Home Away From Home

Shhhhh, just quietly, I’m at our opposition hotel sussing it out. They opened for the season on 1st March, which in our opinion, is far too early. The fact that it’s Sunday, my day off, and I heard they do good coffee has nothing to do with it.

Note I am saying ‘our’ instead of ‘their’ which actually may indicate that I must be feeling part of the hotel family at last.

(Interrupted by below couple).

I have just made two new friends whilst trying to start my blog and undertaking my role of Chief Spy With a Coffee. Daniel (Welsh) and Lucy (French) are partners & work for Hotel Opposition. They didn’t have to employ any interrogation techniques at all before I told them where I worked and they were very keen to give me hospo advice, suggested running routes & even invited me to use the hotel gym any time. Daniel very sternly warned me about being very precious about my day off. He has heard rumours about my hotel. Say no more. I feel connected to this delighful couple and after the second coffee, I went on my way promising that I’ll see them next Sunday.

As I walked to the village, (high winds prevented Edie, my bike from coming with me today), I mused, as I do, about how important connections are to us. The thread might be very fine, or as thick as rope, but no matter, they are important to our wellbeing. I started my day with meeting Andrew the Welsh/Polish/Whatever gardener when out picking flowers for the communal kitchen table and he gave me a big bear hug, I chatted to TinTin the unfortunate cross-eyed cat, met Daniel & Lucy, then chatted to an elderly couple on my way home, oh & not to forget, Ziggy the embarrassed Collie that barked at me until he realised who I was. These connections all help to provide a sense of belonging. Small, indeed, fine threads, but important ones.

Anyway. Must rush. I’ve created a buzz as I’ve told the boys I have a hankering to make an apple crumble for them. The problem is the Aga is unreliable so we have ‘experts’ from far and wide trying to fix it so they can have their crumble. I had better not let them down.

Guess how many Pains au Chocolat I had, Stocks the Opposition and TinTin the Unfortunate Cross Eyed Cat.

That was the week that was – lessons learned from Sark

Living on Sark is a complete world away from my former life. No Netflix (poor wifi); no going to the movies on a whim; instant coffee; Brexit, Brexit and more Brexit; my early morning alarm is now a rooster; and my daily commute to work can be held up by friendly farm dogs.

So, lessons learned from my first week on Planet Sark:

  • When being offered a cup of tea on a dairy farm do NOT under any circumstances say that you don’t take milk! – I would have had less of a reaction if I said that I came from Mars.
  • Bikes give way to tractors – tractors and tractor drivers are all powerful
  • Neither bike, nor tractor gives way to runners.
  • Empty vodka & whiskey bottles left outside the neighbor’s door every morning does not necessarily mean they are in need of rehab – the bottles are the island’s equivalent of milk bottles. It appears anything will do.
  • When a grisly old gardener tries hard to communicate with a thick Polish accent, and says his name is Yorgi, from some place I couldn’t begin to pronounce, don’t be fooled – turned out he was a Welshman with a sense of humour
  • Working six days a week is not really my cup of tea (with milk of course).

I’m learning the hotel ropes and slowly feeling more at home on this beautiful island. When I walk/run/cycle around or look out my attic windows onto the beautiful gardens, I’m reminded why I decided to take this on – the scenery is stunning, the life is quiet and at a much slower pace and it’s all an amazing experience. It takes courage and resilience but so far, I’m up for it. Bring on week 2.

Photos: My ‘new’ bike, a coastal shot, my office and a foggy morning on the way to work.

A Day In The Life Of A Sarkee

It’s my third working day and I’m slowly getting into the groove of Sark life. I’m sharing the staff cottage with Sergi the handyman from Spain and Nick the gardener from Sussex.

For everyone, the day starts at 7.00! However so far I’m not expected to start until 8.00, as I think they want to ease me in gently. Breakfast is at 10.00 and is cooked by Sergi who eats in his room, so Nick & I join the BBC music quizz on the old radio, and lunch, also cooked by Sergi, is at 2.00 when Nick & I discuss the morning & generally talk plants, compost issues and the weather.

At the end of the day, I’ve been going for much needed runs with beanie, gloves & torch, then making my own dinner in the staff kitchen (generally no sign of Nick or Serge) and scurry up to my warm attic room to eat.

It’s about as far away from my old life as I could get but everyone here is lovely & doing their best to ensure that I am comfortable & well fed! I’m looking forward to a busy Sark summer season where the shops and cafes in the village are actually open. I’m loving the scenery and am just starting to think that this gig is going to be ok.

What shall I do today?

From a simple click of my mouse button, sending off my CV, to visiting Sark in October, to being made redundant and setting off on my adventures to today. The set date, the 16th Feb seemed such an innocent date. And here I am, sitting in my room in Guernsey, bags packed for the last time, (Hooray) and anxious as hell. Why does it take so much effort to be brave?

Getting here has enabled me to witness the kindness of others. Friends & family back home, cheering me on, Clair & Robbie, bless them, with Robbie telling the security guy at the train station to help his ‘mum’, English Annie in Havant welcoming me into her home & getting up at the crack of dawn to take me to Portsmouth despite a wretched cold, the young student on the train making a point of finding out what stop I was going to so he could hover to help with bags and to Tina in Guernsey who had so much going on in her life but still welcomed me into her home. Already I’ve been introduced to her amazing friends who are all gunning for me.

So the 16th Feb has finally come, from a simple click of a mouse in August. The ferry crossing is at 3.00 so I had better get my skates on. Kia kaha to myself.

Guernsey at dusk

Arriving into Guernsey from Portsmouth.

London arrival

Arrived in London yesterday and goodness me, the walk from the arrival gate to customs and baggage retrieval is so long it makes you want to set up camp half way and tackle customs tomorrow. As I was attempting the hundred mile track I realised that I’m not a visitor. I’m going to make the UK my home. That got me thinking about the last time England was home to me.

My parents were both Brits, but they met in Whangarei so when I was 4 they decided to take the bairns ‘home’ so we could know our roots. We lived with my Nana Ritson and as I walked with the other passengers, memories came flooding back: blackberry picking in the fields below our garden, Nana’s Blackberry & apple pie, spring bluebells in the woods at the end of our road, playing with the Darlington kids who lived down the other end of the road, school lunches 10p a week, banana sandwiches for supper (my sister told Nana she liked banana sandwiches so every school day, for 2 years, we had banana sandwiches for supper!), lemonade and crisps with a little blue bag of salt at the local pub, a white Christmas and slipping on the ice, freezing Guy Fawks night with jacket potatoes on the bonfire and negotiating what I thought was a fair trade with the rag and bone man – my mother’s best dress for a balloon. All these memories whilst walking with the other passengers.

After 2 years of living with my nana, my parents decided to move to Australia so here we are, at the end of the road with our suitcases, with Nana who had come to say goodbye. The bus arrives. I get a sense of panic as I realise that I won’t see my nana again and she will be all alone. So I sit. On a suitcase. And won’t budge. The drama! Bus waiting, parents distraught, passengers in the bus watching and me telling my parents that I’m not going. I’m going to live with Nana. I can’t remember how they got me on the bus, but it wouldn’t have been pretty.

So as I was walking along with my memories, looking for a place to set up camp, I swear I could smell banana sandwiches and I had a strong sense that my Nana Ritson was walking beside me and welcoming me ‘home’. And it confirmed that I am doing the right thing.

Peace, love and flowers in my hair

The five more sleeps were slept and how fast they went. The days were full of lasts. Last hugs, last dinners and breakfasts with pals, last coffees, last sitting with Max amongst the catnip, last walk around my hood and last teary good-byes at the airport.

So from lasts to firsts. First time in San Francisco. First shuttle ride from the airport where I met Amanda whose father was a real gangster in Chicago. He was a bank robber who was shot dead by his mate for betrayal. Amanda was 8 and ironically, she is in banking & finance! And then I managed to get Mario the hotel porter’s life story out from the lobby to the 10th floor. He’s working hard to save to spend his retiring years back in Puerto Rico, hates San Fran & only has a few years to go. I refrained from giving him a career planning session but if I’d been staying on the 12th floor I may have had time.

San Francisco is an amazing city of contrasts. The people are so friendly & respectful yet there is a sadness with the homeless & many disturbed people. Perhaps Vietnam Vets? Hippies gone bad? But generally lots of peace and love. This is a good transition place to be. Feeling quite sad and alone, but also allowing myself to feel what I need to feel. (At this point, I’d like to thank the sexy, young barman who pretended not to see my tears).

Change isn’t easy. It’s hard. But not doing this is not an option. Bring on Day 2 in San Francisco.

Sunset in San Francisco

Five More Sleeps

Five more sleeps.  That’s all it’s going to take to transform me from the safe world that I know to a world of unknowns.  After spending too many years in the 8.00-5.00 world, adventure is stroking my boots and I have to feel the fear and do it anyway.  How hard can it be?  After a wee stay in San Francisco and a coming together of mother and daughter in London, I’ll be heading to the very tiny island of Sark to do what is not quite clear at the moment.  I am feeling; fearful, fearless, anxious, excited, brave, scared, lonely in anticipation and resilient.  With the love and support of family and friends and the help of many I have been able to make this adventure happen.  It’s not going to be easy, but I have never really taken the easy route.

I aim to capture my adventures in this blog with the hope that it will inspire others to have faith in themselves.  I’m new to blogging, so have patience whilst I learn the blogging ropes.  Please feel free to offer advice, support and any comments you’d like.

Biking is the only way to go on Sark, unless you choose horse and cart.