Long, slow and deep...

Mostly we did Dynamic Yoga at Kaliyoga.  Years ago, I interviewed Godfrey Devereux, who popularized this flowing form of yoga and joined one of his classes. He tried to warn me, poor chap:  he advised that I start off with a beginner’s class but I ignored his gentle suggestion.  I was pretty fit, I said, and had done a lot of yoga on and off. Foolish idiot! (me, not Godfrey) Within minutes I was gasping for air, sweat pouring down my body.  I backed out the class after about twenty minutes. 

Anyhow.  Lelly’s brand of Dynamic yoga was much less athletic, far more gentle and soothing.  But even so, she said she wanted to introduce us to something yet more gentle, far more passive yet still hugely powerful.  Yin yoga. 

Instead of moving swiftly and even aggressively through postures, Yin yoga holds poses passively, still, for at least five minutes.  Lelly explained it works deeply on the energy of the body, as well as providing deep stretching of the fascia (connective tissue) and massaging the internal organs.  We did sessions to support the liver, kidneys and gallbladder.  

But, above all, I felt Yin yoga really reminds us that yoga is not about gymnastics, it’s not about striving, about  being competitive (either with others or oneself). It’s a preparation, a warm-up for meditation or, more accurately maybe, a meditation in itself.  Postures, held for relatively long periods of time, have a profound effect on the mind – they can shift one’s consciousness. 

Most teachers of Yin don’t suggest it as the only form of yoga to practice – rather as a counter-balance to the more energetic, more yang, styles of yoga that abound.  I loved it.  Found it switched off the restless brain and eased out the kinks in my stressed body.  If you don’t know about it, this site is a good introduction.  Or go to Kaliyoga, of course, and take a class with Lelly.  J

The white horses of Andalucia

It wasn’t all yoga at my Kaliyoga retreat in Spain.  We walked, beautiful trails down into hidden valleys, the only sound the breeze in the trees and the occasional flute of birdsong.  And one day, three of us went riding out into the mountains. 

I love horses.  I was the archetypal pony-mad child, with a stable of about twenty assorted equines – from Brandy and Whiskey (the stolid Exmoor ponies) to Atlendor and Fenodyree (one pure bred Arab, one Arab cross).  So what if they were in my head?  In my imagination I talked to them, cared for them, rode them for miles upon miles. They were my dearest friends. 

I would save up all my pocket money so that, once a month, I could ride a real pony.  I’d walk to the stables and back without complaint (a round trip of about three hours) just for the joy of sitting on a horse for an hour.

Anyhow.  There is (to my mind) no better way to see countryside than atop a horse.  So Susie, Niki and I opted for a couple of hours trekking in the Alpujarras.  At Caballo Blanco (white horse) near Lanjaron.

Sarah, the owner, welcomed us and stuck helmets on our heads. Yup, the horrible motorbike skullcap type riding centres always seem to doll out (I swear it’s to make you look as hideous as possible).  And then we went to meet our horses.  

Sarah eyed us up, look one look at my hair and said, ‘You’ve got to ride Pasha – you’re the perfect match.’  Possibly the first time anyone has ever colour-coordinated me with a horse but I wasn’t complaining – she was beautiful.  And Sarah explained she had been a rescue case – when she arrived at the centre she was pitifully thin and nigh-on bald.  ‘She’s still not quite up to weight,’ Sarah said.  'So we are careful with her.'  

Sarah rescues a lot of horses.  They are lovingly brought back to fitness and health – sometimes it can take longer for the mental scars to heal than the physical (some of the horses had to learn to trust again, she explained).  But the happy news is that when people come for longer stays (the centre offer all kinds of trail-riding) they often bond with their horse and many end up taking them home (leaving Sarah free to rescue more needy cases).  With the economic situation in Spain still perilous, sadly there is an endless queue of horses in need.

Anyhow.  We clip-clopped down the windy road and then turned off and went cross-country, charging up a narrow track beside a gurgling stream, ambling past remote homesteads, splashing through a mountain stream.  It was gorgeous. 

So, if you happen to find yourself in Andalucia, do go check out the white horses…and their friends.  Just be warned, you might end up adopting one of them.  

All pics by Susie Turner. 

My stereotypical Swiss room-mate

So, I was all excited about going to Kaliyoga in Spain when I suddenly had a bad thought.  A big bad thought. You know how I am about sharing rooms with people on detox?  Well, to be honest, it goes beyond a dislike into downright phobia.  And it’s not just while detoxing; it’s sharing in general.  It’s not that I’m anti-social per se; it's just that I really really like my own space. Okay, so I’m kinda weird about my aura. 

So I checked and…aaaghhh.  I was sharing.  But, but, but…I spluttered.  In fact I begged, I whined, I prostrated myself on the floor and kicked my heels but they said, sorry, the retreat was full, there was no choice.  I nearly said I’d sleep in a field or up a tree but then remembered that Spain gets things like mosquitoes and wotnot so discretion was the better part of valor and so I just…fretted.

‘She’s a 47 year old Swiss woman,’ they said.  As if that would made everything okay.  When I shared this particular bit of information with my kettlebell group, they all looked a bit nonplussed. 

‘What are the Swiss like?’ asked someone. We debated it (while swinging into clean and snatch and hoisting ourselves into Turkish get-ups) and swiftly realized that our knowledge of the Swiss national characteristics was meagre.  Watches, skiing, banks, cuckoo clocks, mountains were suggested.  Toblerone got an honourable mention. Muesli came up. Cheese waved a flag.  What was the Swiss flag for pity’s sake?  Who were famous Swiss? 

‘Wasn’t Heidi Swiss?’ said someone else.  At which point I’m ashamed to say the whole class started yodeling and waving pretend pigtails at me.

‘How am I supposed to face this poor woman now?’ I said.

‘Wave a cow bell?’ someone suggested helpfully.  I despair, I really do. How we stereotype huh?

Anyhow, they got it all wrong.  My room-mate was actually an American (who just happened to be living in Switzerland at that particular moment in time) and you’d be hard-pressed to find someone looking less like Heidi.  She was absolutely lovely and, thank the gods of yodelling, the ideal room-mate.  Within the confines of our room, we passed one another like cautious ghosts, spectacularly polite and considerate. 

But, I don’t know about you but when I hear the word ‘retreat’ I suppose uppermost in my mind is going away somewhere a bit cut off, to be thoughtful, meditative, contemplative, or whatever.  All the retreats I’ve done have been solo; most have been either totally or majorly silent. So, quite apart from the room-sharing thingy, how come I spent my entire week at Kaliyoga talking and laughing my head off? Have retreats gone soft? Have I gone soft?

However, as the week progressed, I gradually realized that, actually, this was probably just what I needed.  I have been so isolated, so solitary (entirely of my own making, I should add) that all this interaction was probably good therapy.  Listening to people and their ‘issues’ and ‘challenges’ puts your own stuff into perspective.  Laughing gets the endorphins going.  And, as Lelly, our yoga teacher said on the first day: ‘Sometimes your yoga won’t be vinyasas in the yoga shala. Sometimes your yoga will be resting or sunbathing.’  And my yoga was all of that with an added dose of snorting.  

And yes, I was still able to slope off by myself when I needed to.  Okay, so not to my room (my usual place of refuge) but to a hammock or the wild flower meadow or to a squashy sofa in the boho living room.  I was often the first up and the last to bed, so found my privacy at the corners of the day.  And, standing under the stars, with the orange blossom heady in the dell, my senses reeled and I found myself tumbling out into everything, and everything tumbling into me…and the entire concept of being alone and separate felt suddenly suddenly quite quite …amusing.  

The dunnock has two penises - I mean, a lovely walk along the Dorset coastal path.

I don’t usually tag along to Adrian’s beery events.  But I make a large exception for Badger Ales.  Firstly because, as you know, I have this sort of badger ‘thing’ going on.  Secondly because they are just so damn nice and such good fun (the Badger people I mean, not the badger badgers which are, in fact, beasts of a frankly surly disposition). Thirdly because they had invited Pete Brown (beery author with a wicked sense of humour) and Liz Vater (organizer of the Stoke Newington Literary Festival and all-round splendid person).  And fourthly because a Badger do is never just about the beer – they know how to tempt. 

This time the carrot was a six mile walk along the coastal path in Dorset, a stunning bit of the South-West coastal path sponsored by Badger (capital B). Then, just in case that wasn’t alluring enough, they said, ‘Oh, and we wondered if you might prefer to have a facial and pedicure in your hotel room while your husband is touring the new brewery.’  To which I replied, ‘Er…well…go on then.’

We started off with a light lunch at the Lulworth Cove Inn, a lovely place, recently refurbished, overlooking the beach. Fabulous food and a really laid-back seaside vibe (children and dogs murgling around in a pretty civilized fashion).  We had the SP with us of course and Pete and Liz had brought his favourite sex toy, their aged dog Captain, and they started their usual malarkey under the table, fortunately away from the eyes of small children.

Then we climbed, and climbed, and climbed – up a gazillion steps to Durdle Door.  Along with seemingly every other person in Dorset.  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Mark, who has charge of the entire coastal path (yup, not just the South-West bit). ‘They’ll all give up at the top – we’ll be the only people from then on, pretty much.’  And he was right.  We walked, up and down, up and down, and didn’t encounter another human – just wild wind and the long inhale and exhale of the ocean.  And Naomi from Natural England fed us snippets of useful information about flora and fauna, including the unfeasibly complicated life cycle of the large blue butterfly which involves a frankly bizarre symbiotic relationship with the red ant. I’m not even going to go into it – if you’re interested you can read all about it here. 

‘Holy crap,’ I said. ‘They really don’t deserve to survive, do they?’

Naomi nodded firmly. ‘It’s beyond fussy, totally ludicrous.’ And we then fell into a discussion about other creatures which have evolved themselves into a corner – like the giant panda with its ludicrous eating and mating preferences.

Who'd have thought?  

‘Mind you,’ said Naomi. ‘Some creatures are just darn smart. Take the dunnock...’

‘The small brown bird,’ I said.

‘That’s the badger,’ she didn’t say.  ‘But yes,’ (she did say)… ‘did you know the male dunnock has two penises?’

‘You what?’ I shook my head, wondering  how, even on a nice country walk for a nice brewery company, the conversation had veered round to bizarre sexual habits.

‘Well,’ she said, warming to her theme. ‘Dunnocks are very promiscuous.  So the male dunnock uses one of its penises to scoop out any semen before planting in its own’ (this accompanied by rather nifty hand gestures of the scooping and planting variety.

And so we ambled into Osmington Mills chortling with laughter and stumbled into the Smugglers Inn and downed a pint of Brewer’s Bee (the new Badger brew) or, in my case, a slug of Pearwood (pear cider) which was mighty refreshing.

Mikey...

And then we skidaddled off to the Inn at Cranborne where they held our noses and force fed us outrageously good beer cocktails (I kid you not – I’m trying to prise the recipe for the Bourbon and maple syrup one out of them).  And they stuffed us full of even more excellent food.  And Captain and Dante started up their own vaguely distasteful sexual floor show again (this time out in the open) but, praise be, the pub has its own modesty police in the form of a very small Jack Russell called Mikey who broke up their entanglements with a firm sniff.  

And all in all it was a very fine day indeed. 

Anyhow, what was the purpose of this post?  Just that, if you're out and about in Dorset, do check out those pubs - they're all super-fine and dog, child, everything friendly.  And if you know of any other creatures which really have gone a bit nuts in the evolution stakes, do let me know.  

Primroses

Anyhow.  Today Dan (short for Dante, aka the SP – I figure now he’s 21 I no longer need to protect his RL identity) and I went up to the hill fort.  And the banks of the Cauldron (aka the Chimney – no, I don’t protect the RL identity of a steep path – it’s just the name James gave to the hollow way) were studded with primroses.  Flashes of spring.  At last. 

Proper wild primroses, shy soft yellow - not brash fake egg yolk like the ones you get from garden centres.  Dotted over the banks.  And, in a heartbeat I was seven years old again and just vibrating with excitement at the thought of primrosing. 

For some reason, I forget why, I was staying with my grandparents in Castle Cary.  They lived in a small cottage opposite the famous round-house, the town lock-up.  And on the corner of the little street was a grocery.  I can still smell that shop – hessian and earth and wood and dog and cat.  There were sacks of grains and what have you – usually with a cat or two curled up on top.  Miss Drummond, the proprietor, was an animal lover, to put it mildly.  She had about eight cats and two extremely large Labradors.  To walk into the shop was to be besieged by animals.  Heaven. Okay, so probably hygiene hell but never seemed to hurt any of us, to be honest.

And one day she leaned down over the counter and asked, very solemnly, if I’d like to go primrosing with her one morning.  When I think back, it seems a strange thing to do.  But wait…maybe it was for church, for little posies to give out on Mothering Sunday.  Maybe there was a reason.  But a reason, if one existed, didn’t matter to me.  What mattered was that I was going on an adventure.  Because Miss Drummond had the ability to turn the most mundane into the magical.  We would, she said, have to go early, very early, when the dew was still on the petals.  Could I get up that early?  I nodded earnestly.

And so we set off, at dawn, in her Mini Clubman (I think) and drove down deep lanes (the dogs in the back) until she found the exact right spot. Just this one, no other.  And we picked primroses, reverently, being careful not to take too many from the same place.  And stowed them with due ceremony and dedication in wicker baskets. 

Then we drove back in time for a big breakfast which she cooked in the kitchen behind the shop – eggs and bacon and sausages, big thick slices of toast oozing with butter and big mugs of strong tea. 

That memory has stayed with me so clearly, so freshly, down through all those years.  Funny huh? Such a small silly thing it might seem, but somehow, so imbued with meaning and tingling with magic.

And it got me thinking about primroses. For example, I didn’t realize that both the flower and leaves are edible.  And its symbolic meaning is courage, the sheer gumption to be the first to come out into the open, to face what could be a stark cold reception.  The primrose is also a symbol of Freya, the ancient Norse goddess of love, youthfulness, fertility and beauty – and its themes include renewal, love and devotion.  In the language of flowers it denotes ‘I can’t live without you’.  And, then again and over and above, it apparently marks a landmark or gateway into the lands of fairie.  Ah, now that does chime (fairie) bells.  For that was a magic morning.  And the Cauldron is indeed a gateway to other realms.  J

Margaret Thatcher. IMO

So. I came back from Austria (very nice indeed, thank you for asking) and stayed in London a bit with my mucker Jane. And it does make me laugh that, while I could get on-line easily in the back of beyond, up a mountain in Austria (when I was in a fit state to use it, of course), Jane doesn’t have any wifi so I was pretty much gagged.

But, before I was logged off I went on Twitter (as you do) and checked on a few people I like to RT from time to time and…what?  And old friend I was apparently no longer following? And he not following me? Twitter playing around again?  So I clicked Follow and it told me I’d been blocked.  Blocked?  Nobody has ever blocked me before.  Or maybe they have but I just never realized - in which case – ca ne fait rien. 

And, I freely confess, I felt hurt, very hurt.  I mean, this is someone I’ve known online for a fair few years now, and have supported pretty staunchly IMO.  But that's by the by - what surprised me was that he never seemed the blocking type.  It seemed a petty action to take and he'd not struck me as petty.  

And I puzzled…why?  And I thought back and remembered that our last exchange had been over Margaret bloody Thatcher. I’d tweeted that I was logging off for the night because my timeline was starting to sicken me.  That, while I might hate Thatcher’s policies, I could never feel delight at any human’s death. I could never dance on a grave. It’s not Thatcher per se. I felt the same about Osama bin Laden.  About Saddam Hussein. Would I feel the same about someone who had killed people I know personally and love?  I can’t say for sure but I suspect so.  I just can’t delight in death.  Anyone’s death.  And dancing on the grave of a senile 80-something?  It’s…infantile and petty. IMO.

Should we be spending 50 million on her funeral?  No.  IMO.  Should the BBC play Ding Dong the Witch is Dead?  Yes. IMO.  It’s called freedom of speech.  Should Thatcher be feted?  No.  IMO.

And that’s the thingy.  In MY opinion.  Your opinion could be very different and, hey, that’s fine.  What I don’t get is why people want everyone to think and feel exactly the same way they do.  How bloody boring is that?  I often see opinions I disagree with on social media – but do I race off and block the owners of those opinions?  Nope.  I just think, ah well, horses for courses. And I’ll look at what they’re saying and see if maybe my views are ripe for changing. Sometimes they are, sometimes not.  But the opportunity is there, which would never happen if I only followed people I agreed with 100 percent of the time. 

Then I ask myself – but what if you saw someone cheering at, for example, that poor girl who was raped and then lashed for adultery?  Well, okay, I might unfollow for that.  So, I guess, maybe for some people Thatcher arouses equally strong passions.  Hey, I don’t know.  It’s certainly sad that, even in death, she manages to divide people. And I do just wonder if there would be this depth of feeling if she had been a man. 

But, hey, gender aside, she’s a useful scapegoat. A place to pin feelings people don’t like to admit in themselves. I've written about scapegoating before -  here and here - and I still find it a fascinating topic.  There’s a seething undercurrent in the UK and Thatcher has provided a focus for it. You could argue that it’s actually healthy – that it allows an outpouring of frustration and anger which people feel unable to do in any other way – that it provides a focus for feelings of helplessness. 

What could be transforming would be if people looked at why she arouses quite such intense feelings in themselves?  Not because of what she did but for what she stood for.  What does she mean to you and how many of those qualities might you deny in yourself?  It’s a thought, huh?  But that’s a big ask – and for most people it will just be visceral, an animal instinct.

But still, it’s interesting, no?  

Regarding my erstwhile friend, I feel no ill-will.  The loss of friendship is always sad but some things run their course and then you must just bless them, let them go and move on.  Otherwise they just fester.  And festering – like immoderate sustained hatred - is seriously counter-productive because the only person it harms is you.  IMO.  :-)

Smoke on the water

Smoke on the water?  Well...nearly.  Sort of.  Oh, okay, let's call it steam.  :-)

There are two pools at Schloss Pichlarn.  One is indoors and a very fine pool it is.

But then, if you walk down a few watery steps, you come to a barrier.  A pair of glass gates.  And you wait until they recognise your presence and then they open.

A cold gust of breeze slices your shoulders and so you sink down under the water surface and swim through and out, into a world of mist and sun and sky and mountain.

Today the sun was so bright that I had to shut my eyes and swim blind, face turned to the mountain slopes, still spotted with snow.

I am quite alone.  At least, if there are other people, they are ghosts. And it is so quiet here, so peaceful.  Just the odd flute of birdsong.  Just the sound of water slapping a slow rhythm of waves.

Yesterday the wind was playful - it blew the leaves into swooping dives.  I thought at first they were tiny birds or huge brown butterflies.  But no.  And a rainbow arced the dip between two peaks.

But today the leaves lie exhausted.  The trees are patient, still awaiting spring.  Still.  And I am still too.  Floating, drifting, face turned to the sun.  A chill warmth.