Sally goes on her hols.

 It has been very difficult to put a positive spin on this. I was expecting to be in Greece at this time but I’m not. I did all the typical things one does prior to heading off to the sun. Most of all I got really excited about a holiday with Diane in Greece. Now, I am back home feeling really sorry for myself. I have spoilt Diane’s trip. I am full of doubt about my competence. I just don’t feel happy. Ezra-Mae has noticed it, and she has tried to cheer me up. Nothing works. I just feel shitty.

What to do when you can't travel. Thank you Sophie

All started well. Diane and I set off for Gatwick. So far so good. We headed for the gate. Gate 112. Then we were told it was now gate 113. No probs. We queued; showed our boarding passes and were told it was the wrong plane. Ours was halfway across the airport at gate 55. We legged it along with five others. We got there and the gate had closed. We argued but it looked like only the two people who had luggage loaded in the hold would be allowed to board. In the end it was just me they wouldn’t allow to travel.

The worst thing happened. I still can’t quite believe it; my passport was out of date. I expires in June BUT it was 10 years and 3 weeks old. New BREXIT rules… You can only travel to the EU within 10 years of the issue date. Diane left. I got escorted out of the airport like a criminal along with six others from different flights.

The next day I applied for a new passport. I had to put the expiry date of the old one on the form. 17^th June, 2025. Putting that date really galled. I could have travelled to Asia and I would have been fine. Bloody BREXIT. Having looked into this, I found that 2.4m Brits had been caught by this rule before March 2022. That is a lot of disappointed people.

Currently I am living vicariously through Diane’s photos and catching up with her on face time. I am missing a wonderful experience. I think she is missing me. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I have collected Sally Sourdough starter from Nasser’s house – her holiday home. Sally is my highly excitable, bubbly companion that makes tasty bread. She exploded on one occasion, so I asked Nasser to be nice to her and make her welcome.

Sally does her best.

My bubble friend after a short sojourn 

There is something about a “starter” that makes me feel it is a companion more than a food source. I told Ezra-Mae I had Sally living with me. When I showed her, she was adamant that it wasn’t a person. She now has her own “starter”, Peppa Dough. I wonder where that name came from? Danielle looked on the internet for possible names: Bread Pitt, Brigit Bar-Dough, and Ringo Starter were among the celebrity sobriquets mentioned.

So, along with more than 2.4m failed British travellers and those who elevate their sourdough starters to a high status of being, I feel slightly more normal. It hasn’t stopped the sadness I feel of a failed get-away though. What to do? 

Spectacular

Westminster Abbey in all its glory

It has been quite a week. We are still reeling from the after effects of the rain. The fields around me are still lakes. Last Tuesday I cycled to the orchard, pottered in the polytunnel and then retired to a local café with fellow diggers for spectacular cake and coffee. It was quite a morning. Even in sub zero temperatures, we have a tea break at the orchard itself. Going to a café is something entirely different.

After coffee, I donned my fluorescent waterproof on and battled the elements along the tow path to home. I considered myself to be totally foolhardy even thinking cycling an option. I couldn’t see for the downpour. Then, I met a fellow cyclist on the Iron Trunk bridge. He was splattered with mud. He had a big blob on his cheek and I wondered if I had anything similar. He was a bit lost.  He told me he had set off from Hemel Hempstead and was cycling to Birmingham in the rain! Suddenly, it made my short jaunt seem mundane. He is truly mad!

I went to London this week. The weather was kind on this occasion. Sophie and I had booked a trip to Westminster Abbey. The building is spectacular and even more amazing for the hotch-potch way that people have been remembered. I got the feeling that committees over time had made illogical decisions where to squeeze in yet another statue. Robert Peel has a toga! William Gladstone’s statue is much more in keeping with what he might have worn; and he has a slab too. Mary I and Elizabeth I share a tomb, yet Mary Queen of Scots has a rather more upmarket burial plot. Such is the way of history!

Other bits of the abbey are dedicated to poets, theatre, science, as well as various dead kings and queens. The crowds of visitors spoilt the experience. You could do no more than shuffle along in a sea of people from all over the world. And, with this mixture of cultures, it was difficult to predict who would sensibly stop and allow someone to cross their path. Many of the slabs were difficult to read because someone was standing just where I wanted to read. My verdict! I am pleased I went there but in future I’d like to know when it is likely to be less of a sardine-like experience.

On the way home from London on the 18:56, I experienced the efficiencies of the rail system. I sat and looked out at Bushey station for an age. Then when the train finally shifted, it rolled along at a snail’s pace. That mad cyclist would have got to MK quicker! My legs were so stiff when I actually got to my station, I could hardly stand straight. I was told to claim a refund, which I have done, and in addition to that I used my FREE bus pass on the London buses for the first time. Oh, the joys of getting old! Spectacular!