On being thingless in Dulverton. And balls.

So, James and I were walking Dan out over the fields by the river, me half-trotting to keep up with his loping stride (when did he get so tall?).
On the narrow track on the way back, we came across a middle-aged couple with a spaniel.
'Is he a male?' called the woman, gesturing at Dan.
'Er...yup,' I replied, slightly discombobulated by the question which contained its own answer.
'Is he intact?'
'Er...' I paused, thought about it, thought about what a strange phrase that is.  'Er, no.'
Poor Dan.  Having his balls, or rather his ex-balls, discussed in public.
'Oh good!  Only she's about ready, you know...' gesturing at the spaniel who looked about ready for anything, in the way that spaniels do.
Oh okay.  TMI already.
It put me in mind of when we used to live on the Levels and there was a certain track beloved of dog walkers.  You'd walk along and people would call out, imperiously: 'Dog?' to which the correct answer was not, 'Of course it's a dog, you stupid bint!' but 'Yes!' to which the person would either nod and say, 'Ditto!' or instead call, 'Bitch!'  Only in England.

Anyhow, we smiled, walked on and James, Dan and I paused at the cricket ground, leaning on the fence (me and James, that is) and watched the match for a bit.  It was all so calm, so peaceful, so rather delightful in that quaint bucolic traditional English way.  The sun shining.  The thwack of ball on bat.  Oh lordy, back to balls again.
And so we were.  Because something thwacked into my leg and it wasn't a ball but Dan, pursued by the not quite but almost on-heat spaniel bitch.

And that voice again: 'Is he male?  Is he intact?'


Wait.  We'd been here before.  Were we on some kind of Möbius loop?
'Er, yes... and no,' I said.
'Oh!  He's mounting her!'
I shrugged.  'Well, nothing will come of it.  He can't do much.'  Rather wistful at how it would have been rather lovely to have some mini-Dans.
'Do you know any good dogs?' asked the woman.
'I beg your pardon?'
'Spaniels?  Good spaniels.  For mating her?'
What?  Did I look like a dog pander?
'Er, no,' I said. 'Maybe try Woods?  Paddy will know.'
'Good point.  Where do you live?'
Huh?

It all started to feel a bit Kafka-esque, as if I were being interviewed for some job for which I hadn't applied, of which I knew nothing.  My dog breeding failure soon compounded by my lack of any kind of expertise whatsoever.
Had I watched the latest play at the town hall, she asked.
'No,' I said.  'It's not really my thing.'
'Hmm.  What about the ballroom dancing?  Do you do that?  Is that your thing?'
'Er...No, not really.'
'Well, what is your thing?' she demanded, sounding deeply irritated at my lack of thing.
'Er...'  I paused, feeling deeply pathetic.
What was my thing?
I used to have things.  I used to have interests, passions even.  When did I become so disinterested, so apathetic, so thing-less?
'That's it,' I said to James, when we finally escaped, wiping a sheen of sweat from my brow, with a strong suspicion I'd flunked the exam. 'I need a thing.'

Suggestions?

Mike June and Jess Klein play live at the Exmoor Beastro - I listen.

Back in the day, I used to go to several gigs a week but now I’m lucky if I get to see one a year.  Jane whisks me off, of course, from time to time but she tends to favour big stadiums or vast Mancunian fields.  And, really, I much prefer smaller, more intimate venues.  Like the Exmoor Beastro, in fact. 

The Beastro is a café/restaurant/whatever in Dulverton.  The owners are passionate, nay – evangelical - about good food and drink, and champion artisanal producers.  It’s getting a bit of a name for itself on Exmoor – not just because the food is fabulous but because the whole atmosphere is so damn good - easygoing, laid-back, supremely friendly.  Adrian loves it, and is frequently tugged inside by co-owner Alex to try some new beer or dip or whatever.  

Anyhow, a couple of days ago, Adrian came back and said, ‘The Beastro have got some singer-songwriter performing.  Sounds like your kind of thing.’  And, although the night was sold-out, Alex said they could squeeze me in and so off I went.

‘Are you going on your own?’ said Adrian. 

‘Sure,’ I said.  Because, really, it never bothers me.  I spent years doing it in London when I used to review theatre and bands and films and stuff.  It was all well and good when one had tickets to the National Theatre or the Marquee or whatever – but when you were being dispatched to listen to some band in a room above a back street boozer at the end of the Central Line, one’s friends seemed to…well…vanish. 

The courtyard had been turned into a sort of Arabesque tent for the night – with twinkling lights and heat blasting out from the wood-fired oven.  It all looked...quite magical.  

The music was great too.  Mike June.  Unaffected troubadour.  Jess Klein.  Fabulous voice, the kind that rummages around in your solar plexus.  Great sound system too (Alex used to work in the music business – he knows his stuff).  But hey, my reviewing days are gone.  Have a listen for yourself.

There was great food too.  Ribs for the meat-eaters, and a superfood salad for me.  Fresh crunchy bread with home-made hummus.  Olives and pickles.  All in all, a damn fine evening .  Musicians are having a tough time of it nowadays (maybe even tougher than journalists) so it's good to support live music.  And it's good to buy a CD too.  So I did.  

The Beastro promise lots more live gigs so keep an ear out. You can find them on Facebook here.  

What next?  Well, Jack Savoretti would be good.  Thea Gilmore wouldn't be bad.  Or maybe this guy...who I heard playing in a Polish garden.  

It's time...

So, it’s finally time.    

After all the shilly-shallying, will we-won't we, we are finally going to put this crazy, gorgeous, mad house on the market. 

How do I feel?  Conflicted.  I thought this would be my forever home, I really did.  If you’ve followed my blog for some time, you’ll know how I fell head over heels in love with the place, with everything about it.  I could see past the layers of vinyl wallpaper, past the nutty layout (inherited from when it was a sporting hotel).  Its problems didn’t faze me – I knew I could put it right.  Okay, so it’s not quite finished – there are bits that still need some TLC, but the bones of this house are good.  Oh, let’s be honest – it’s drop-dead gorgeous.  That vast sitting room with the immense fireplace and the vaulted ceiling that could  be a chapel or, if you’re feeling fanciful, a Viking great hall (on a small scale); those arts and craft windows with the dragon latches; that secluded garden; those suntrap bedrooms. 

Why are we moving?  Because it’s time.  Because things change and, no matter how much one might like to keep everything in aspic, it’s akin to asking the tide to stay put and please wait just there.  No lapping, if you don’t mind. 

After twenty years of country living, it’s time to head for the city again.  London?  No.  Much as I love my old manor, I couldn’t move back even if I wanted to.  My old house (a three-bedroom terrace in North-East London) would now cost close to a million.  Crazy, huh?

‘Of all the people I know, I never thought you’d settle in the country,’ said an old friend I met recently.  ‘London was your happy hunting ground, your patch.  I never thought you’d stick it in the sticks.’ 

Yes, I loved London.  But I have loved the countryside too.  Over the last twenty years, I have watched so many city dwellers arrive starry-eyed, only to become disillusioned, and race back to the smoke.  Mainly they find the countryside boring in comparison to the city.  There simply isn’t the diversity of shops, entertainment and people that cities have.  

Here in Dulverton, we’re lucky – we have four pubs, some great restaurants and cafes, tons of individual independent shops, plenty of clubs and activities and plenty of deliciously odd people (as well as some very nice normal ones, of course).  Even so, people want more - it often seems as though what they really want is the city with a few cows, sheep and thatched roofs.  But the countryside (even relatively 'civilised' outposts like Dulverton) is a very different beast from the city and it takes a certain mindset to get on here. 

I've been lucky.  I have made great friends here – a far greater variety than I ever did in the city.  Back in London my friends were all pretty much arty media types – journalists and musicians, artists and fashion designers, with a garnish of lawyers.  Here in the country, my pals are teachers, carers, farmers and builders; fitness instructors, beauticians, owners of small businesses.  The age range is far wider and, whereas in London my friends shared much the same political views, in the countryside one simply can’t afford to let politics get in the way of friendship.  I’ll miss them and this community that open-heartedly welcomed us.

I will miss being able to walk straight out into stunning countryside, up through the woods, down through the fields, along by the river, out onto the moor.  I will miss popping into the shops for a pint of milk and coming back an hour later because I’ve bumped into so many people and been kept chatting.  I will miss my outdoor exercise classes – in drizzle, fog and frost, even in snow and cloudburst – Exmoor folk are hardy.   And I will miss this gorgeous old house which is right in the centre of this glorious Exmoor town (is it a large village or a small town – I can never decide) and yet remains completely secluded.  As James recently pointed out, if there were a Zombie Apocalypse, we would  be ideally situated to hunker down and stay safe.  Now there’s a good selling point!

My son, however, is not remotely conflicted.  The countryside was his playground as a child – yes, we followed all the clichés – wild swimming and picnics by the river; lazy days on the glorious North Devon beaches;  building fire-pits and willow huts; larking around with dogs and ponies; hunting for antlers (and finding them); hiking and cycling, canoeing and camping. 

But now he’s fifteen, he wants something a bit edgier, something more urban, something more ‘youthful’.  His friends, who used to love coming over to build huts and tree-houses, now want to hang out at the shops or go bowling, paintballing and to the cinema.  Soon it will be bars and clubs.  So, it’s time to go.  Time to let him stretch his wings and time for me to snap out of my country fugue.   Besides, journalism is changing.  I am changing. I need a new challenge. 

So.  If you know anyone who is keen to try the Good Life on Exmoor, let me know.  I’ve tugged together a blog to show a little more of the house so take a look and spread the word.  Just make sure you're the 'right type' huh?  :-)

http://dulvertonhouse.blogspot.co.uk 

The Number Seven Walking Book Club

Little things, local things, said my friend Sandie and I thought, she’s got a point.  I should make an effort.   We humans are surely not intended to be so solitary?  And then, serendipity, I saw a tweet from Davina who has a fabulous shop in town.  Number Seven.   And she hosts a Walking Book Club.  And I remembered how she’d told me about it when she was setting it up. We’d discussed a book we both loved – The Night Circus.  Would I come, she asked?  Of course, I said.  But somehow I never had.  But now?  Why not?  So I picked up a copy of the month’s choice – A Proper Education for Girls - read it that night and it was a fine old romp.

And I told Sandie and she raised an eyebrow.  ‘A walking book club?' she said.  'What a strange idea - how can folk properly discuss something in a group if they're all walking along?? Someone's going to end up at the back and be unable to hear a thing. You Exmoor folk are a tad strange at times, I think. Don't people like to sit down with a glass of vino in those parts? Are they all madly outdoorsy??’

Which made me smile because yes, on the whole, people here are all madly outdoorsy. And certainly a tad strange.  But hey, I like reading and I like walking so…  Dan and I pitched up at Number Seven and off we went. 

‘The first bit is pretty steep so we won’t talk about the book until we get to the top,’ said Davina.  Aha, so that answered Sandie’s question.  And we walked up through the allotments and up past the old school house and into the hollow way that leads up to Court Down.  And then we sat down in a field, amidst the tall grass, and just had a very civilised little chat about the book which then veered out into other good books, and excellent and not so excellent films and even took a little side plunge into the question of how society’s views towards women had changed and not changed since Victorian times.  And the three dogs barrelled around and it was…nice. 

And then, when we were done talking, we meandered off again and walked down to Marsh Bridge and along the Barle and then climbed up again at Burridge Woods to avoid the scree slope, and Davina and Marion talked about the hut up at the hill fort.  And how they’d found it festooned with bones when they’d been there last. 

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘That would have been me.  Did you find the skull?’ 

‘There was a skull?’

‘Oh yes. But I put that in a nearby tree, to watch.’ 

We clambered back down into town and, on our return to the shop, Davina brought out a little table piled with proof copies of books and said we were welcome to borrow any.  So I nabbed a couple and have spent this morning sitting in the sun reading Goat Mountain by David Vann.  A dark, disturbing book about an eleven-year old boy and three men on a mountain for their annual deer hunt.  But the boy shoots a man, not a buck, and the quartet pull themselves apart over questions of morality and mores, the rules and beliefs by which we choose to live. Did I enjoy it?  No.  It's not a pleasurable read.  But it certainly gives food for thought.  

Anyhow.  Next month's book choice is Revenge by Yoko Ogawa - 'A slice of life that is resplendent in its chaos, enthralling in its passion and chilling in its cruelty'.  So that sounds pretty jolly.  But I'm not going to read that until nearer the date because the downside to reading extremely fast is that I can rarely remember a book for more than a day or so.  So now I'm back to the garden with the next book Davina lent me - Perfect by Rachel Joyce.  

If you live on or around Exmoor, why not join the Club?  Check out the website for book choices and dates. If you don't live on or around Exmoor, why not join and 'virtually' walk instead?  Buy the book (all book club choices cost £5 from Number Seven) and share your thoughts on the blog (while walking in spirit, of course).  

Please note that all pics are © Davina Jelley.  Please do not reproduce without her permission.

Come walk with me...

So you can't be here, in Dulverton, on beautiful Exmoor...  Never mind.  Come with me on my morning walk.  We'll take it slow (I'm not feeling so great today)...
The SP is bouncing like Tigger but he always waits for me to open the first gate...

...and then the second gate...

We walk through town as it starts to wake up...past the familiar shops, and the familiar cars and familiar people.

And then we cross the bridge and turn up into the woods.  It's steep and somehow steep on tarmac is harder than steep on earth so we take it easy.

The wild foxgloves are bee buzzed bells...

Most people go straight on, following the wide track down to the river.  But we veer left, through this narrow opening, and up the steep track known locally as the Chimney.

Past ancient beech tree hedgerows, moss-crept, sinew-rooted...

The bluebells have sunk back into the earth now, and bracken reigns.  The woods open out as we dip down and up the old ramparts of the bronze age hill fort.

We pause at "my" tree, of course, wondering again how it survived when its brothers and sisters were felled. Happy chance.  Sometimes I meditate here, sometimes I just lean back and listen to the birdsong, the distant sounds of the town.  If we're very still, sometimes the deer come.

The path widens and we come across the den, a little camp constructed around a tree.  Weeks back I decorated it with a rib-cage, placing the skull to watch in a nearby tree but now they've gone.

We have a choice.  Sometimes the SP and I turn left and make a full circuit but today my energy is flagging so we veer to the right and pick our way downwards.

Past the hawthorn tree, past this little moss-sprung spring...and back to the wide path, down down down, over the bridge and...you get the picture.  It's only a small walk - an hour at most - but every day it is different, every day some new fresh detail.  It comforts me somehow.  Even if life is basically meaningless, it can still be beautiful.

In which Trisha totally creases me...

So, this morning I wandered down to the river, for kettlebells, my Sunday service.  And my heart sank. No little group loitering by the grass.  Had I got it wrong?  Was it cancelled?

Then Trisha popped out of her car, lean and tanned in tiny shorts and vest. 

‘Where is everyone?’ I asked.

‘On holiday,’ she replied. ‘I think it might just be us.’

And my heart soared.  I looked hopefully at her, fully expecting she’d say something like, ‘So how about we go get some breakfast at the Tantivy?’

‘So…’ she said.  ‘How about we do something different?’

I looked quizzically at her. Not the Tantivy then? 

‘How about we do some interval training?’

It sounded so simple.  ‘Er…sure.’

So we started off running… Well, she ran, I sort of amble-jogged. Then…oh God, I really can’t remember.  It was the longest hardest toughest hour of my life.  I have a dim recollection of doing shuttle runs, followed by sit-ups and push-ups.  There was a bit where we swung monster kettles, then did burpees (oh sweet heavens above, is there any more exquisite form of torture?), then …something or other that was equally painful.

I felt my face go red; I felt sweat gluing my t-shirt to my back; my mouth went dry. People stopped and watched and you could almost see the thoughts going through their heads. Who are these totally mad women and what the freaking hell are they doing on a Sunday morning? 

‘How’re you doing?’ said Trish, not even slightly out of breath.  I just stared, wild-eyed, and sort of spluttered. 'Fine. That is, if dying is fine.'

‘Right. 100 rep cycles now,’ she said. 

‘What?’ I gasped.

‘100 reps of everything – kettlebell swings, arm raises, burpees, kettlebell sit-ups, lateral flies, leg drops, triceps…’  I stopped listening.  ‘Don’t tell me,’ I begged. ‘Let’s just do it.’

And I just endured. And somehow it ended and I was still alive. Sort of.  And, as we walked along the river for a cool-down we bumped into Teresa and Dawn-Marie and Teresa said, ‘Wow.’ And I just sort of grimaced. 

‘You’re so fit,’ she said.  ‘We couldn’t believe what you were doing.’

‘No, I’m not,’ I said.  ‘And nor could I.’

Because the thing is, it’s oh so easy to get into a rut.  I can do my normal routines easy-peasy but this seriously floored me.

‘I think I may have creased Jane,’ said Trisha with an evil grin.

‘I think you may,’ I said with a simulacrum of a smile, mopping my puce-red face.

But truly, it was great. Pushed me out of my comfort zone and made me realize that I’ve let my foot slip off the gas lately.  Put on a fair few pounds; lost a fair bit of aerobic fitness.  Time to make some changes.  J

If you want a Trisha beasting, she offers personal fitness sessions as well as a series of classes (kettlebells, bootcamp, Nordic walking etc.) around Exmoor.  Check out her website.  And...relax...she will work with your level of ability and to your goals. Seriously, it could change your shape; change your life. Save your life even, if you've been killing yourself with food and lack of exercise.  She only beasts me because she knows that, despite all the moaning and groaning, I love it.   

Moscow Drug Club

‘You need to get out more,’ said Caz.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Sure. But you’re living in your weird fantasy world. It’s not real. You need to see people, do things. You know…in the real world.’

‘What’s real?’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’

‘It’s just distraction.’

‘Then be distracted.’

And I thought, fair enough. Why not? So I went to the pub.  So I went to see Cloud Atlas (at the local cinema where the audience totalled about ten, which is just fine and dandy as far as I’m concerned).  So I went out for lunch. So I stayed in for lunch with an old friend. And I was…yes…distracted. A bit. 

And then I wandered down to the village hall to see Moscow Drug Club, cos Caz had insisted I had to go. And it was…nice.  I bought a bottle of wine cos Caz had said a couple of her friends were going to share a table with us.  But none of them was drinking red so I quietly glugged it myself.  And I ate too - seriously good roast vegetable lasagne and salad followed by lemon tart.

And they played a bit of Tom Waits, a bit of Jacques Brel, a bit of this, a bit of that. They were a good troupe. I pricked up my ears when they announced Leonard Cohen’s Dance Me to the End of Love - a song I love - but they sort of wrecked that, as far as my ears felt. But generally, it was…fine. Nice.

And afterwards I helped Caz hump tables around and she came back for a cup of herbal tea and we sat by the fire and talked a bit. 

And the next day I got an email from her.  And she said: 'It was lovely to see you out enjoying the frivolities of socialising with your community. People were so pleased to see you.'  At which I gave the screen a quizzical look. 

And then she asked me four questions…

Me and my ASICS gonna run away...

So, this running thing.  You have to laugh.  I’d just started up and was going great guns when the snow came.  Now, I don’t mind a bit of weather – for pity’s sake we were doing kettlebells by the river in driving hail the other day – but I’m not good on ice.  Instead of striding along in my usual fashion, I morph into little old lady mode, clutching cars and walls as I inch along.  Truly it’s pathetic.  It hurts my pride.  This guy I know shouted on Facebook about how a little snow wasn’t stopping him running and I felt seriously peeved but then I noted that someone else had fallen, running on ice, and had broken her wrist.  There’s gung-ho and there’s plain daft. 

So, my lovely new running shoes fromSportsShoes.com had to sit in their box.  Oh, okay, I put them on and sort of jogged round the house in them cos seriously, they’re rather fab.  I hadn’t realized just how different running shoes are from normal trainers.  They’re slim and snug, they hug my feet like a second skin.  They make me feel all supported and…’held’…and that’s really rather a lovely feeling. 

But not very technical, huh?

In the end, after consultation with my running coach, Trisha, and a good peruse of the SportsShoes.com website (which offers advice on which shoes to pick) I plumped for the ASICS GEL-KAYANO®18.  These usually retail at a whopping £137.99 but were on sale at £89.99.  Still a heck of a lot of money.  ‘I don’t get it,’ I said to Trisha. ‘How come they’re so expensive when you can pick up a running shoe for twenty quid or whatnot?’  And she explained it’s all in the technology. The more expensive the shoe, the better the fit, support and cushioning apparently.  ‘And you really do need the right shoe if you’re going to avoid injury,’ she warned, pointing out that the main reasons so many people injure themselves running (ice aside) are wearing the wrong footwear and not following the right training regime. 

To be very honest, although my ASICS looked lovely, I couldn’t see what justified the price tag.  So I looked a bit further and seems it’s all to do with their GEL™ Cushioning System which apparently “dissipates vertical impact and disperses it into a horizontal plane.” It also has ‘gender specific densities in the midsole’ which sounds a bit…interesting.  I’d often wondered why you got men’s and women’s trainers – I mean, a shoe’s a shoe, right?  Wrong.  Seems that men and women place weight in different areas of the foot when they’re running.  I was also rather taken by the ‘exoskeletal heel counter’ that ‘provides improved support and an improved heel fitting environment for serious runners’.  Get that! Serious runners.  I’m a serious runner?  Like this guy? Hmm...I'm slower but I've got better legs.  

Actually, the Kayano 18 is probably a way more technical shoe than I, as a rank beginner, really truly honestly need.  It’s a bit like when, back last year, I was asked to test out a swimsuit and was fondling the Olympic quality stuff.  I turned to Trisha again. ‘How much should you pay, as a beginner, for a pair of shoes?’ And she reckoned around the forty quid mark would do it – but to make sure you do get the right shoe for your foot. 

Anyhow. Finally the snow and ice pissed off and the road beckoned.  On Sunday, before kettles, four of us took off round the lanes around Dulverton.  My feet felt – wonderful.  Just wonderful.  I wish I could say the same for my lungs but that will come with time.  And I kept the shoes on for kettlebells and they were superb for that too – providing a ton of grip which was really useful given we work out on a pretty rough surface. 

I have to say I’m impressed. I'm also now totally spoiled for cheap shoes - once you've felt that...snugness...it's hard to go back to a lesser holding pattern.  I was also impressed by the service from Sportsshoes.com and by their website which is easy to navigate and offers some great bargains.  Go take a look.

So now there’s not much else to say really.  I’m all kitted up.  The open road stretches before me and I’m off…gonna run, run, run, run away…  Catch me if you can.  J

The woods are lovely, dark and deep...

The woods are beautiful in the snow.  Well, woods are always beautiful but, in snow, they become primeval.  As you crunch the slim tracks through trees you could imagine the wolves were running.  Silent shadows, sliding past out of the corner of your eye.  Your head knows they don’t exist but your heart smiles at their subterfuge.

But really, here and now, there are deer, small herds of hinds. Startled, they stare, wide-eyed, then leap away.  A small dog in pursuit.  But no deerhound he. 

In the fields, by the river, the drifts are deep.  The water runs yet, too fast to freeze.  The gate has been snaggled with barbed wire. A pass-knot.  I unpick, fingers numbing. Patience, caution. Winter is a time of circumspection. No grand gestures now.  We do the small things we need to survive.  Remembering ancestors huddled round the fire.

And small things please.  Outside the kitchen door, a line of little icicles, a delicate fringing.  One pink flower remains. Embraced by ice. 

Back inside, I’ll build a fire.  A tent of twigs.  The ancient campfire.  Outside the snow falls still. Inside the fire keeps the bite of winter tamed. Just.

But before that, I pause. Type this with one dog perched on my lap.  His nose settled between my knees. His body warm. Both of us enjoying the comfort. Wolf turned tame.  The other?  Maybe not so much.  :)

Lost weekends and the Hedgerows Heaped with May

Weird old weekend, spent mainly in the past.  As anyone who knows me on Facebook will have realized, I finally got a scanner and indulged in a totally over-the-top nostalgia fest.  Pictures spanning a century (no, I’m not quite that old – I found some of my mother’s old photo albums too). 

Living in a box, living in a cardboard box.

It was bittersweet, the way looking at the past often is.  I compounded it by reading through old diaries.  And then, just to cap it all, I decided to tackle my box files and weeded through a decade of accounts and cuttings and clippings and other detritus.   Dear god, I was another person entirely – earning a packet (THAT much?  SHIT!) and spending a packet (mainly, has to be said, on doing up the derelict money pit otherwise known as the Rectory).  I didn’t have time to think – one year I think I wrote six books (quite apart from doing a shedload of journalism and TV and radio).  Funny old world, huh? 

Shoulda spent more on hairdressing, huh?  

Anyhow, the passed is past and I had a big bonfire (of my vanities) and there you go. 

Burn! 

And then lovely Zoe and her lovely husband came over to visit and I was going to be all Nigella-ish and make them pukka tea with scones and wotnot but they came early so the poor sods ended up taking me out to lunch (at lovely Woods, of course) and then I spent a bit of time dragging Zoe round the estate agents in town and pointing out the delights of Dulverton in the hope she would decide it really was time to ship out and come on down to Exmoor. 

And then, the post came.  A thick parcel from Aurum Press.  Huh?  I opened it up and there were two fat hardbacks sitting inside.  The Hedgerows Heaped with May.  Huh?  The Telegraph Book of the Countryside, edited by Stephen Moss. Huh?

And then I remembered.  That piece I’d written for the Telegraph, years back, about Liz Jones being such an arsey cow when she moved to Exmoor.  22 August 2009, to be precise.  Time flies, huh?  Based on that blog post. 

Anyhow, it was being included in a compilation of ‘the best writing’ on the countryside from the Telegraph.  Well, well.  Even better they were asking me to invoice – for fifty quid.  Not quite a fifteen grand royalty cheque but hey…every little helps right? 

The book is quite nice actually.  It’s got contributions from people like Clive James, James May (hey, how come he gets his name in the title??), Max Hastings (The Hedgerows Heaped with Hastings?), Joanna Trollope (umm, better not) and Boris Johnson. And, er...me.  

I love yoga but...just...owwwwww.

Ow, ow, ow, ow, owwwwww.  I swear to God there is not one single muscle in my entire body which is not aching today.  Back, arms, legs, bum, shoulders, calves, neck…yup, they all hurt like hell.  Yesterday I went back to yoga after a long long break and hellfire I can feel it.

I do a lot of stretching and incorporate plenty of yoga postures (asanas) into my fitness regime but seriously, it’s nothing like doing a proper class.  Paul Cartwright is, quite simply, a great teacher and so when I was asked if I’d like to join a private 90 minute vinyasa class he runs here in Dulverton, I jumped at the chance.  But really…owww.  I’d figured I’d shake it all out at Zumba last night but when I pitched up at the hall, there was no thumping music; just a whole pile of vegetables.  Bloody flower and produce show.

Anyhow. By pure coincidence, I got an email yesterday from a friend who has decided she wants to take up yoga. What type should she do? What did she need to know?  So, let’s have a think. 

Yoga is one of the oldest organized systems of exercise known to humankind – at least 3,000 years old and possibly even older.  Yet it’s a system that seems tailor-made for modern times.  

On a purely physical level, yoga puts pressure on all the different organs and muscles of the body very systematically.  As well as toning the outer body (which it does exceedingly, nay, fabulously well) it tones the whole inner body too.   The precise postures of yoga work deep into the body, causing blood to circulate profoundly rather than just around the outside edge of the body, nourishing every organ and softening the muscle and ligament tissue.  The deep stretching is said to bring both bones and muscles gently back into their optimum alignment while lubricating the joints. 

Yoga can improve the oxygenation of your blood and boost your circulation.  It also helps your body to detoxify, as it encourages lymphatic flow (the “waste removal” system of the body).  Not only does your body detox when you perform yoga:  your mind does too.  The specific yogic breathing techniques (called pranayama) directly affect the nervous system, eliciting the “relaxation response” so you feel calm, cool and in control.  Allegedly.

If you practice yoga regularly you will almost automatically balance your weight and develop a leaner body.  Many yoga teachers also say that yoga can help improve will power:  people often find it easier to stop smoking or lose weight when they start yoga.  Concentration improves and most people report a deep sense of inner peace.

Yoga is totally safe - providing you find the right teacher and the right class.  However it is a powerful system and should be treated with respect.   One over-enthusiastic Iyengar teacher once pushed me way too far and I ended with a trapped nerve in my shoulder.  Another teacher was so bloody wafty and ‘new age’ she used to forget what she was doing in the middle of a series of asanas.  Go by word of mouth if you can and be prepared to try out a few classes and “shop around”.

If you have any health problems (particularly heart conditions, back problems, or if you have had any kind of surgery) you should find a very experienced yoga teacher or a yoga therapist.  Yoga is wonderful for pregnancy (I did classes with the lovely Sebastian Pole – founder of Pukka Herbs) but you will need to avoid certain postures.  Ideally, find a class specifically designed for pregnant women or have individual sessions with a yoga teacher or yoga therapist.

WHICH TYPE OF YOGA SHOULD YOU PICK?

Yes, I can...

To be honest, it doesn’t really matter.  I’d be more inclined to go by the teacher, rather than the type. Hatha yoga is the general name for the physical practice of yoga.  The majority of classes will simply call themselves by this name – or simply “yoga”.  However over the years many different approaches have sprung up.  Whichever type you pick, always start with a beginner’s class.  Yoga postures (known as asanas) are very precise and to begin with you will need a lot of individual attention. 

Here’s a brief guide to the most popular types of yoga and their approaches.

Hatha yoga:  expect relaxation, warm-up, postures, breathing and deep relaxation.  Many teachers will also include meditation.  Ideal for everyone and the most commonly available class.

Vini yoga:  puts emphasis on individual tuition and individual needs.  Safe, gentle and ideal for beginners.  Often taught on a one-to-one basis. A good introduction for anyone nervous about yoga.

No, I can't...

Iyengar yoga:  a very focused, precise form of yoga.  Teachers use “props” such as blocks and belts to help you into position.  Good if you want the benefits without too much “weird stuff”.  Not my game but is very popular.

Yoga therapy:  therapeutic form of yoga with a medical background.  Will usually offer classes for specific problems and conditions, ie back pain, arthritis, asthma, pregnancy.  Individual tuition usually available.  The best choice if you have a medical condition.

Sivananda yoga:  gentle yet pure form of yoga based around 12 key postures.  Has a strong spiritual element (often includes chanting and meditation). 

Dru yoga:  a very gentle, holistic approach which uses graceful flowing movement sequences.  Said to release negative thought patterns, energy blocks and deep-seated trauma.   

Ashtanga vinyasa yoga:  so-called “power yoga” which uses a specific breathing technique and sequences of postures carried out at far greater speed than other forms.  It’s an intense workout and not suitable for beginners. Paul does a variation of this called vinyasa flow (and also incorporates other types of yoga – many teachers blend their own fusions).

Bikram yoga:  intense and highly athletic, the yoga studio is heated to temperatures of 100 degrees to allow students to stretch that bit further.  Again, not ideal for beginners.

The British Wheel of Yoga:  www.bwy.org.uk

Needless to say, I rave about yoga in most of my health books.  Many are now available in e-format for Kindle (at a fraction of the hardback or paperback price). Check out my author page at Amazon here.