Walking, Wales, Warship, Wax, Wordle

I visited my sister who recently moved to a Welsh village. She now skips uphill like a mountain goat. She said it’s like living in a Blue Zone (those places on the planet where regular exercise and healthy food, plus a sense of community, mean a lot of people live to 100 or more). After spending her career mainly at a desk, in semi-retirement she’s taking part-time hospitality jobs that literally keep her on her toes, and is walking to work.

Other female friends are shifting their goals. One of the sopranos at choir walked coast-to-coast from Cumbria to Robin Hood’s Bay in North Yorkshire. She returned with sore feet but a healthy glow. Another singer and musician recently tackled the West Highland Way in Scotland, between Glasgow and Ben Nevis.

“I’ve realised that now I’m in my sixties, what I love most, more even than playing my violin, is being outdoors, looking at beautiful views,” she said.

She wants to do a major walking route every year.

Keris Fox wrote on Substack this week about how she’s taken over her son’s newspaper round, which means she gets 10,000 steps in before 9am. She says:

‘A few friends have teased me about having a paper round at 55.

‘“Do you do it on a Chopper?” And they’re not wrong – it is funny. But I don’t feel embarrassed about it at all.

‘Every morning I get up, go outside, do the work, and come home having earned a little money, given myself an hour of fresh air, and met some excellent cats.’

Above is the glorious view from the spare room at my sister’s. The hillside opposite is shaped like a sleeping dragon.

By contrast, below was a window I spied on a trip to the nearby town of Machynlleth. It’s round the back of an antique shop. The front is better maintained, but that bedraggled upstairs window makes me want to peek inside.

Machynlleth is a mix of earthiness, hippyish heritage, crafts and aspiration. Just across the street from the antiques place is the building where Laura Ashley opened her first shop in the early 1960s. The current owner sells beautiful and expensive leather bags, hand-made on the premises.

I drove through Newtown one day and paused to explore the town centre. My eye was drawn to the art deco cinema. My mum and her younger sister were evacuated to Newtown in Wales during WWII. These windows (above) are as she would have seen them in the early 1940s. I wonder whether she ever went to the movies there?

My sister and I debated whether, if money was no object, we would want to eat at two-Michelin Star chef Gareth Ward’s restaurant, Ynyshir, a few miles down the road from her. He serves a thirty-course tasting menu for £450+ pp and warns on his website: “The experience is not suitable for those with food allergies, intolerances, and dislikes.” There’s an in-house DJ, so you don’t get any say about the music, either.

Waygu beef and raw lobster is not my thing, and the faff of thirty courses sounds ominous, so I wouldn’t be tempted. Fair play to him for putting rural Wales on the culinary map, though.

This week’s news story about the warning shots fired by a Russian warship 20 miles off the Isle of Wight when a yacht veered close to it gave me a jolt. On a clear day I can see that far out to sea when I walk the dog. Too close for comfort, and I wouldn’t fancy our chances if they staged a landing.

Some of the Isle of Wight’s wartime landmarks are now tourist attractions. Wildheart Animal Sanctuary in Sandown is sited in a Victorian fort. The Needles Battery was built as a Victorian coastal defence. It’s now owned by The National Trust. Unless we can fend off invaders by pelting them with fruit scones, we’re screwed.

Wednesday before the Isle of Wight Festival begins is peak traffic chaos on the island. After half an hour inching through Newport, I knew that I wasn’t going to get to my Pilates session. Better to park up and do a couple of errands instead.

I took my new varifocal glasses back to SpecSavers, as I was having to tilt my head down to see clearly when driving. Not ideal. They’ve sent them off for a lens remake and I’ve switched back to my old spare pair in the meantime. (I never did find the ones I lost in March.)

On my way back to the car, I spotted an ad-board in historic Watchbell Lane. (The passageway reminds me of Harry Potter’s Diagon Alley. You never know what tiny outlets will pop up there.) ‘Crystal Clear Ear Wax Removal’, the sign said. It’s the place that friends have been raving about. (Waxing lyrical – yes, I know there’s a pun to be had.)

My tinnitus has been continuous lately, I can hear my own voice a bit too much when singing, and I’ve been asking people to repeat themselves a lot. Maybe there’s a simple fix.

Proprietor Leanne was free to peer inside my ears there and then. “The right one is totally blocked,” she said. “Can you actually hear through it?”

“Fuzzily,” I realised.

Having my ears sluiced out with warm water and a noisy micro-hoover was strangely cathartic, especially when she showed me the plug of dried earwax she’d coaxed out of my auditory canal.

“Does anyone get addicted to this treatment and keep coming back for more?” I asked.

“Men especially seem to like it,” she said.

I guess every orifice has its fan-base.

The tinnitis is still there, but not so insistent. Right now I’m hearing a blackbird melody and the hum of a distant tractor very clearly, through both ears, while writing at my desk.

I’ve just read the aftercare leaflet and it advises avoiding loud music for the next few days. I’m heading to Isle of Wight Festival this weekend, most looking forward to Wet Leg’s homecoming on Friday and The Cure on Sunday. I’ll pack earplugs.

I lost my streak on Monday. After a six-hour Sunday singathon to prepare for upcoming choir concerts, I slept so deeply that I didn’t even surface at 3am for a wee and Wordle before nodding off again. Then I forgot all about it until Tuesday.

I’ve never got Wordle in one. What if on Monday my start word, ‘flume’, had finally come up?

But has ‘flume’ ever been the answer? I’d never thought to check. I Googled it. Sure enough, it was the chosen five-letter word on 26^th August 2021, 68 days after Wordle launched and shortly before I joined in the fun. Doh.

What was I doing on that date? It sounded familiar. My diary confirms it was the day an old friend and colleague died of Covid. Cruel, cruel universe.

Should I change my start word, or hope ‘flume’ one day comes around again?

And finally…

We’re lucky to have both types of woodpecker visit our garden, but here’s a delightful glimpse of a green one a-grubbing.

for celebrating two years of Wendy’s World, and my 100th post, last week. I was so touched by your comments. If you didn’t catch it, here’s the link.

And as always, thank you for reading. Please do comment if anything I’ve written today has struck a chord. I love to hear your thoughts.

Until next time!