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My passion for horses has been life long. My daughter is wonderful my only disappointment is that she didn’t inherit the trait, I’m rather hoping it may have skipped a generation though, my granddaughter has just started riding lessons.

Leading her around the ménage I’m transported back in time. It’s that unmistakable smell of pony and leather that was such a huge part of my childhood.

Watching my granddaughter’s face it’s clear that she is hooked already, she has a natural balance and is concentrating hard to position herself properly as the friendly but firm instructor has told her to do.

There’s a lot to remember, trying to maintain a straight vertical line through your ear, shoulder, hip, and heel. The constant smile however smile takes no effort and she looks quite at home.

I watch her after the lesson in the yard, she is keen and confident, and has a gift in her manner around the stables. It’s almost as if she has done it before.

I’ve planned for her to be a part of the ‘mini camp’ over the next couple of days, she’ll be on her own making new friends and learning new skills, the lesson today an introduction to this new world.

Think I’ll be booking myself a few sessions in future too, today has ignited something inside me I’d forgotten, maybe it’s not too late ‘to get back in the saddle’.

The heat wave of ‘78, I remember it well. Revising in the garden for my ‘O’ levels, burning my legs, (no factor 50 back then).

It’s probably been the most prolonged period of drought since; a minor shower overnight but another heatwave is due mid week.

Lawns everywhere are scorched, my newly planted garden is only just surviving, certainly not thriving despite my choice of shade and drought tolerant plants.

Yet one thing does seem to have enjoyed the conditions.

My plum tree.

It has been ladened with fruit, so heavy that the branches have bent with the extra weight. I roped in James to help me harvest the top branches, being tall is a definite advantage in these situations. He too could not believe the yield, it was more of a job than he’d anticipated.

My granddaughter helped pick the lower branches, there is something very special and bonding about harvesting your own.

I’ve had eight or nine carrier bags full of plums, managing to pick most of them before they fell, Hettie has been on the lookout for any I drop, she’s an expert at spitting out the stones, and doesn’t seem to have any major consequences with her new diet.

Of course such a glut is unmanageable for one woman on her own, I’ve only so much freezer space, so rather than waste I decided to share my bumper crop with the village.

I spent the other day knocking on doors offering my wares, everyone gratefully agreeing that they are particularly delicious.

What I didn’t expect was the lovely conversations, free plums are a good way and an excuse to visit people and catch up, and I felt good being able to share.

I’ve had offers of lettuce, nice messages of thanks (one neighbour told me her kids ate six plums each I. One go ! ) And in return I’ve had a jar of ‘Linda’s’ plum and apricot chutney which is delicious made by a next door.

I’ve shared plum recipes, reminisced childhood memories before finally giving my last bags away today.

My tree only had about three plums in total last year, and the wasps got them before I did. I’m told plum trees fruit every two years which kind of makes it a bit more special when they do.

But this blog isn’t really about plums, it’s about connections and community, I’m very lucky to be rooted here.

My daughter said something interesting to me this morning while we were sitting in a local cafe. I’d remarked how I really liked the olive green colour of the walls. Maybe I should paint my kitchen the same…….

‘Mum you always want to change things’.

She’s right of course, and since Ken died I’ve really worked hard in the garden and court yard, but I’m never completely satisfied with what I do and am always looking for the next project.

So what is it that drives this compulsion? I know I’m not alone in the family, my Mum was the same and now my Granddaughter too is constantly is rearranging her bedroom future.

I researched why we do this and the response was interesting .

Consistent random changes—they all have a common thread.

There are a few reasons why people feel this urge:

• Creative people often don’t see a room as “finished”; they see possibilities. They enjoy the process of refining.
• After major life changes, especially bereavement or retirement, improving your surroundings can give purpose, enjoyment and a sense of control.
• An eye for detail. Once one area looks good, your eye naturally spots the next thing that could be even better.
• The process is rewarding. Sometimes the anticipation of a change is almost as enjoyable as the finished result.

All that seems to make sense,

People like me get a sense of enjoyment from creating rather than simply having. Once a project is finished, my mind naturally starts asking, “What could I improve next?” Apparently it is very common among gardeners, artists, cooks, and people who love interiors.

My home has become something of a sanctuary. After caring for your Ken for so long, then losing him, creating beautiful, calming spaces might be part of how I’m healing. It doesn’t mean I’m trying to “fill a void”—it’s simply one way I can express care for myself and the family.

Would painting the kitchen green enrich my life at the moment? Probably not, but it maybe a project for another day.

I had my pre counselling assessment this afternoon. The lady rang me to say she was running late at our appointed time and would be five to ten minutes after schedule – she’d ring again, (that turned into forty minutes), I didn’t think I’d be so anxious waiting.

I’m not sure what I expected, I’ve never asked for bereavement counselling before, this felt like a fact finding mission; there were obviously certain boxes to tick.

The intention today was ‘to find me a match’. There are differing levels of experience at their end, obviously some cases are more complicated than others.

It felt a bit intrusive and I could feel myself getting defensive which isn’t really like me. I had to keep repeating things in another way so my answers fitted the criteria. Questions about all the deaths over the last few years, Dad, Mum, Ken’s Mum and Dad, friends and those from the dementia family. I’ve been to so many funerals of late it has almost become a hobby.

I realised pretty quickly that this counselling lark was going to open a Pandora’s box that I’ve kept the lid on for years

I’ve no idea how the assessment went, but it was fairly evident that whoever takes me on is going to have a challenge. I’ve not got a date to start ‘properly’ as yet, seems like you have to wait for a slot to be available, I’ve requested to be seen face to face and in the evenings.

All said, it’s step in the right direction, I’m doing my best to look after my mental and physical health and am prepared to do what it takes.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

My family are my foundation,

Without them

This wall of strength others perceive

Would fall,

Leaving nothing but

Stones of crumbling grief

Scattered between weeds of desperation.

I stay strong,

Though winds may try to rock me,

Beating sun,

Driving rain,

Can’t penetrate this mortar of love,

A mix of consideration, kindness and compassion

Holds my wall together.

Today I appreciate my family more than ever,

Because I know others

Are less supported.

First of fourty nine days, I’m in charge for fifteen of them, the school holidays have just begun.

Today I’m grateful for my connections with Youth club, they are offering a number of sessions each week. Today I am half volunteer and half Grandma.

There’s lots on offer, football, rounders, table tennis badminton, catch, axe throwing to name a few, and for the less sporty VR, beading , painting and collage, Lego, Giant Tetris and lots of board and card games.

It’s full on activity, phones are forgotten, new friendships are forged, everyone even makes their own sandwich for lunch and I can tell you there are some odd combinations, crisp and mayonnaise proves popular despite the far more healthy options.

I think the day is a resounding success, kids being kids. Cultural barriers are broken down, second languages are spoken, there’s a lot of laughter and competition but it’s all good natured.

I asked my Grandaughter

‘What was the best bit?’

‘All of it’ is the reply.

We have set the bar high!

I got an unexpected phone call yesterday.

I recognised the number straight away, one digit different from my own landline.

An invitation for pizza, I’m told my ex next door neighbours will be there; I’ve been trying to work it out, must be eighteen years since we moved.

The number used to be for Ken’s old office.

We sold our family home to a lovely family who have enjoyed it ever since. I mentioned this special house in my eulogy at Ken’s funeral, building and designing it was one of our greatest achievements. The present owners attended and were deeply touched. Hence the invite.

When our kids grew up we needed a new challenge, (my present house, then we also built the house next door).

As a family how ever, we all left a bit of our hearts at this former address.

Sitting in the garden felt so strange, different but essentially the same. The hardscaping, decking, stone sets and hedges just as before. A bit more wild with environmental credentials; and of course all the shrubs and plants that I planted are now fully mature.

The house itself was built to last and looked exactly as we left it. A few additions which James designed and Ken actually built for the new owners, but again it was fundamentally no different.

It felt like stepping back in time.

I reminisced with my former neighbours and we told stories of our time together. The millennium dome Ken made in the garden for the biggest street party ever.

Our family dog Harvey and his brother Barney both from the same litter. They grew up next door to each other and remained faithful friends even after we moved.

The present owners and their other guests listened with great interest sharing the history of their home. I pretended to be fine about it all, but deep down ached for the happiness we once shared in this place and if I’m honest felt the pain of the more difficult times again.

Returning to the family house we built together meant every corner held shared dreams, hard work, and history, making it feel far more than just a physical building.

I felt the ghost of design, my choices of thirty years ago still very evident, Ken’s skill everywhere, if I’m honest I’d forgotten how much love we put into it and how sad it was to let it go when life imploded.

But we had to move on.

The oak floor recently re sanded looked fantastic, new kitchen doors and worktops recently but our design totally unchanged. Memories of those specific decisions we made together came flooding back. The past felt close enough to touch.

Watching another family live in our once sacred space did feel a bit surreal as if the past and present were blurred together. I admit feeling sudden waves of grief despite my efforts to be happy and cheerful. I know the family who live here respect and love the house and are so grateful they bought it and raised their children here too, I’m glad for them.

I didn’t stay long, Hettie was my exit strategy ‘She needed her evening walk’. I needed time to process.

Today I think I been suffering from an emotional hangover, seeing the layout exactly as we left it made 20 years feel like 20 minutes, I felt like I have been in a time capsule. A time before dementia, when Alzheimer’s was for ‘old’ people.

An incredibly beautiful yet deeply tender invitation I wasn’t quite expecting the emotional impact. why did I accept? To catch up with old friends and a fair pinch of curiosity?

I have to remind myself life has grown and evolved since those times. I live in a wonderful place with lovely neighbours, in a house that is just as special.

Ken’s legacy lives on.

Leavers assembly, apparently a new format, well if it was designed to make the audience of family cry it did a good job.

Year six lined up facing the whole school, then their Buddies were invited to join them for the very first time, bonds that for most would soon be broken.

They sang ‘A Million Dreams’ from the Greatest Showman. Tears soon streamed down my face, my daughter next to me wasn’t much better, it was far more than just a song.

Seven years in primary school, so many memories, year six put special things in box to be opened again in ten years time. I couldn’t help but wonder what they’d all be like then.

Ten certificates for those ‘most likely to be’ in the future. The class had voted and chosen the categories. ‘The most likely to be an Archeologist’ had no competition, my grandson awarded ‘Most likely to be a footballer. He’s the sporty type.

Everyone in the class played a part in the assembly, their teacher at the end visibly overcome. He has watched them grow, teaching them in years five and six, has been a fabulous role model especially to the boys and together they have produced the best SAT’s results the school has ever had.

Finally, the most important tradition in school is anticipated for weeks, it’s the Year Six farewell walk. It represents the journey from primary to secondary school.

A path way is marked in the playground in chalk. The whole school line it starting with reception to year five. Then the last duty of year six is to walk through them to rapturous applause and excitement from the crowd all trying to get a ‘high five’ from their favourites.

My grandson lead enthusiastically, apparently just by coincidence, the girls at the end however struggled to hold back their tears.

It said it all, the potent mixture of excitement and sadness, I felt a huge lump in my throat knowing that in a way their innocence and childhood is being left behind and independence and responsibility is just around the corner, but growing up happens to us all.

Of course I’ve seen and felt it all before, my own school life, as a classroom assistant, school nurse, a mum and now Grandma.

That “last day of term” feeling is a total rollercoaster. It is a potent mix of pure euphoria, sudden bittersweet emptiness, exhaustion, and slight overwhelm. Whether you are a student, a parent, or a teacher, that final bell brings a massive, sudden shift in routine that takes a while to process even more so when you’re moving on.

It’s been an emotional week. The year six production was simply brilliant.

Funny, well acted and inclusive, everyone had a part.

There is something very special about children singing in harmony, the sheer enthusiasm of everyone clearly reflected in their faces.

I was bursting with joy.

One more day to go in primary. My grandson proudly showed me his Year book compiled by his class and we laughed at photos of him and his friends as they once were in Reception. Next term once again they will be ‘the little ones’ and in a blink of an eye no doubt, he’ll be leaving secondary school looking back at his year 7 photo and will be grinning.

I ask my grandson feels like he is ready for’big’ school. The answer is clear, yes, he is ready to move on to new adventures and experiences in education.

Today his class apparently were asked to come up with a departing motto for their primary school.

He came up with.

‘Don’t be sad because it’s ended, be happy because it happened’

A very positive quote I think you’ll agree.

It lead to another deeper conversation, I told him how a dear friend of mine’s husband died this morning.

He knew who it was. ‘Grandpa’s friend in the care home’.

We talked how it was sad, but his dementia journey was now over, and like Grandpa he was no longer struggling.

We aren’t ‘happy’ either have died, but we are grateful for the happy memories and the love they brought into our lives. Even when Grandpa had dementia he could still make us laugh.

It’s good to glance back now and then but important to keep moving forward, tears can be joyful as well as sad.

This young man has emotional maturity I’m sure I didn’t have at eleven, but then no one talked about feelings then.

I’m just back from a sweltering sports day. The children’s welfare was paramount with hydration breaks and rest time in the shade.

It’s a very difficult balance managing safety and the potential disappointment of cancellation, but in my view the school got things absolutely right. It started early, changed schedule and was shortened, everyone got to have a go before the sun was at its most fierce.

With a grandson in year six and previous Teaching Assistant experience I’m a pro. A fold down chair, umbrella/parasol, insect repellent, sun cream, shades and a hat plus lots of water I arrived early and sit in a prime spot in the shade.

As the children filed out in PE kit, once again I get a lump in my throat, and an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. Sports Day is a high light of the school calendar.

The track was first in year groups and gender. The reception boys an unruly gaggle that literally jumped the gun (or whistle) in their enthusiasm.

Some had obviously had coaching from keen parents standing on the line like athletes, only to get totally mixed up as they hijacked each other’s lanes. It was great to see the enthusiasm, the reception girls being far less competitive.

My grand daughter goes to running club and when the year three girls line up is focused and in the zone.

There’s more girls than lanes in this group and she runs well but then unfortunately she gets clipped as they race, she falls hard on her face. Then something lovely happens one of the girls turns back to help her back to her feet. It’s noted. The incident happens at the other end of the track from where I’m stood so I don’t interfere, I don’t want to appear I’m making a fuss.

Year six boys, the competition goes up a notch, some keen ability I think my grandson is forth, a respectable result.

After the sprints everyone goes back into the classroom, I’m spotted on the way in and the tears come for my eight year old. She’s given her left cheekbone a nasty knock. A bit of first aid, a chat with Grandma and an ice- pack and she’s soon ready for the second round of sports. I’m proud of her for carrying on.

Stage 2. This is when it all gets a bit confusing. The school is divided into teams, luckily my pair are in the same one. If there was a prize for the most enthusiastic they would win, their team teacher and class room assistant encouraging them to chant and morph into letter shapes for team ‘USA’ ! There version of YMCA.

There is team rotation around the various activities, and bright plastic cones, involving balls, hoops, egg and spoons beanbags etc. Everyone scoring points for their team. Important because every point counts and for the less sporty, inclusive.

How anyone knows who scored what is a complete mystery, but there are a number of people with clip boards officiating each activity. Some are PE students from secondary school, previous pupils here. They join me briefly in the shade and it’s interesting to overhear their thoughts. The sports field that seemed so big is tiny now, the running track doesn’t seem as long as it used to be. Fact is nothing has got smaller – they have just got bigger.

By eleven it’s just too hot, Sports Day finishes early the children all see quite satisfied they have had a good time and teachers and family are relieved that they haven’t quite melted.

Another ‘last’ for my grandson, but I know it won’t be long until he feels like his primary school has shrunk too.