Feeling the Fear - Wookey Hole

People often tell me that I am 'so brave', 'inspiring', such a 'strong woman' and yet that's not me at all.
Truth to tell, I have spent most of my life feeling the fear and for the last eight years I've been engaged in a cycle of almost-paralysing anxiety.

But there comes a time when a person is done with fear and with running and decides, instead, to turn round and face their demons.

Small steps...
Checking the bank account towards the end of the month
Making an appointment for another health check
Saying 'No, I do not accept that' to someone in authority
Asking Those Questions of the oncologist
Petit à petit ...

We all have our demons and sometimes, in our imaginations, they become monstrous.
Unless we turn and face them and shout them down to a more manageable size
And then we often find they're not so bad after all.
N'est-ce pas?

Anyway, I have always suffered from claustrophobia, not just a fear of enclosed spaces and caves and the like, mine was so extreme that I was unable to have someone cover my head for more than a few seconds without panicking. Imagine the fun I've had with the MRI scans recently.

The year following my diagnosis, and nearing the end of treatment, it was time to tackle a few demons and this seemed like a good one.
Led by a guide and in the company of a dozen or so strangers, I went into Wookey Hole in Somerset.
I went underground.

You know what?
After an initial, "Oh my goodness, what was I thinking? I cannot do this! Let me out!"
And a few scared glances backwards towards the entrance
And a little deep breathing and heart-racing and clammy hands
It occurred to me that the voice screaming, "It's going to cave-in and you are going TO DIE!" was coming from inside of me and that I could say to that voice, "Oh shut up! I am going to die one day anyway, what the heck!"
For a few minutes I walked slowly behind the group muttering "Shut up" under my breath and then the screaming quietened to a whisper and though it never went away it didn't stop me.  

And then I started to enjoy myself.
And to revel in the adventure, me, scaredy-pants me, in a cave, underground

And then I got to imagining exploring and discovering cave paintings and I thought how wonderful the world below our feet really is ...

And how I'd spent almost sixty years being too scared to venture down there to see it

And that could have been sad, except that it made going underground on that day all the more special because I had faced the fear and conquered it. And learned a hugely important lesson.

We're born, we live, we die.
It's not the length of the life that matters, it's the depth.
And the demons , they're just there to give us something to overcome so that we can really feel alive!

La Vallée des Saints

There is a hill not far from my local town in Brittany that is somewhat special.

It has been almost ten years since I bought my house and yet I was unaware of this place until a couple of friends took me there on our way back from a ladies lunch in Huelgoat.

As an after-thought.
As a 'let's pop to ...' on our way back.
As a 'Have you never been? How have you never been?'

And so we went. A brief visit because it had been a long day and we were all tired.
And the next day I went back alone to explore a little more.

La Vallée des Saints.

There are, I am reliably informed, around 64 saints currently in position on a hilltop near the village of Carnoêt. I would be more precise, but the guide book states that there were 64 in May and I am pretty sure that another one or two may have joined them in recent months, so 'around 64 will have to do'.

It is a work in progress, this peopling of the hillside with fifteen foot high granite statues. Every year sculptors arrive to work on new saints, the plan being to have 100 by 2018, all paid for by voluntary donations.

Visitors to the valley can see the sculptors at work, from a distance. They wear masks to avoid inhaling the granite dust and ear protectors because it's a noisy business, this cutting into rocks with electric saws and drills and whatever else they use, so sensible precautions and it's wise not to permit the public to wander too close.

At the top of the hill is a barrow. I am rather fond of barrows but on this occasion I didn't explore it. The weather was typically Breton, bright blue skies one minute, heavy storm clouds the next, and I wanted to see as many of the saints as I could before the heavens opened and washed me down into the valley.

So, without further ado, here are a few of the saints that I met on that day. Chosen for no particular reason other than that they 'spoke to me' and so this is a purely personal selection.

Saint Méen: Born in the 7th century to a wealthy family, raised in Wales, as were so many Breton saints, he travelled to Brittany and was so impressive a preacher that he was showered with money which he used to found monasteries, one near Rennes, another near Angers.  Méen and Samson (below) may have been related, many of the saints were, or else they knew each other and travelled together. Hardly surprising, there has always been safety in numbers and setting out to cross stormy seas with the intention of converting pagans is a risky enterprise.

Saint Paul (Pol) Aurélien: one of the seven 'founder saints of Brittany'. Another Welshman who apparently died in 575 at the age of 140, which leads one to suspect that folk confused several people with this chap. Some folk say he was a vegetarian, though I'm not sure why that matters. He was consecrated bishop by the authority of Childebert, King of the Franks. The sculptor has depicted him with a dragon at his feet since he was asked to rid the Isle de Batz of its nuisance dragon, for which service he was given land on the island upon which he founded a monastery. He died there on March 12th, 594. When the Norsemen invaded in the 10th century his relics were transferred to Fleury-sur-Loire for safe-keeping only to be destroyed by the Huguenots six hundred years later, Except, that is, for his arm bones, apparently.  

Quite a cute little guy. Symbolic, I daresay the original monster was somewhat larger.

Saint Malo; patron saint of Brittany Ferries, portrayed here carrying Le Bretagne that sails between Portsmouth and the city of St Malo. Seriously, no, the Welsh Saint Malo was another of the founding saints, and the first bishop of Aleth which became St Servan and then St Malo. He is said to have sailed the seas with Saint Brendan This guy is the patron saint of pig keepers and of lost items. There are legends around a lost island that sank into the sea, and talk of the Arabian Nights and Jonah.

Saint Samson: he arrived from Wales in the 6th century looking for peace and quiet near Dol de Bretagne. Saint Samson was a good politician who persauded Juval, son of a local tyrant, to overthrow his father and Samson duly became the bishop of Dol. Legend says that Samson's mother saved the life of a mermaid who had been captured on the seashore by a group of jealous women, mermaids being famous for luring men to their watery graves, and as a reward Samson's mum, who was past child-bearing age, fell pregnant. Which was a Good Thing for her.  Alas, the child was sickly so the mermaid returned and chucked him in the sea whereupon he emerged strong and healthy.  Et voilà, Saint Samson and the mermaid.

Saint Padern: A local lad who went to Ireland to train in the church before returning to be ordained as a bishop in Vannes. At the time, around 465, the new-fangled religion was not popular because it reminded the locals of the Roman invasion a few hundred years before and Saint Padern, who really only wanted a quiet life, left them pretty much alone. The serpent twisting round his cross represents the Christian symbol for evil and was used to remind people that sin is sweet and easily succumbed-to, as Adam and Eve discovered.

Saint Jaoua: Remember Pol Aurélien? This is his nephew. He was a monk, then a priest and then he was told to go and convert the pagans who were, as we know, not keen to be converted and who put up quite a fight. Jaoua persisted, sometimes by gentle means, sometimes using force, a pagan warlord and a dragon were involved, there was much mayhem, crops were destroyed, people were killed, before Uncle Pol patted the dragon on the head and told it to behave, whereupon the locals decided to become Christians after all.

His statue depicts another legend associated with Jaoua, namely that upon his death in 554 his body was placed on a cart harnessed to two bullocks who were let loose so that wherever they carried him he would be buried.
 

Saint Melar (Melor): The history of this saint is a little confusing, he seems to have been mixed-up with several others so we'll go with the Breton angle. It seems that Melor was a prince whose evil uncle, Riwal, having done-away with his father, then turned his attention to the child but was persuaded to leave him alone by the bishops. Not wishing to let him off Scot-free, Riwal cut off  the boy's right hand and left foot. The missing parts were replaced with a silver and a bronze prosthesis respectively which, while Melor was later off studying at Quimper Abbey, began to function as if they were flesh and bone, and to grow as the boy grew. If you look closely at the statue you can see the prostheses. Alas, when Melor was fourteen Riwal had him decapitated and that was that. \Rest assured, Riwal didn't get away with the murder, he touched Melor's severed head, presumably to assure himself that this time the boy wouldn't miraculously grow a new one, and as a result he died shortly afterwards.

Saint Tudi: We don't know much about Tudi, except that he was a disciple of Maudez and that he founded a hermitage on the island of Tudy which later transferred to Loctudy where it became a monastery. Some learned folk say that Tudi may be one of the founding saints under the guise of Pabu. I include Tudi because he can be invoked to cure rheumatism and in that I have a personal interest. And he looks like he's been half-buried in the grass.

Saint Konogan: Originating in Ireland, or Wales, or perhaps he was a local, his history is hazy, he's associated with the stone ship (Konogan's boat) in which he is said to have sailed to Brittany and which can still be seen at Beuzec-Cap-Sizun although it is, in reality, a fallen menhir. He established a monastery and lived as a hermit on the banks of a river, and was reputed to be a healer, especially of fevers. His sculpture depicts him standing in his boat, holding a cup of holy water to heal the sick who are shown on the side of the boat surrounded by protective symbols. Saint Konogan, like many other Breton saints, has not been recognised by the Catholic church.

Saint Goustan: This chap, another from Cornwall, was captured by pirates who mutilated his feet and abandoned him on the island of Hoëdic. Happily for him he had a fish from which he cut a slice every morning and which then reappeared whole the next day, so he's shown here with his fish. This theme of miracle fish is quite common in Christianity (think of the parable of the loaves and fishes).

Saint Tudwal: another of the founder saints whose name in Breton means person of valour or all-round good chap. He was another Welshman who learned the scriptures in Ireland before becoming a monk and somewhat of a hermit. Together with over seventy followers he moved to Brittany, established a monastery, of course and became the bishop of Tréguier. He's depicted with a dove because he was allegedly in Rome at the time of the death of the then-current Pope and the said-bird landed on his head which was a sure sign to all present that he had been chosen to be the next Pontiff. The story fails to explain why he didn't take up the appointment. Perhaps someone else also got the bird on that day.

So, those are a few of the saints. You'll have noticed a few themes - fish, dragons, Wales, monasteries and reluctant pagans. There's a whole lot more information about Breton saints which I am reading and researching and I'm hoping to return to the 'valley' (which is really on a hill) often, because it's an amazing place and it feels quite good for the spirit.


Here's the touristy info stuff:

La Vallée des Saints

Near Callac, Côte d'Armor

Entrance is free

There is a shop on site which sells excellent guide books, as well as other books about legends and myths and saints etc in Brittany. It also sells gifts for you to give to your loved-ones back home.

There are also toilets but no café/restaurant so take a baguette, cheese and a bottle of wine and have a picnic between the rain showers

Back to Brittany Ferries- Commodore Cabin-style

It's a funny, in an ironical way, that having been diagnosed with a 'life-threatening illness' has liberated me to enjoy life.

I'm not unique, many others in a similar situation will say the same thing. It's sad that it takes a cancer diagnosis to do this but in some weird way I do appreciate that for the way it's made me totally change my way of thinking. And of being.

One manifestation of which is to permit myself small treats. Not that I am a skinflint, far from it, money and I are not comfortable house-mates, cash should be used for good purposes rather than hoarded in the bank, but my latest career has not been well-rewarded and I have become accustomed constantly to counting the pennies .

And so occasionally I treat myself.

Not to a world cruise, or a meal in an expensive restaurant. And not to finery and frippery.
But once in a while I do have a treat and on my last return from my home in France that took the form of a Commodore Cabin.

Here it is. My little bit of luxury.

And so on the crossing from St Malo to Portsmouth:
I was able to practice my T'ai Chi using the DVD player and TV.
I was able to write my novel sitting in comfort on the sofa.
I was able to raid the soft drinks in the mini-bar and enjoy the fruit basket.
And I was able to shower with the nice complementary toiletries.

Old habits die hard.
I took the macarons back for The Ragazza and she loved them.

I do have a complaint. Just one.
This was my second Commodore Cabin and I still have yet to receive the complimentary afternoon tea, I don't know why.  I was in my cabin all afternoon. No-one knocked to offer me tea. That made me sad. But in the grand scheme of things, ce n'était pas le fin du monde ...

Back to Brittany

For a week with my Tribe

Hope to return with travel tales to tell!

Feathered hygge - birds of prey in Oxfordshire

April already!
It's been an unusual winter, mild and dry and, alas, the only snow that fell did so early in the morning and had melted before I was up and out of bed. Which lesson I did not fail to take on board even as I also try to relax, rest and let the world slowly spin without my stressing over things.

Because that's the rub.
The stress.
I've been under too much stress for too long and, as my health-care practitioners persist in telling me, stress impacts upon the immune system and a compromised immune system cannot be expected to protect a body against cancer.

It's a tough one. Especially for one who cares deeply, is loyal and dedicated and who works harder than really is good for her.

But this one is learning the lesson and letting go of the stress and a feeling of responsibility for everything that is wrong today. I cannot protect the planet, I cannot save every one of the starving, I cannot heal, mend, comfort all who are suffering. And so I do that which I can in my own little world and I try not to let the rest destroy my spirit.

Meanwhile, I enjoy small moments, quiet times and the occasional adventure.
Because, as this blog is all about, life is an adventure.  
N'est-ce pas?

Which brings me to the feathered friends that The Ragazza and I met one day last week.

Meet Leo, the little owl.

He was my favourite, I decided, as he stood on my gloved arm and totally ignored me.
Because that's what they do, birds of prey, raptors, owls et al. They focus on danger, on sex and on food, and if you represent neither of those three things then you are simply, a perch..

A pretty perch, granted. but still just a perch.

And sometimes your owl will be distracted and decide to take off and when that happens you must not join him in the flapping. You must be calm and firm and keep your head, lest you be towed away by your owl. Which is another lesson worth learning - that there are times in your life when you have to stand your ground.

It's daunting at first.
Having a killing machine on your arm. Even though the glove is thick and the falconer is nearby, especially when the falconer is nearby and recounting tales of the time when he was out hunting with a large bird of prey, felt a pain and glanced down to see its talons piercing his hand, right through, skewering him. The only action one can take is to stand still and to wait until the hunter releases his grip and withdraws his talons.

Respect the wild ones.
And, adorable as you may find them and much as you may wish to stroke their beautiful feathers and to bury your face in their downy chests, you really have to refrain from touching them because you damage their natural oils and preened plumage and, besides, much as you may find them adorable they care not a jot for you. You are just the perch.

Still, it's lovely to be able to stand and perform the perch-function while someone with a wealth of experience and passion for the birds teaches you about them.
And explains that sometimes appearances can be deceptive and that owls do not have ears.

And a buzzard on the hand is actually more amazing than a whole sky full of red kites.

And the raven is quite intimidating. Perhaps because of its darkness, its black wings and beak and feet and eyes and even its tongue. But probably because the falconer warned you before he emerged from its aviary with it sitting on his arm, that you should hold your hand as far from your face as possible and not tempt it with your pretty little nose.

But when it flaps its wings it really is hard to remain still.
Best to close your eyes, just in case.
Edgar Allan Poe has a lot to answer for!

 

 

Patience rewarded.
In truth the raven was more interested in its leg-wear than in the tasty flesh at the end of the perch.

And then to fly some birds.
And then you really are just a perch, one on each side of the arena, facing front, arm held out high so that your bird will elect to land on your arm rather than your head. You hope.

And a piece of chick on your glove that the owl knows is there

And flies to fetch.
Low, along the ground, conserving energy...
Before swooping up and onto the food.

The wingspan of this owl is almost five feet. Which means that if he and I both stretch out our limbs we will both be pretty much the same width,

It's difficult to stand still, to keep your left arm extended, high and still, and at the same time to take a photograph of an approaching owl with your mother's old camera. But The Ragazza did it.

And we proved that an owl in flight is silent.
We closed our eyes and waited while Ginger the barn owl flew to us and no, we could not hear her coming.  And that was an amazing conclusion to our morning with the birds of prey.

(Picture plucked from wikipedia)


The Ragazza and I spent the morning with Hawkwalk in Oxfordshire.
Conveniently close to Drayton, should we decide to return.
Which we definitely will.

As their website promises:
Hawkwalk  – Falconry Oxfordshire – British birds of prey up close and personal

Hygge - with a lavender twist

Last year, during chemotherapy, I lost of the habit of baking, which was a shame and a source of sadness. But when anything baked has the consistency of a mouthful of sawdust and a lack of saliva makes one struggle to chew it, then the pleasure simply is not there, is it?

No excuses now, spring has arrived, the pond on the green is filled with frantically fornicating frogs, rooks fly overhead with beaks crammed with twigs and pieces of straw, buds are bursting and my daily walks are punctuated by frequent pauses as I admire the carpet of cowslips and bluebell...

Back to baking, I decided.  

Lavender shortbread is ridiculously easy to make, especially using the recipe from a cookbook that I received when I purchased my first new-fangled, shiny-as-silver, fan oven some, goodness, twenty-five years ago. It's the one cookbook amongst dozens, probably over a hundred, that I possess to which I return when I wish to be reminded how to cook simple basics like rice pudding and pancakes and shortbread.

And it's nice to have a recipe that involves a rolling pin and a papered chopping board because I'm always reminded of my mother's Sunday baking sessions when she would fill tins with a fruit cake for my father, a Victoria sponge, jam-filled and coated with icing sugar for her and jam tarts, fairy cakes and something that never was named and whose flavour varied but that was always delicious. Sometimes she would experiment with her version of fancy French milles feuilles and flapjacks, but mostly she made the regulars and always with the warning, "When they're gone, they're gone" which philosophy was never lost on me.  
       

And the cutting out. Sometimes too thin so that the resulting shortbread is too crispy.
Sometimes too fat so that the baking biscuits spread alarmingly in the oven and merge to form a large mass that is still delicious but not what was planned, which may be how baking should be, unexpected, unusual, at the mercy of unseen forces, to remind us that we are not always in control and that things do not always go according to plan...

But that most often they do...

The result ...

A cup of herbal tea in a bone china mug that really should be a cup and saucer decorated with lavender flowers....

And lavender shortbread biscuits

Hygge for a sunny spring afternoon when the baker is dreaming of the lavender fields of France.

Hygge - with a pink twist

Modern medicine saves lives, there can be no argument about that. I am acutely aware that it is the research of the last decade that is prolonging mine at this time, and I am constantly appreciative of the work of Cancer Research UK.

But when we have submitted to the surgery, survived the chemotherapy and radiotherapy and are coping with the side-effects of the latest medical treatments, well, then it is up to us to find the inner reserves, and the will, to continue the fight, n'est-ce pas?

Recently I've become interested in the Danish concept of hygge.
The Danes are, it is said, the happiest nation on the planet and this happiness is attributed, allegedly, to hygge which can be translated/described as creating a warm, cosy world in which to exist and enjoying the simple pleasures of life in the company of good friends.

I've been doing that a great deal during the last year although I am aware that I've probably been living that way for much of my life, sometimes successfully, when I remember to focus on the small things and let go of the irritants, often not when I succumb to stress.

On Good Friday I was in Brittany.
I'd gone for a friend's 70th birthday party and because I'd volunteered to take her sister with me and to accommodate her friend from Cornwall and, well, because I felt in need of my French Tribe and their loving care.

And while there a couple of friends made a date with me, "Friday, Pink Granite, lunch?"
Who could decline such a suggestion?
Pas moi!

Trégastal.
I think I've taken you there before, several times.
It is one of my favourite places to spend a sunny day.

The aquarium was closed until the afternoon, which was fine with us because, lunch, sitting outside, at a table overlooking the beach, and with an interesting party of French school children to watch and wave to ...

An aperitif of Kir and a starter of fish soup that was so delicious I almost purred...  

With this view ...

and then back to this place ...

and these guys and their friends...

and then a walk on the beach to collect a small handful of fine pink granite gravel, some shells and a tiny pink granite rock so that I could make my own beach in a bottle

and then home again.

Via Lannion which brought back so many memories of the two years that I spent in France and made me so nostalgic and so homesick that now I am planning...

But that's for another story.

Excellent medicine, a day at Trégastal.
N'est-ce pas?

Julia xxx