Patient readers, how have you all been? I know, I know, it's been an age since I last posted. It's not that I don't want to ... it's just that I'm lazy, let's be honest. What I might try is reducing the number of photos I show you, as that can get out of hand sometimes! But to say sorry for my terrible apathetic attitude to my poor blog, here is a little view of one corner of Heysham Barrows, where Freya and I spent some time today.
It wasn't a long walk, but we stayed a long while because it was such a pretty evening. I was going to repeat the line I've been hearing on the radio lately about it being the last few days of summer so we should make the most of it. But really, that's silly, don't you think? I don't know about you lot, but I've no intention of suddenly staying in just because it's going to be a bit colder and darker. Anyway, Matthew says he prefers walking in the winter, so there's that – you'll get to hear about my lad again, and I know he's been missed. I've not missed him because I still see him every day, being his mother and landlady. But he says it's not cold enough for him to walk again yet.
Here below is the Lake District – honest it is. It was hazy over there today even though it was quite clear on this side of the bay. I have a new friend who lives over in Barrow and he said that it was probably a haze of despair and anguish. I couldn't possibly comment on that – I'm sure Barrow is absolutely lovely and everyone who lives there is blissfully happy.
Look at the clouds, trying to do a little bit of mackerelling. Apologies if you hate the verbing of nouns (see what I did there?).
'Church or barrows, Freya,' says I to my bonkers lass. She chose the church, and I'm glad she did because there's no better spot in the bay for gazing wistfully out to sea. You know how I like to gaze wistfully out to sea, like I'm some red-haired Cornish maiden (who might be called Demelza) and my man (who might be called Ross Poldark) has sailed off to France to rescue an old friend and I know his journey will be fraught with peril. Oh Ross, why must you always play the hero? *sigh*
'Look, Mum,' says my girl, 'that looks like a likely wall against which to lean and gaze wistfully out to sea!' 'You're right, Freya,' says I. So we made our way down to the wall, but slowly, respectfully, as one must when one is ambling through a graveyard, especially in the pre-dusk. The character I was in my head started to get a little scrambled at this point because I always associate old graveyards with Anne Shirley and Avonlea. But that's alright – I'm lots of characters.
At the wall, as I was gazing wistfully, there was a terrifying moment when Freya thought she'd leap onto a conveniently placed stone that was probably once a monument of some kind and see what was over the wall. What is actually over the wall is a good twenty-foot drop and likely a broken neck for a dog wearing a head lead! Fortunately, being a German shepherd, Freya's not stupid and did not pitch head first into the void. She was content also to gaze, perhaps not wistfully, but at least calmly. (You'll notice she's not looking her best at the moment because she's shedding – boy, is she shedding! All over the house.)
We stood there for ages, gazing. Well, no, I stood there, and Freya ran around and rolled in the grass behind me and tangled my legs in the long lead a few times and jumped up at the wall to see if she could figure out what the hell I was looking at and sniffed in corners and generally, quite frankly, spoiled the whole effect of the wistful gazing. But that's why I love her so much, because she's mental and very funny.
See? 'Mum, look at me, I'm rolling!'
A couple of yappy chihuahuas came along then, so we decided it was time to relocate to the barrows. I love that you have to go through the tiny ruins to get to the barrows. Who doesn't love visiting ruins? Okay, lots of people. But I read a lot of history, and ruins, for me, are full of stories and ghosts – not in a 'I see dead people' way, just that I imagine the people who might have built the walls, and those who might have lived and worked within them. Ruins are never just stones, to me.
This is all part of St Patrick's chapel, which you can read a teeny bit about if you want to. Without having looked at any of the evidence, I'm going with the 445AD date for the chapel because that's a time I know pretty much nothing about but like the sound of simply because it was one and a half thousand years ago. Blows my mind, that, if I think about it for too long.
Ahhhh, breathe. This is the place. There's a criss-crossing pattern of well-worn paths all over the barrows, and the place I like to sit is easily missed if you're not looking for it. The little cliff that I sit atop and dangle my legs off is pretty perfect (you can't see the power station, so, apart from the low hum, it's quite easy to imagine it's not there at all). Maximum wistful gazing can be done here. By this point as well, Freya tends to be zonked, so she sits or lies and waits for me to get my thinking done. I had a lot of thinking to do today. Glad it wasn't raining; although, I think I would still have sat here and thought in a downpour.
If I could find a house that I could afford in Heysham village that could fit all my books in it, I'd quite happily live here. Three miles is just too far from the sea for my liking. I want to end my days on a beach, wrapped in a blanket, gazing out to sea and remembering all the places I've been.
Gods, that's a depressing note to end on – so sorry. Erm, quick, think of something nice. Oh, yeah, I can wholeheartedly recommend the film Everybody's Talking About Jamie, on Netflix right now. Give it a watch.
Big love, until next time I can get up the energy to tell you where we've been on our adventures!
Linda + Freya
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