Get into the grove …

We’re getting into the groove, so to speak. I know … it’s taken us over four weeks, and I’m not sure what that says about us. But, having meandered north through the Costas from just north of Benidorm, and now on the one closest to France – the Costa Brava – we are back at one with motorhome living. And I love it. Let me explain why.

constantly surprised …

First, there’s the anonymity. For a man who spent all his full-time working life in an institution, with uniform, behavioural expectations, and living on the barracks or in the school, it’s so good to turn up somewhere and know that there is no way anyone is going to know who I am, what I do/did and, indeed, how I’m going to react. I find that completely liberating.

our latest spot

Second, there’s the simplicity of it all. Doris is not uncomplicated, but she is (compared to a house, our possessions, the garden, garage, attic, etc) small. Tiny, in fact. Sure she has every modern convenience, less a washing machine, but her footprint is miniscule and the life that she affords and the choices she offers are straightforward. What would you like to do today, Roland and Claire? Drive somewhere? Walk, run or cycle? Read a book? Play the guitar? Write? There are no distractions and, for me from a mindful perspective, I don’t feel the ‘not really contributing’ guilt that I often plagued with when I’m at home. And the domestic jobs that need doing are small and quicker to complete than being at home. Doris has no attic. Her garage is 1/20th the size of our garage at home. Life is straightforward. It is simple. And, and this is a big thing, mostly lived outdoors. It is, after all, a small space to cohabit. Being outside is an obvious choice.

Third, you can move on. If you don’t like your disposition then you pack up and go. We could own a holiday home in Spain, for example. But, in my mind, you’d feel inclined to go there and, what happens if you don’t get on with your neighbours? Once there, you’ve got the same draws on you that you have at home. What needs painting? Have you cleaned the pool? What is the electric bill going to be like (?) … which leads me onto costs. We are currently in a wonderful camperstop. We have a big pitch, 5 amps electric (which just boils a kettle but you’d be surprised how workable it is if you’re sensible), really decent wifi and all other facilities. Cost? 15 euros a night. That would be, if we chose to stay, around £400 a month rent. That’s less than half of a two bed flat in Bristol … which would itself attract utilities costs and council tax, wifi etc on top of that. But it’s more than that. People are naturally attracted to shops. We live a five minute walk from the largest Tesco in Christendom. Popping over and spending at least a tenner – because you can – happens. Regularly. You spend money. It’s a pastime … a thing to do. Taking a bike ride down the corniche here, like we did today with a picnic, is free. And much more fun. And good for you. And you can’t buy nick-nacks. Because there’s no room to store them. We find being in Doris is just cheaper … in almost all ways (although diesel is pricey, but if you’re long-terming you do tend to slow down and spend less on fuel).

When we started full-timing eight years ago we set ourselves a budget of £50 a day (less annual recurring costs, such as insurance). We always underspent, so much so that C was able to afford for us to fly to the US, the Bahamas, take a holiday in Turkey and then Tunisia. In short we lived on around £15-18k a year. And, wow, what a life it was. 

some vans are bigger than others

Fourth, and I find this becoming more and more important, our carbon footprint is small. We use the sun to charge our batteries. Just now we’re sucking up no more than 5 amps of power. We are v careful about water usage and waste disposal. And our LPG usage is low. Between us we shower using about 10 litres of water. OK, Doris is a big 3 litre hunk of diesel engine and she struggles to get over 26 mpg, but in the four years we lived in a van we averaged no more than 7,000 miles a year. We are, more often than not, off grid (last night was the first time we’ve plugged in in over 30 days and could carry on like that indefinitely). We are v aware of our place in this precious world. 

Finally, the element of surprise really gets me. And it’s not the ‘wow’, look at that as you turn a corner, although that in itself is a huge draw. It’s the surprise of heading somewhere seemingly bland and then finding it really is rather nice. Of pitching up in a free camping spot, out of the way somewhere, and then wandering around the village and chancing upon something you weren’t expecting. I don’t think we’ve ever had a bad stop. They’ve always been interesting in one way or another. 

our happy place

There are downsides, obviously. The initial outlay is not cheap. Even at 12 years old Doris is probably worth over £40k. New and fully rigged as she is now, we’re talking over £100k brand new. But our first liveaboard cost just over £30k and in it we managed 18 months fulltiming, eight of which were pottering around Europe. Second, and a deal breaker, you both have to enjoy the life – and I appreciate that nomadicy is not everyone’s cuppa. You really have to be able to rub along in a, at times, lavatorial environment, and that takes patience and understanding. C and I manage. Those who know us know that we can be cat and dog sometimes. Doris both amplifies but pacifies that. And we’re still all over it 8 years later. 

Finally it’s not two weeks in the Maldives. It’s not luxurious. Not really. And maybe you can do both. But pampered you are not. And I get why that may be important to many people. For us the freedom trumps everything. 

my happy place

In short, we are back in the groove. I could stay here. C, not so much. Certainly when it comes to seeing the kids/grandchild. And she likes having her things out. Doris doesn’t have a mantle shelf. And I get all of that. So, as with everything, it’s a compromise. We are catching a ferry in just under two weeks. That in no way seems long enough to me. If C said ‘let’s move back into Doris’ I’d probably jump at the chance. In the meantime I’m going to have to settle for a 40/60 split. That may well be good enough.

Stay safe everyone. 

Loving Spain

There are a lot of people out and about. More than we’ve ever seen before. Our usual, pre-covid, autumn, was six weeks on the south coast of France. I wrote and C knitted. It was the perfect tonic. There were people about. In a seafront aire of, say, 80 spaces, maybe a third were full. Sometimes a half. The vans were mostly knock abouts, but there were a few expensive ones. Yesterday we stayed in the Spanish equivalent. It had 40 spaces and every gap was full … in fact they were spilling out onto the street and other local roads. But it was all v calm, and tidy. Noise levels were excellent and, as there is so much real estate around, the locals don’t seem to care. 

It’s all v motorhome friendly

Interestingly most of the vans were upmarket. Doris, whilst originally expensive, is 12 years old. And sure there were vans that match her for age and size. But there’s a lot of new motorhomes. Some pretty pricey (closer to 200k euros than 100). And they’re everywhere. We have tried to stop in secluded spots, but have only found one right out of the way where we were on our own. It seems that the whole of Europe is affording to and doing this thing we love.

we’ve cycled

Why do I mention it? It’s not that I see it as a bad thing. We could hardly complain. It just seems that the  – so lucky – baby boomers are making the most of it, certainly post covid. And, as one of them, I am more unsure of my role on this planet today than I have been since I semi-retired. I’m not even in the throes of penning a novel at the mo, although I do have something up my sleeve. And, as you know, I cut down my leadership consultancy at the end of last year and whilst I could rekindle that (I currently have just two clients), I’m not being pulled in that direction.

Lots of us about

So what? I dunno. I really don’t. I know I announced in March that now I have turned 60 I wasn’t going to worry about this perplexing question. And part of me wants to follow that mantra. We have a house to pack up and a place to move into this winter. Then there’s skiing. And I promised to ghostwrite a book for an army pal of mine who has Parkinsons. And I will do that. Is that enough? Who knows. I’ll keep you posted. [And without getting all political, the whole climate change dialogue is currently really unnerving me. Perhaps I should be glueing myself to a 737?]

thanks S&S

We are having a ball. Post Ibiza we have pottered south down the coast. We’ve run, walked, climbed and cycled all while not travelling a great distance. Over the weekend we spent a couple of nights with my cousin, Sandra (and Steve). He’s builder, she an ex-teacher. Their villa in the hills above Calp, is a three-floored, white hillside delight with its own pool. We had a fab time, which is interesting because, as you know, you can’t choose family. Thanks Sandra and Steve.

can you get much better?

Our plan is to meander up the coast toward Barcelona and then sprint up through France to Calais for our ferry in three weeks time. The weather is keeping us here (in the context of climate change it’s about three degrees above the top line of average October temperatures … and the sea is unseasonably warm – yikes) but, to be fair, we’ve really fallen for Spain. The coast is accessible, there are plenty of places to rest Doris’s tyres, and the people are v accommodating. Loving it.

Loving Spain

Keep safe everyone. No politics from me. Sunak may be the best of a poor bunch. But he’s filled his cabinet with the same people as the previous two. What could possibly go wrong?  

Ibiza … the vibe

Ibiza. What a lovely, surprising island. Getting there was interesting. It’s almost an hour’s cycle from the fab camper stop (Nomadic Camping, a motorhome only enclosure in the north of the city which has everything you need, is beautifully kept, iswell looked after, all for a reasonable price). The port, though, is hardly Dover. There are three options to choose from: three different companies from three separate locations. We visited all of them. Thankfully we had given ourselves plenty of time to cope with the fact that Direct Ferries had changed our operator … and we had time enough spare to eat our picnic supper and swig down a beer before boarding.

we got there eventually

The ferry was standard fayre and we had opted for a couple of pullman seats which, if you’ve ever sat in one, you soon realise sleeping is not really an option – not for a tall bloke, anyway. I ended up on a bench in the empty restaurant. C managed to catch some shut-eye on her pullman, but not enough … hence we arrived in Ibiza at 5.30 in the morning looking and feeling like we’d spent the night at one of the many clubs on the island. Sat on a pier, we watched the sun rise and, having been cold on the ferry due to over zealous air conditioning, we eventually warmed up with a full English on one of the many beachfront restaurants, with Mrs Sun in attendance. 

Our apartment. The sea is over my shoulder

Rather than stay at the wedding venue, a v swanky 4-star hotel with its own short cliff to the beach, we’d picked an apartment a few blocks down. Why? Well it was quite a lot cheaper. And it meant we could escape from the hubbub of wedding prep and any after action reviews. We like our space, as you know. It was a wise choice – the apartment was huge, had a balcony with a sea view, and allowed us to keep our bikes in their luggage room. The wedding, on the Saturday, was swanky and generous; we’d been out for supper with the crew the night before to a lovely old town, rampart restaurant, so were just carrying on the motion. On the Sunday we cycled up the island to a village cove, chomped at some sandwiches C had made, and came back again. Yesterday was packing day, but we managed a cycle through the old town, with a stop for coffee overlooking the harbour, before we caught the ferry back again.

classy wedding venue

All-in-all it was a great weekend and, as is always the case, we felt v privileged to be invited to share someone’s (C’s nephew) special day. 

But what of Ibiza? Would we come again? 

The island is small, think Isle of Man-sized. It’s typically Mediterranean. White and cream rendered houses, plenty of tallish apartment blocks and hotels hogging the decent and accessible beaches, and a hilly interior which is covered in shortish, evergreen trees and shrubs. The beaches are decent, the water clean and warm, and it’s neither too busy nor empty (noting that we were at the v end of their season). Just right, then?

love it

But what of Ibiza? Well now, that’s a question. There is a vibe, for sure. There’s money. The place is up market and does not cater for the average British package tour tourist. I’ve not been to Menorca, which I understand is pretty posh, but I’d say Ibiza is in that trend … but different. There’s a vibe. The club culture, which is what it is famous for, is subtle. It’s the only music they play anywhere (we had a DJ at the wedding). But it’s not thumping; not in Ibiza town, anyway. There’s a mix of chic and hippy, but not in a messy way. And everyone is gorgeous. It’s as though before security at the airport there’s a mechanical vetting process which eliminates anyone who is going to spoil the view; they get bussed off to the Costa del Sol. And people flaunt it. There’s a lot of flesh on display … or suggested flesh. Again it’s classy like that. I loved it, as you’d imagine. 

And the old town is idyllic. There’s an elevated fortress and old streets, with narrow lanes cutting through whitewashed houses with colourful shutters and classy eateries and shops. There are huge yachts, casinos and clubs – but no jetskis or paragliding or hustlers trying to sell you fishing trips or restaurants with glossy picture menus. And there’s a gay culture which, I find, always raises the tone. It’s fab. You must go. We loved it. 

Anyhow. The return ferry was during the day. There were no seabirds and no fish chasing the ferry, which was a disappointment. We cycled back to Nomadic along the plentiful and competent cycle paths which dissect the city and surrounding countryside. We felt v safe on our bikes. And then we slept, packed up and headed south, finding a bit of beach to rest Doris’s tyres. Oh, and yes. I broke my bike. It was (typically) on the long ride on Sunday. I was just complimenting how good they are (as I do) when the saddle pole sheared and broke off completely. I reset it so it looked like I was riding a BMX, and today I bought a new one from Decathlon. Sorted.

We’re meeting up with my cousin Sandra and her husband Steve this weekend. They have a place just south of here. Till then, stay safe everyone. And be grateful for the fact that we have a functioning government in place, led by a strong and capable leader. Hurrah! 

It’s all coming back to me …

Spain … and relax. It feels as though, with every kilometre travelled, the stress and strains of our life have peeled off us like stripping an onion. The route over the Pyrenees (through the Tunnel du Somport) was easy with Doris’s 3.0 litre engine purring gently away. It was an inspired route choice. Not particularly high, but with a lovely winding road through sharp, wooded hills and pointy purple peaks, it made for fabulous driving. When we hit Spain everything changed. The damp hills turned barren and arid, the trees replaced with hard sand and tufty grass. The difference was extraordinary. 

inspire route choice

We stopped twice on the way to Valencia. First at Huesca, an unattractive, industrial town with more flats than finesse. We walked into the centre, which was old but lacking anything worth seeing, had a beer in the square and came back again. Second was at Teruel, which was much more our thing. The Spanish aire was competent but was two miles from the hilly centre. We put on our walking shoes and found a lovely hill-top old town with lots to gawp at, including a wonderful footbridge over one of the surrounding gorges. That night it rained like the end of the world, so much so our crocs washed away … or they were stolen, which was probably more likely – so much of what we’ve seen so far just looks poor. We both ran in the morning and then headed for Valencia.

we liked Teruel

It’s not an attractive route, but the motorway is free and nobody minds you pottering along at 70 kph to get the best fuel economy (currently over 26 mph and destined to rise a bit, which is pleasing). We filled our time staring blankly, but contentedly, at the unchanging sandy-moon landscape, listening to our latest Jack Reacher audiobook … which, like the previous ones we managed, is so much better than the print version. An American. Jeff Harding, narrates them all and he gets the best out of the prose, always finding humour often when there isn’t any. It certainly gets you through the hours.

intent on Jack Reacher

We made Valencia, Spain’s third largest city and biggest port in the Med, yesterday lunchtime. We set up Doris, who has reminded us why we love her so much, and then took the metro into the city. The guides don’t do the city justice. It’s full of old, middle aged and art deco mansions, flats and houses. There’s plenty to see and, what with yesterday a bank holiday, plenty of people to sit back and observe. Fabulous. And then this morning we cycled to the Med, found an attractive, purpose built resort (el Port de Sagunt) based around a twisty marina, had lunch and cycled back again. I’m penning this as C packs our stuff for the ferry to Ibiza this evening. It’s surprising how much gear you can squeeze into four saddlebags – including our wedding clothes.

 

we made it to the Med

I’ll call it a day here. Next will be post Ibiza where, hopefully, I won’t have got rip-roaringly drunk and fallen into the cake. Mind you, there is a first time for everything.

Stay safe.    

Heading south

Ahh … a ferry

We’ve made it as far as the foothills of the Pyrenees. We caught the early Friday morning ferry from Dover to Calais and have landed up at a place called Hagetmau. We can’t yet quite see the mountains, but we’re close. About 850 miles in three days, which is pushing my driving limit (although Doris continues to be a dream to drive, the big old 3.0 litre engine purring along nicely). The choice of this route has given me a chance to have a crack at the calculation on whether or not it’s cheaper to catch the UK to Bilbao/Santander ferry … or drive. 

I asked Google the question a couple of months ago about the overnight ferry and, for Doris, it’s about £1500. (That may or may not include a cabin, I can’t remember.) I’ve generously included £100 diesel in that total to get from Bristol to Portsmouth or Plymouth and back. Away from the Biscay ferry journey, driving to the Spanish border takes four days if you’re sensible. And with Doris easily pushing out 25mpg, we’re talking £400 each way, which includes the Dover to Calais ferry and the drive from Bristol to Dover. (This assumes you’ll stay in free aries as we have done.) Even if you round that up to £1000, it seems driving is considerably cheaper than taking the ferry … but you need to have the time. And there’s close to 2000 miles of wear and tear to consider. I’d welcome your thoughts.

A&A’s new van

And we have made the most of it. We had supper with our dear friends Richard and Caroline in Dover on the way (thank you), and met up with just as dear friends Alasdair and Annie at an aire somewhere west of Paris (thanks also for supper). They’ve taken the plunge and bought an A-class moho and this was their first time on the continent in it. I was, as you’d expect, all over it with advice – which was doubtless a bore for them but fun for me. When will I learn?

We have already started to decompress. The drive to meet up with A&A was a long one and having had little sleep the night before I was a party pooper. But having slept soundly that night, and after an easy drive to an aire some distance further south (I forget the details) where it seemed that it was a likely spot for men meeting other men and/or women of the night, I feel much better. C and I have run once and, having got over half way through France and technically being able to say ‘we’re in the south of France’, with the architecture changing and Mrs Sun out in force, we began to feel like we were on holiday. How I have missed being away in Doris somewhere foreign and hot. Fab-u-lous. 

Off to Spain tomorrow, over the mountains. We need to be in Valencia on Wednesday, which should be three easy days drive. And then it’s over a month of sangria and tapas. We’re going to come back the size of houses and with blotchy livers. Oh well. We both feel the need to let our hair down.

Stay safe everyone. And if any of you are struggling with household bills or have been unsettled with mortgage details, I am genuinely sorry. If we had won Euromillions I’d be offering to help. In the meantime remember who to vote for next time round … or, more accurately, who not to vote for.  

We’re back with brown knees …

A month in Riyadh. I’ll (pretty much) leave politics and religion out of this because you’ll know my views. Let’s talk as a tourist. 

some ontersting architecture

There is nothing to do. Not really. Riyadh is a series of air conditioning units placed between an American type grid road system. Think 8-lane highways, many of which have a secondary set of roads running parallel to them. Like much of the US it is not a place designed for pedestrians and everyone expects to travel from air conditioned mall to air conditioned mall in an air conditioned car, quite a few of which are large 4x4s. It’s no surprise. It is ridiculously hot. When we arrived the BBC weather app showed a constant 43/28c. By the time we left the forecast was for 38/25c. There was some wind, which was always a relief. And we did see a solitary cloud. Apparently it gets much more amenable in the winter and, to be fair, it’s a v dry heat which you do get used to … but it’s still blooming hot. (And dusty. Everything is covered in a fine sand. I’m not sure my lungs enjoyed the experience.)

It is a consumer city. I tried to imagine driving through Birmingham, a similarly sized place, to compare and contrast. Sure our climate allows parks and green verges and football fields – and trees and bushes. And, to be fair, Riyadh is trying to develop the same sort of spaces – there is an awful lot of building work going on. But you can’t get away from the fact that, unlike Birmingham, all roads are lined with shops and businesses which look like shops. And most roads have a mall on them somewhere, all of which are full of top end boutiques and eateries. The people of Riyadh seem to be ultimate consumers. 

We did try. We popped to a local souk so the girls could buy an abaya. We went to the huge (and architecturally beautiful) Kingdom Tower to walk across the skybridge. We trekked around the Diplomatic Quarter. And, leaving aside the heat, it was all pleasant enough. But, bless them, mostly everything is sand-coloured (with neon or LED facing). It is, afterall, a city in the middle of the desert. And it’s working really hard to be a pleasant place, but for that, read places to shop and eat. There is no World Heritage site to gawp at. No history of note. The ‘Edge of World’, which is a mountainous plateau about an hour into the desert, is meant to be spectacular. But you either need your own 4×4 fitted with decent GPS and a jerrycan of water, or you go on an organised trip … which is pricey. And that’s the only attraction. At the moment … 

But we had been warned. And we didn’t go to Riyadh for the sites. We went to help Bex and Steven. Their compound is lovely. It’s small village sized, and is equipped with multiple pools, a decent-sized shop and a v good and inexpensive restaurant. C and I had lunch there often. There’s a well equipped gym, tennis courts, a squash court, a kids pool, play areas, a games room and an indoor sports hall. All free. It’s easy. And the accommodation is excellent, supported by a great team of willing staff. There’s a bus everyday (sometimes twice) to take you to one of the many malls and bring you back a couple of hours later. Fabulous …

… if that’s what works for you.

We tried. We booked a return train to Dammam, Saudi Arabia’s major oil port. We travelled first class (£70 each return for a four hour journey) and it was great. There are no hills, so you don’t get sweeping vistas full of eagles and vultures. But you do get a lot of sand. And some bedouin. And camels. Dammam itself is a bit Riyadh-like, but by the sea. We didn’t have much daylight to explore (the point was the train journey), but we did get decent views of the Gulf of Arabia from our hotel. And then we came back again. It was fun. And different. A change is, as they say, as good as a rest.

the Gulf of Arabia

But there was an incident. And, in light of the protests in Iran over the death of Mahsa Amini and the wearing of a hijab (a head scarf), I think it’s worth telling. C and I walked for five miles from our hotel. We wanted to walk along one sea channel, cross over a Wirral-like peninsula, and then walk back down a second channel ending up at a restaurant. It was hot. I was in trousers and a shirt. C wore trousers, a t-shirt and covered herself in an abaya (think of a wizard’s coat). Apparently the rules have been relaxed recently with regard to what women can and can’t wear, but C had been careful to remain covered throughout our stay in Saudi. Except it was hot in Dammam, especially after a few miles. And, down some backstreets and in shadow, she took her abaya off and carried it.

A number of cars passed us and one, a minivan driven by a younger man wearing a t-shirt, shouted a C and waved a fist. A lot. Menacingly. The guy was in a t-shirt and was probably wearing jeans. He was telling her off for not wearing an abaya. And C – and it doesn’t matter what the colour of her skin is – wasn’t allowed that. According to some random local bloke. 

I know it’s a small thing but it really brought home to both of us how the women of Iran must feel. To have a conservative dress code imposed upon them by random men. It was an awful feeling.    

Anyhow, overall we had a lovely time. It was great being with Bex, Steven and Henry … and, as always, we feel v privileged to have been asked to stay for such an extended period of time. Alas, ex-pat life and, in particular, ex-pat life in Riyadh, is not for us. Not at our age and with our ambitions. But to be fair to everyone else we spoke to, they were all having a fab time. Many had been there for years. 

We made it back, hopping via Bahrain. Although late, Gulf Air were a good bet and we swept through Heathrow as though we were VIPs. We’ve just stayed with Mary for a couple of days. I popped up to see mum (which was another awful experience … ho hum) and we’re now back in Bristol prepping Doris for the great Spanish getaway. For which, hurrah!

Stay safe everyone. And we’re looking forward to letting you know how Spain goes. Can’t wait.   

Here’s a thing

I know. I said that while we were in Saudi I wouldn’t write. So I’m not. Not about where we are geographically. But where we are in ourselves. I do that. You may have noticed. I think a few of you might have been surprised that I was quite so frank about the recent period with mum. How difficult I found that and how I was prepared to write about it. And I get that. But, for me, this has always been a way to tell the story of our travels while, at the same time, documenting everything else. 

I think it’s fair to say that we’re coming out of a difficult time. Italy and covid, a family issue which is too sensitive to discuss, the kids home from Seoul and our role with looking after Henry (and them), C’s own mental health over that time, then the uproar which was mum’s illness and Bex and Steven travelling to Saudi on their own, Henry becoming frighteningly unwell just before we were due to fly to Riyadh (which in the end was just an infection that he fought without recourse to a doctor, but at the time felt much worse), then here, where C has been unwell and restrictions, which we were aware of before we came, placed upon us.

But C is feeling better. We have got a grip of Uber. We have established a routine which works for all of us. And, as of yesterday, we have a really exciting plan in place for the next six months.   

Mental health is a broad term. Some people find it uncomfortable to use, and are uncomfortable discussing it. Most recognise that people can become v unwell if the brain fails to work sensibly. Mental illness can kill you. It can make you take your own life, something which is unfathomable to most of us. It can make you do and say things you wouldn’t ordinarily want to. It can make you inert. Or it can send you into a mad frenzy. And, a point a lot of us reject, it can affect any of us. And it can come out of the blue.

I suppose the most contentious issue is the delineation between depression and sadness. Between not being able to cope and not wanting to cope. That ‘in my day’ you just got on with it. And that today there’s too much emphasis on wellbeing … too many allowances given to people who should just stiffen up, and soldier on. Doubtless there is some truth in that. That, for some who feel mentally overawed, they might benefit from a gentle shake of the shoulders. A bit of a talking to about how fortunate they are and told not to be quite so introspective. I recognise that.  

But I also know for sure that it’s not that easy … that is, it’s neither easy to know who would benefit from a pep talk, nor it is easy to know who actually has mental health issues and is in need of clinical help because they are hiding it so well. As we know, it’s not like having a broken leg where you can see the bone sticking out through the skin. So if you can’t see it, surely the answer is to offer those suffering the benefit of the doubt? If they look ragged, let’s assume that they are and self help won’t work on its own. What else is there to do?

I’m not going to expose my own family (although I am going to talk about myself) other than to say that C is a brilliant ‘get through it’ merchant. She has always suffered from anxiety and confidence issues. And she has covered those really well, recently with the help of some readily available prescription medicine. But that doesn’t stop her from feeling desperate at times. The last couple of months was one of those times. When it happens she needs space and time (which was v difficult to administer this summer) and, and I’ve never known her not do this, she clambers out of the well and gets on with life. I really admire her tenacity – as I really sense how desperate she feels when she’s unwell. 

Me, then. Looking back, I think I’ve had two episodes. First was my last year working at the school. I was a deputy head responsible for staff and the cocurricular programme. I had a 75% timetable and, over a period of time, I had taken on a number of other responsibilities which I felt needed attending to. And I loved it. Then it became clear there was a senior member of staff who needed leadership coaching. I volunteered for the guardroom and, over a period of three months, worked v closely with that person. I wouldn’t say I was doing their job, but I was involved in much of the decision making. The problem was I knew that there was only one way to move forward. And it was a seismic solution. But I couldn’t make it happen. Not in a way that wouldn’t result in lots of unwelcome fallout. 

It got to the point where, for about a week, it was too much. I didn’t want to go into work. No … I couldn’t face going into work. It was too big an issue. I couldn’t rely on the support I needed. I was twitchy. Unsure of myself. Distracted. I was close to giving up. I was close to not getting out of bed. So, one day, I dragged myself into work and wrote a long email to my boss telling her that I had failed. That I couldn’t do it anymore. That, without a change, I was in real danger of going under. The email sat on my computer, waiting to be sent. It was a Saturday morning. I remember it vividly. I twitched. And then the person I was coaching breezed into the office, stuttered and then burst into tears. They offered me the solution I was seeking. The one that was best for everyone. The one I couldn’t articulate without causing other issues. But they could. 

The email was left unsent. The solution was accepted and a weight was lifted from me. (And, I strongly believe, the person I was coaching was in a much better place.)

That happened at the end of my formal career and I wished I had experienced it earlier. I would have known what it must be like for ten of thousands of people who drag themselves into work everyday facing what they feel are insurmountable problems. And how awful that feels. And how close they are to jacking it all in … not getting out of bed. How their brain is masking the issue, but only just. They are left disconnected and jittery. 

The second time was at mum’s, recently. I don’t need to rehearse what C and I were going through because I’ve documented it here before. I felt awful. I was v distracted … and exhausted. But, particularly, I didn’t want to visit mum in the home. I hated it. I knew it would be awful. I knew there would be unkind words. And I didn’t want to be exposed to that. On top of that I couldn’t see how it was going to get better. There was a longevity to the problem which gnawed at me. Some people might have been able to ignore it. To push it to the back of their minds. But I couldn’t. You might argue it was because it was my mum, and I only have one of those. I’m not sure, though. I think it was the responsibility of having to make the right decisions for mum, none of which looked like a winner. Especially, in this case, when it was only me. I missed my brother, Kevin, more than anything then (although I sense he would have been much more hard-lined with mum, or even dismissive of her, and left me with the same responsibility). But it would have been good to have a family member to share the burden with.

And I feel it now. Here in Saudi. I cannot phone her often because it’s complicated and expensive. That’s good. Because I don’t want to. Even though, when I do, she’s as happy as Larry. The week’s stint in the home, followed by the bliss of being back in her own place with professional carers, has peaked her contentedness. That’s what she tells me. And she’s apologised. It’s the same old mum I had before the whole debacle. 

But I don’t want to talk to her. I do call her … that’s my job. But I don’t look forward to it. I worry that there’ll be another argument. That she’ll be unhappy about something and, inevitably, it will be my fault. 

Ho hum.

Anyhow … so what? Two things. First, I can confirm that mental health is a precarious thing. The brain is a significant organ and manages to process a lot of anxiety and hurt and still lets you get on with life. But for many, possibly, everyone, the line between working and not working is there, somewhere. And I know how close I have come to my mind telling me that enough is enough. Sure, the two occasions have been at times of significant stress. And maybe I’m better at managing this than some others. But I know what it feels like to get close to the edge. So I recognise that many people can cross that line. And when they do, love, kindness and time is a great healer. But so is professional help. Look out for it with your loved ones. Believe them. Help them. 

Second, C and I are now in a pretty good place. We are a week away from flying home and, between now and then, we have a number of decent things in the Saudi diary. Importantly, when we get back there is less than a week before we get on a ferry and head down to Spain for the grand Ibiza wedding. We’ve given ourselves a week to get to Valencia and have booked a ferry (two adults and two bikes) to the island – and a hotel for three nights, followed by a ferry back. After that we’ve four and a bit weeks (mostly in Spain) before we catch a ferry back … and then pack up and move out of Bradley Stoke.

Yes, we’ve done it. A really great opportunity came to us just before we flew to Riyadh. It didn’t take us long to make a decision and we should be in our new place in early January. The more we discuss it, the more excited we are about it. It’s not yet for us to release the details but we will in time. Whatever … it’s a rare opportunity that ticks as many boxes as it might. Fabulous. And, of course, we’re off skiing in late January with Bex, Steven and Henry joining us for February half term. How cool is that?

That’s that, I think. I’ll put together a summary of our Riyadh stay at the end of next week. There’s a lot of stuff there, much of which you could write yourself. Some of which will be new to you. I look forward to writing it …

Stay safe everyone.

A hiatus

Is ‘an’ or ‘a’ hiatus? Whatever. Some of you may have noticed that I’ve deleted my last post and I’m here to report that I will not be posting again until we get back to the UK, currently planned for the end of this month. Bex and I had a chat last night and we agreed that doing anything on social media is a risk here. And, whilst we are here temporarily, they are here for the long term. So an/a hiatus it is.

For the record C and I haven’t been in the best form. I’m better but she’s struck down with a chesty cold, probably caused by the dust and AC. But we’re running and ‘tripping’ to the myriad of malls. Between now and when we finish we hope to take the train to Dammam, on the Arabian Gulf and, for the long Saudi national weekend, hire a car and get out with the kids.

More to follow, later.

Please stay safe. And ‘Slava Ukraini!’.

How sad

How sad. I don’t know where you are on the republican to monarchist spectrum (and I’m somewhere in the middle), but you can’t argue with the fact that The Queen was an exemplary example of servant leadership. Anyone aspiring to positions where they have responsibility for others would do well to look to her approach. She set a standard and stuck to it.

One thankful outcome is that at least HM found the energy to see through the transition of PMs. I can’t imagine anything worse than His Borisness having anything to do with the mourning, funeral and coronation. In his short tenure he disrespected her – and all of us. The thought of him offering his opinion would turn my stomach. Horrible man. And an incredibly poor leader. Best gone … and forgotten. (and I won’t offer an opinion of Liz Truss – who was, originally, a republican, by the way. Ideologically we couldn’t be further apart, so I won’t like her policies. But she yet might make a half decent stab at the job. We’ll see.)

I love this photo of Henry seeing his dad for the first time in weeks

Anyhow. We’re here. What’s it like? Well, it’s hot. A very dry and dusty 43c during the day and mid-30s at night. It will get cooler. Riyadh is a sprawling (smallish – 7 million) city built smack in the middle of the Arabian peninsula. Travel in any direction for more than half an hour and you’re in the rocky, sandy desert. The nearest coastline is east, about five hours drive. South and you hit the war zone which is Yemen. North, just more desert until you reach Jordan. West and you’ll need to do a Moses and part the Red Sea. We are a long way from anywhere.

And, noting that I do have to be careful about what I write as I value my hands, Riyadh is a building site. It’s v American, cut deep by 6-lane highways, packed full of people getting places by car. Everything is sand-coloured and three storey, accept for a few islands of tower block new builds. We not close to a Dubai landscape, but there is plenty of new, tasteful, Islamic architecture. Clearly money is not an issue. And goodness are there shops. C and I have been using the compound bus to take us out in the mornings. Each time a different mall, all of them as big and swanky as Cribbs. And we haven’t run out of options. If you worry that as a species we’ve become consumers rather than people, Riyadh exemplifies that. If you want to shop, you have oodles of choices. Anything else? Well, it’s too early to say, but I do feel that you’d need to get away during your breaks to walk in a park or visit a museum.

However, Bex and Steven’s compound, which is about the size of a small village, has everything you need. Each small group of houses faces onto a fab pool. There’s a v adequate gym (with four treadmills), tennis courts, squash courts, play parks, a decent grocers and a fab restaurant which is both inexpensive and has a wide menu. You could, arguably, stay here, take the bus to the shops, and never worry about anything. That’s not us, though.

I know … how lucky are we?

Bex and Steven love their school, which is good. And, after a few grizzly days when Henry was getting over his cold (might well have been covid – he’s still got a hacking cough), the young lad’s in fine form. The nanny is excellent although, bless her, for the first four days he was real trouble … and couldn’t deal with her when I was in the room. Thankfully, now that he’s better and she has shown her true colours, C and I come and go without a fuss.

And us? Well, we’re sort of rebooting. We both have throat and head colds, probably due to the air conditioning and dust. But we have run every day (weekends off), swum and helped out where we can. We have some plans, but I’ll leave those for later. My mum is settled, it seems. We’ve sorted out a Tesco order for her (via the carers to me) and, although I’ve only spoken to her twice, she seems in good form – thank goodness.

H slept a lot to begin with

So. Stay safe. Hopefully you’ve all had some rain and your garden’s are picking up. I miss the green already. But it won’t be long …

I am Steve McQueen

We made it. I’m writing this on Gulf Aiir, flight something or other, currently 40,000 feet above Bonn. I’m guessing if we had window seats were be able to see a pretty empty River Rhine, with a long line of barges stuck in the mud. My conscience isn’t clear (obviously) as we’re contributing to global warming by flying to Saudi. But needs must. And this morning’s two hour trek through Terminal 4 cemented my very clear belief that C and I should only fly when absolutely necessary. Book-in was slow. Security no better. We were three hours early and we still didn’t have time for a relaxed cup of coffee. But … the three of us, plus Henry, made it.

Where’s my bike and the fence?

And it’s not been without trauma which, when you add to the previous x weeks of tragedy, has left us a little bit traumatized and in need of a break.

Mum has settled back in her own home. And yes, it’s the right decision. The carers have, so far, failed to put a foot wrong (I had an email from them this morning – a Saturday). And she seems to like them. But every phone call I have has been laced with a little bit of upset. Most concerning for me was that she has tried to get in touch with her previous carers to do her shopping, something I’m not keen on. I think it’s a control thing. Whatever it is, it’s frustrating when we have a plan in place and the previous crew have been poor and expensive (and contractless – it was all cash in hand), a concern when mum is so vulnerable. I get that she misses her routine. But I’m confident the new regime is so much safer. Anyhow, we seen to have made it to somewhere which, at the moment, works for all of us – just in time for C and I to get on the plane …

this was the only time he was happy during the whole process

… which wasn’t a certainty for other reasons. Bex got her visa sorted and flew back yesterday (we couldn’t sort it so we could fly out with Henry; the via situation in Saudi is v complex). But, alas, he fell ill on Tuesday. He had a continuous high temperature, kept down with Calpol, was moany and off his food (which was v unlike him). On Thursday night C and I were discussing whether he should fly or not. And whether Bex should turn around and give us a week to get him better, knowing we had British healthcare on hand. At one point I was close to taking him into A&E. 

Covid was a possibility. (We’ve been vaxxed, had it in June, and Henry has had it at least once.) I took a test, (if he had it, so did I) which was negative, so we assumed it was just a heavy cold. Thankfully on Friday morning when Bex turned up his temperature had broken and, whilst he still not right, the worst seems to be over. Phew.

So we struggled with a sick child to Mary’s where a bigger house was welcome relief. But it wasn’t until yesterday morning that we began to think that Henry might be safe to travel. And here we are …

Not so happy to see mum initially

… with the additional good news that Henry’s nanny in Riyadh starts tomorrow! I have no idea what that will look like. But it does seem possible that once she’s in her stride, C and I might have a slab of time without responsibilities. Now wouldn’t that be great?

Stay safe everyone. My next post will likely be focused on the dry heat of Arabian desert. But if that’s all I’ve got to moan about …