Mumbling yet again

Ok, so that was Christmas 2017, over in a flash as usual but a very pleasant distraction from the business of trying to bring our lifestyle plan to fruition. There has been a development on that score, but more of that later.

Our stay at Belvedere cottage was quite delightful in spite of its quirks. Once the walls had warmed up and Gareth’s imagined ghost had accepted us, we were cosy and snug. Christmas Eve at the King Arthur was a mulled wine and festive nuts way to see us in to the Big Day which was a lovely family day of relaxing and playing with the children, topped off with Owen’s beautifully cooked goose dinner (and lots of wine of course). 

Boxing Day took us off for the obligatory post-Christmas walk to Oxwich. Being a little bit maverick, instead of walking the beach we took the dogs through the grassy dunes that are the nature reserve, thinking that we were away from the madding (“maddening” my Dad used to call it) crowd. Reaching the pill we then ventured onto the beach at its further end from the car park for our walk back. The shiny pewter tide was in and lapped gently at the wellied feet of the Tribes of Israel making their way towards us from the other end. New bobble hats bounced in time with babies on their carrier-wearing dads, the leaping, barking, pooing dogs and the over-sugared, in-need-of-a-post-Christmas-excitement-airing children. 

We pondered the fact that however differently we might think we are doing things; however different we feel we are from “others” there are a heck of a lot of others doing almost exactly the same things as us. In respect of our plan to live differently, a couple of hours on the iPad last night proved to me that there is a very large community of 60-somethings dreaming the same dreams as me and living the same lives that we are contemplating having. So much for original thought! 

We imagine that our bright ideas are our own, but in fact they have been infiltrated! Heaven forbid it's a case of being controlled by some other ‘Other’! I guess it would be quite convenient to have all our older folk migrating to Southern Europe for the winter instead of clogging up the NHS with their arthritic conditions, blood pressure and heart attacks. Just plant the idea in enough older minds, and Bob’s your uncle, the winter public service statistics look more manageable!

It could, however, be a devious plan by the anti-immigration lobby to thwart the northward migrations from the Far East and Africa with a wall of motor homes along the European coast of the Med! Although a flaw in that plan is to assume that those motorhomers are all Brexiteers, keen to keep Britain for the British, but to keep the Mediterranean resorts British too. Liberal travellers, on the other hand, might actually adopt a few itinerant foreigners or at least be so good as to share with them a few glasses of cheap French wine and a can of beans or two.

So, anyway, what next? What original thought can I come up with that is nevertheless rational? Consensus is appealing - there's security in knowing that an idea is tried and tested. Lying awake last night back at the Mumbles apartment and thinking through a decision we are about to make, the ‘what ifs’ multiplied. As I  said, more about that later, so watch this space, and a Happy New Year, too, readers!

Oh little town of Reynoldston, how still we see thee lie....

It's Christmas Eve, so I say it again - Merry Christmas!! 

And where are we? You may well ask! After loading up our camels (my old Honda and Gareth's Renault) we trekked across the hills of Gower, the only high point being the not-very-high-above-sea level hill that is Cefn Bryn, to our Christmas hovel. Gareth was so looking forward to it. Mumbles is really not his scene and the Bryn beckoned him with its muddy paths, dead bracken and spiky shrubs for the dogs to get entangled in. Each to their own, eh? The cottage sits on the south side of the Bryn looking out across the fields and the village of Reynoldston to the sea beyond; that's when it's not shrouded in a drizzly mist, of course. Its address is Belvedere, Applegrove; a curious name, I thought. Certainly “Applegrove”now refers to the estate of smart 60’s build homes rather than my picture of a field of apple trees thriving on the sometimes-sunny, temperate slopes of Gower. And the name Belvedere…..I'm thinking that it might be a connection with the Norman lordships of Gower; days long ago when the English (yes, you know who you are) were given bits of Gower as thanks for their support of the Norman kings (“bloody foreigners, coming over ‘ere” ref Stewart Lee)

We parked on the soggy grass driveway where someone had clearly bogged in before us and squished into the cottage ferrying our bags and boxes and fought the hounds to keep muddy paws from inside. It's an old house, for sure, but cosy in an old fashioned and energy INEFFICIENT way! The antiquated heating system was blasting to welcome us and was working hard to dry out the dampness that comes with our Airbnb package. The smell of age is strong - earthy mortar and old plaster infused with the smells of many lives lived here. The owner, who called by to check that all is ok (he must know that some things here are definitely not ok) told us that the house is 600 years old! I can believe it, from the smell, and the decor isn't much younger than that either! 

Nevertheless, it's another change of scenery and thereby a novelty. We have a log burner which is very seasonal and I have brought in our fibre-optic Christmas tree and some coloured lights, so we're good to go. 

Our first night followed our usual pattern. Gareth, with his bad hip, like Goldilocks tried every bed to find one that he was comfortable in (it’s Gareth who has the bad hip…I don't think it featured in the Goldilocks story). He failed, so yesterday we took a trip to the caravan to drag out our memory foam mattress topper. That first night for me was feeling my heat being sucked into the cold damp stone walls, and I vowed not to sleep in that room again. The following morning, Gareth, not a man given to fanciful imaginings (ever the rationalist in fact) reported that events in the night suggested we may have ghosts for company. I'm not sleeping anywhere now other than with him in whichever bed he chooses! So last night we shared the memory foam in the bedroom with fewer external stone walls to steal us of our body heat and after a while of keeping my eyes firmly shut for fear of spectral visits (ghosts of Christmas Past?) I fell into a dream state in which Gareth decided to do a charity walking marathon. 

While I sit here writing this, Gareth is singing Christmas jingles in the kitchen. A cheerful sound and one I love, since he has a lovely singing voice, rarely exercised, except on occasions such as this when he has his turkey cooking and a cupboard full of food and booze. He’d insisted on not over-buying this year, proclaiming that my habit of seeking out obscure ingredients for meals that don't ever see the light of day was to be firmly curbed. Nevertheless, the bank balance took a hit and we’ve had to be ingenious in finding ways to store our goodies in this not-so-well-designed kitchen. I won't be at all tempted to make fancy dinners though. Owen is cooking an over-large goose for us all at their place tomorrow and I have the excuse of being a vagrant to be less than the perfect hostess this year. But we do have turkey, and pickled onions, so I can always make sandwiches. Sorry, vegetarians; are pickled onion sandwiches acceptable? (I can't remember what else we've stuffed into these cupboards)

Today stretches out before me like an adventure. There's nothing I have to do, and being Christmas Eve, that is most unusual for me. Of course there's every possibility that when Owen starts preparing his goose-fest he may need another oven, or another kitchen even, and I will be called in as back up. For the meantime, though, I'm contemplating getting dressed in my cheapie sparkly jumper and heading to the King Arthur to sip away and slip into Christmas.

Have fun, everyone.

Happy Hangover

Hangover day. Christmas being a time to remember old friends (old in a couple of meanings of the word 😉) last night we revived a Christmas tradition of meeting up for a chinwag. Our old haunt for such an occasion used to be The Woodman in Blackpill, but this time, given that our rented apartment is within rolling distance down from the Newton Inn, we met there for drinks before a curry night at our place. Our little group filled the pub with chat and laughter, interspersed with sighs as we remembered dear departed friends and colleagues. Beer, gin and wine flowing the landlady was most appreciative of our presence, the reason being that we were the only people there! In the lounge at any rate. Not so very long ago, it seems, the Inn was a thriving place, but now it is going the same way as so many independent village pubs, fading, failing, falling and closing down. Sad. The same could be said about our little group, I guess; all of us now retired (except Gareth who's a bit too disabled to work right now), but we're still alive and kicking and making an effort to live large. We talked about bucket lists and today, in my hangover state, I'm still wondering what to add to mine. Hmmmmmm……..

Afterwards we all rolled down the wet and splashy road back to the apartment, and the hours flowed by as easily as the wine. The curry house, Chutneys, a few doors away, once a favourite with many, would have been a very convenient supplier of our supper, but sadly their Trip Advisor reviews don't favour it these days. My homemade curry was surprisingly edible, however, and to date no one has reported food poisoning, so all is good.

Sitting here as the post-party day drifts by, the rain is about as wet and non-Christmassy as it gets. The little Christmas trees pinned up above every shop are draped in raindrop garlands instead of frost or snow and the bright Christmas sweaters and new winter coats are hidden under raincoats. My new winter coat is a full length mustard yellow puffer style (so I can be seen in the dark….)  Gareth has a blue short one. They are light but warm, shower proof and with hoods. They’ll be great for travelling. Everywhere I look now, people are wearing the same sort of thing! In every clothes shop there is a selection of them and not having checked the maker’s origin before buying, I can see why the Chinese economy is set to take over the world. I am disturbed and feeling guilty about how the down for our coats has been acquired (look it up - I don't want to cast too big a shadow of gloom over your pre-Christmas feelings of goodwill). I'm also aware of how much plastic I'm gathering in this season of gift giving. I said I wouldn't cast any gloom, but did you watch Blue Planet 2?

Anyway, I've wrapped some presents and stuffed my face some more (Gareth just suggested that I do some exercise 😉🙄) and tomorrow we have to pack up our stuff, including our Christmas tree and pretty lights, as we're moving out for a week. Yes, I know! What a palaver! The apartment was already booked out for Christmas when we moved in here so we will be in yet another very different home in Reynoldston, on the edge of Cefn Bryn (great for the dogs…….and Gareth) and within staggering distance of the King Arthur hotel. The advantage of itinerant living is that the scene changes, and the disadvantage is having to cart one’s stuff around as well. Living it large is a nice idea, but in our case we need to find a way of living large and keeping our baggage small. If only!!!

Mumbles muchness

Christmas approaches quickly. I haven't given it much thought yet, being so itinerant. We've been in this apartment for a week now though, and we're a bit more settled. Time for some serious shopping, then! And where better to get into the Christmas shopping, eating and drinking spirit than Mumbles!

After a walk around the headland at Langland with the dogs yesterday, I thought I’d persuade Gareth to come with me on a Mumbles shopping expedition. He graciously agreed after he'd had some lunch (stomach being the way to a man’s heart and all that) but was determined not to change out of his “I'm a man of the countryside” garb. In Mumbles, I'm attending to my personal grooming more carefully, wearing make-up before I set out, and wearing tidy shoes. Next it will be fancy knickers, in case I get knocked down. I couldn't bear the shame of being seen legs akimbo with sad pants in front of a bus in Mumbles! Heaven forbid!

Earlier, after the dog-walking, we had stopped at Peg 2 for coffee and the best Chai Latte I've ever had, both of us in our fleeces and walking boots, only to “bump” into an ex-colleague of mine whose own get-up was “smart-but-I'm-not trying”. Being herself a Mumble-er she proudly told us how she herself has now downsized without losing a view of the bay and having space for parking too! She also enjoyed telling us that she was here in the coffee shop to meet the local MP. Tonia, the MP, arrived and soon spotted Gareth, who had been her campaign photographer. Clearly pleased to see him, she engaged in friendly chat with us about life in London and the Commons. If my glam aunt were still alive, I'd be able to dine out on that one with her for sure.

Anyway, lunch over and Gareth still smarting for having paid £10 for a bag of coffee beans at Peg 2 (tee hee, it's not just my bad) he gritted his teeth to come shopping (browsing, I called it) and we started off in the Gower Gallery. I oohed and aahed at the lovely things there, the skill of the painters and sculptors, the delightful little things that presented themselves to me as potential Christmas presents, and Gareth didn't say a word. I believe I heard him sigh with relief when we left the shop empty handed but he knew that wasn't the end of our venture.

Next stop was Cover to Cover, a business now owned by my book-expert cousin, Tim. To chat with him was to interrupt the healthy sales that were going on, so we said we'd come back in the week. I'll probably need a week in there anyway, with the mouthwatering (should I say page-turner-finger-tickling) choice of reads on offer there.

From there we browsed around a display of ‘Affordable Art’ in one of the chapels (sorry, I didn't note the name, but it's just opposite the bridal shop). Clearly there are Mumblers around who are looking for the trappings and trimmings for their homes that the wealthier patrons of art are better able to afford. Some of the work on display in the chapel was very good, but those running the event were a bit scary. Show any interest in a piece and you'd be swooped upon. I left a pound in the collection box and left ungenerously.

In the Ostreme Centre a craft fair was bustling with trinket makers and gift seekers. Lovely stuff to my eyes, but Gareth couldn't see the attraction. Bored and irritated with my inability to decide what to buy from the smorgasbord before me I found him outside staring vacantly into the glittery street.

After that I went alone into one of the dress shops, so I could finger at leisure the things that I would never dream of wearing myself while he went for a chat with the butcher next door (Tuckers, from Penclawdd; so we know him) and bought some bones for the dogs.

Not even Coakley Green’s fish perked his interest in our continuing shopping event, so after a trip to the ATM and a bag of fruit and veg from the greengrocer, we headed to the Alehouse. Whiling away a couple of hours there softened his mood for a while and we topped off the day with a meal at Mumtaz. Forgetting that spicy food doesn't agree with him, he was at least fed, watered and ready for a sprawl on the big leather couches back at the apartment. 

Tomorrow we have another house viewing. We can't get overly excited about it as there is very little on offer. Maybe it's just the time of year. What the heck, live and love life, eh? 

Still Mumbling

It was a grey morning but enlivened by the car lights as Mumbles got ready for work, and, haha, I wasn’t one of those facing a day of work! I walked the dogs in a muddy Underhill Park (it must have been an elegant facility ‘back in the day’, whenever that was) and then prepared for a day of house viewings. Anything within our budget was on the ‘other side’ or away from the Gower peninsula. Gower has always been relatively expensive, especially on the south side. I vowed to be optimistic, open-minded and pragmatic and the first viewing was of a little semi on a newish development where previously there’d been a steel works providing work for so many of the old, now crumbling, community. It's the sort of estate where you feel it might be wise to scatter breadcrumbs behind you to retrace your steps, being such a warren of narrow streets. Mind you, a local Greggs had already provided for that, as had Aldi and other purveyors of potential street litter. I thought about the jumble of Mumbles housing and wondered why it is more charming than this new ‘village’. Is it just because of its proximity to the sea, or its connection with Catherine Zeta Jones (as it was for my dear, now departed glam aunt)?

We stepped into the ‘hallway’ (ahem) and manoeuvred around each other in order to get a feel for any merits that the place might have. The door to the minuscule kitchen had been removed and it was easy to see why. Anyone working in that space would have to do so with the door closed behind them encroaching as it inevitably would on the space needed to reach anything on the right hand side where the sink was located. Whose brilliant architectural planning idea was that??The house benefitted from a downstairs loo, one of the things on my list of essentials in any property, as well as an attic bedroom with an ensuite shower room. Other than that (oh, it did have space for 2, maybe 3 small cars in a narrow driveway) it was hard to see how anyone could live comfortably in such a house unless they were dolls. It would be a misnomer to describe the outside space as a garden; a ‘low maintenance garden’ the agent described it as, given that it was just a rectangular patch of grey gravel with a couple of sad pots dotted about at jaunty angles.

The next house was more interesting, though it didn't fit our brief at all. An early 1900’s property, the elegant entrance hall and spacious rooms wetted our appetite for a project we had vowed never to enter into again.  Being sound on the whole, a few renovations and alterations would make it a fine property. The owner would have to take a hit on his asking price and hadn't done himself any favours in showing the place with a big can of bitumen sat on the floor with a roller and clear signs that this had been used on some of the walls and then painted over! Charmed though I was with the house and its possibilities, I was the one who told the agent that it wasn't for us. Gareth, however, wanted to inspect it further and when we came away his excitement about what he could do to the place was infectious. His experience with the properties we have renovated meant that it wasn't too great a task, until I reminded him later that he is no longer fit enough to take on such project. In any case, it would be another stall on our plans to get some travel time in before we are too infirm, too old or just too tired to bother. 

The next house was another estate house, a 1970’s - 1980’s build. Again, a warren but slightly more spaciously laid out than the first house we'd seen (people are expected to take up less and less space these days, clearly). It benefitted from a garage but our first impression was that it looked very tired. The agent asked us to remove our shoes before entering. I don't know what the point of that was because I'm sure my socks were dirtier afterwards than my boots had been when I took them off! The smell of dog was overwhelming (please tell me if my place ever smells that bad with our dogs), and the house had little to commend itself - none of the conveniences that are clearly now desirable and squeezed into even the tiniest homes, like a downstairs loo and an ensuite. Apart from the smell of dog and the tired decor, the house reminded me of the first home my husband (now ex) and I bought, aided by his father who gave us money for a deposit. That house, in 1977, seemed expensive at £11,000 and in the 80’s we were paying 15% interest on our mortgage. I wondered about the circumstances of the family who lived in this smelly, tired home. Where were they hoping to go from here? Had they been here since it was first built and become blind to how much tlc it needed? Once more I was finding myself empathising with imagined misfortunes of others. It's entirely possible, of course, that they are in fact having a ball, living it up and having all of the adventures I want to have, with no feelings of compulsion to keep their house spic and span. My imaginations say more about me, then, I suppose.

The fourth house didn't give me any reason at all to worry about the circumstances of the inhabitants. Arriving at an immaculately presented little house on another, but smaller, estate, the owners were there to greet us and happy to answer any questions we might have about their clearly well cared for home. Older than us, they were selling up to be closer to their daughter in Guildford. They had previously lived in Spain but we didn't discover how they had come to live in this property - a bit of a change no doubt! Again small and with the advantages of a downstairs loo and an ensuite, this house was much better designed and very attractive. Gareth later remarked that if we hadn't met the owners or known that they were in their seventies, we'd have assumed that the house was inhabited by a very stylish and quite affluent young couple. There was nothing about the house that could be faulted (except its proximity to a busy main road, the noise from which was quite intrusive) but it was not for us. They could see that we were impressed and I probably got their hopes up for a sale when I said “Right, we're moving in!” Naughty of me, I know, when it isn't true. The house was definitely worth what they were asking, so we wouldn't be bargaining them down, and in any case it was so pristine that the thought of renting it out to people who might care much less was not a thought to be entertained. 

Later, we dropped by Owen and Jess’s. Like most young families their lives are quite hectic and spectred by the pressures of paying mortgages and how to create a pension. With student loans to pay as well it's hard to see how some are able to sleep at night. I'm tail end of the baby boom, and haven't had it as good as so many of older ones, but I did have a free University education, work was easy to get and though I am a WASPI woman, I will draw my state pension before I am 65. The years raising a family are precious years but they are also extremely challenging in any generation.  Having been there and failed to keep things together, I inevitably worry about my offspring and how they will chart their way through choppy waters, especially if they head up any creeks without a paddle. Those days are now behind me and I have the privilege of a modest pension from my 20 years in further education, and the prospect of buying some sort of property without a mortgage. There may be minimal equity to pass on to my children and grandchildren, but who knows; fortunes can change (where’s the nearest lottery kiosk?).

Ok, that was my edited version. I await comment from my editorial team.

Miserly meanderings and musings in Mumbles

This is lovely! Sitting here looking out at rooftops and down onto the festive shopping street, I am loving being in Mumbles! The sun is shining in over the deck and through the patio windows of this first floor apartment. It is warm, stylish, comfortable and well appointed even if the spiral staircase to the bedrooms and bathroom make getting around with hip problems a bit challenging, as do the low sofas and low beds. But never mind that! This is Mumbles and it's just three weeks till Christmas, a time when I like Mumbles best!

What are we doing here? Well, we finally managed to relieve ourselves of the pile that was Bay View B&B, the chores and the mortgage, moved into our caravan with as much stuff as we could that wouldn't fit in the storage unit and optimistically planned for some adventures. The adventures require a small motor home and a property we can rent out to fund some travel. A fly in the ointment is an impending hip operation for Gareth and while he has been told to be on standby, it doesn't look like happening any time very soon. How is it working out? Well, we haven't yet got a property or a motor home, and since the caravan site is now closed until next season we are moving from week to week into different  holiday lets. First of all it was the Kings Head hotel in Llangennith, Gower which is very popular being a dog friendly hotel (for those of you who don't know, we have two lovely, if lively, springer spaniels in tow), then a chalet in Gower Holiday Village, Scurlage followed by a cottage in Llanmadoc, and now this apartment where we will stay for three weeks initially while we continue house hunting. Christmas will be in a rather old-fashioned house in Reynoldston, within staggering distance of Gower’s famous King Arthur Hotel.

The trouble with Mumbles is that it brings out the worst acquisitive streak in me. Show me a boutique-y shop full of nicely displayed bits and bobs and I'm sucked right in! In my caravan I'm a firm advocate of minimal consumerism, but here in Mumbles I'm a magpie of the most voracious kind (that might be a bit of an exaggeration - I have Gareth to keep me in check.....most of the time).

Anyway, a few weeks of uncomfortable beds, poor heating, smoky fires and we have arrived in Mumbles! My first step out into the joys of Newton Road shopping had me spending nearly £4.00 on a loaf of artisan bread (to eat which I'm glad I don't have false teeth), £3.75 on a tea towel (none at the apartment), and another £3.50 on a ball of string to wrap and post a parcel for my granddaughter Margot's birthday. Our first tiff here is inevitably about how to make ends meet. Nevertheless we had to have Friday evening at the Pilot, a real ale pub, full of oldies like ourselves, dog friendly and with a great friendly atmosphere. Eating then at the Mediterranean Barbecue, a Turkish restaurant where years ago we regularly ate with friends, the wine mellowed us further and we reminisced about those years before friends dispersed, one of them to dementia, but how nice it is that some things don't change, like the restaurant, it's decor and all.

I resisted the urge to do our grocery shopping here in Mumbles yesterday and we trekked off to our usual shop - Lidl. With a couple of things still needed we topped up in the new Co-op store in Mumbles and for a few items we spent almost as much as we had for a week's worth of groceries from Lidl. Sigh! Gareth had something to say about that as well!

This morning, Sunday, the sky a bit grey and a soft mist drifting about, we took a walk with the dogs down to the promenade and ambled through the puddles musing on how different a place can feel when you live in it. We've known Mumbles all our lives and yet it feels different. The little fish kiosk on the prom that we've never bothered to visit before, avoiding the holiday crowds, beckoned with its promise of coffee and tasty bites of all kinds. Mine was a Gower Brownie (yes, I know that's not fish, but delicious, and I'm worth it). Realising that while I have been in and around the higgledy piggledy streets of Mumbles many times in my life, I haven't really explored them much, I dragged us up the steep, stepped alleys and we marvelled at the way little fisherman cottages of many years standing as well as grand design feats of architecture scramble up the rocky cliffs jostling for a view of the wonderful Swansea Bay. Our respect for the builders who have to carry out the many, often o.t.t. restorations and developments soared, but none of the properties appealed to me as places I would like to inhabit, even in the prettiest streets, and that is just as well because our budget wouldn't extend to buying anything here anyway.

We stopped for Gareth to have a coffee and for me to have a chai latte in the Kitchen Table, another dog-friendly (and people friendly) bistro-style seafront place. Then, we walked the back streets back to our apartment, two wet dogs in tow.

Last night  I had watched for the third time 'The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel'. I love it for the sprinkling of wise words as the down-on-their-luck, late-life residents grapple with their changed circumstances, and this morning my recent feelings of displacement and anxiety about what  retirement really means for me was replaced with one of anticipation and acceptance. My Mumbles meander was a fresh, open-eyed experience.