Close shaves and near misses

Growing up can be tough. When I think back to my childhood it’s as though there was a big river running through it. The Styx maybe? There was Before Dad Died and After Dad Died - and I was a different child on each river bank.

This has been a tough holiday for James in many ways. Lyme Disease and our sojourn in hospital made him realise that we can’t always take good health for granted and that many children are in real life-threatening situations; that serious pain is not a grazed knee.

Then we had the Riphay Scuffle where we saw our lives flash before our eyes as a car hurtled past, snagging a line of fencing and a heavy stake came flying within a few feet of us. We were okay but someone further down the hill had to be air-lifted to hospital.  Tragically that evening two young lads died on their way home from the Scuffle as they lost control of their car. James hates driving past the spot where they came off the road and I had to explain that sometimes awful things do happen but that we can’t let them control our lives. So we do occasionally drive that way and pass the huge swathe of tributes – and say a silent prayer for the boys and their families.

A few days back, Adrian and a friend of ours took James to the cricket in Taunton. On the way back they got a flat tyre and had to pull over to change it. A car slowed down and the next thing a truck ploughed straight into it. By a miracle nobody was seriously hurt (though we heard later that the lad in the first car has whiplash) but James was horribly shaken.

‘It all happened in slow motion,’ he said as he sobbed into my shoulder. ‘I thought they were dead.’

He has, I think, crossed his own river. Coming close to death and danger changes you. He seems more contemplative, more grown up maybe. It’s strange too that this summer is the one that straddles the divide between junior and senior school. In a few weeks time, he will be at ‘big’ school, boarding for the odd night here and there, doing his own thing. He can’t wait. He’s desperate to move up, to move on. I’m thrilled but also can’t help but feel a little pensive.

So, it hasn’t been a carefree summer so far. But, in the scheme of things, we’re so lucky. We’ve come close but the cup has passed by. I do often wonder how on earth parents handle really serious illness, accidents or, perish the thought, the death of a child? I’ve recently been reading Simon’s Choice by Charlotte Castle, an author I met on Authonomy. The book looks at exactly that question – what happens when you are told that your child’s illness is terminal. I’m going to be posting an interview I did with Charlotte quite soon – so do watch out for that.

Sorry, this is a rather maudlin post. To end on a brighter note, we are so looking forward to our holiday in Northumberland. I think we could all do with a little light relief.

btw, I have recently given an interview myself - to the website Authors on Show.  It's about my career in journalism and writing - and my hopes for my teen fiction.  You can read it here

A typical Exmoor weekend

Heck what a weekend. It started off with the Riphay Scuffle. This is a particularly Exmoor affair – totally mystifying to most but a seminal part of the summer. We walked up over the hills (if you park at the Scuffle you run the risk of never seeing your car again – in one piece). It’s peaceful and beautiful – idyllic Somerset countryside.  Then you hear it: the growling and groaning of engines in pain. Next  comes the smell – of burning diesel. Finally you crest the hill and the full madness becomes clear – 4x4s charging around a sort of circuit, plunging through rivers, churning through mud, dodging trees, shunting one another, being towed out by tractors. It’s Mad Max Armageddon – total insanity.

Adrian hates it. I am mesmerised by it and James, of course, loves it. Every year is supposedly the last but every August it lurches back. Every year we roll our eyes and say this will be the year that someone gets seriously hurt or killed. Why? Because several hundred souped-up bangers being driven by bevvied youngsters is kind of a natural recipe for disaster.

I’m torn. Part of me loves the anarchy – that in this world where health and safety strangleholds all fun and freedom, there is a place for total foolhardy recklessness. But as a mother I wince.

And this year we nearly came a cropper. As we were sipping our drinks on the hillside, a 4x4 came careering through, caught the wire and stake fencing and whipped it out behind it. The fencing snaked across the field and slapped a guy sitting on the floor near us right around the throat. He was shocked but okay but someone further down wasn’t so lucky – and was taken to hospital in the air ambulance.

That evening we had kitchen supper with friends up in the hills. The boys played volleyball in the fading light and then slunk off to watch Family Guy while we adults chewed the fat and had a good laugh. I found myself talking to an ex paratrooper turned head hunter (possibly literally) who had walked solo across Iceland. I expressed awe and he shook his head firmly. ‘Anyone could do it with the right training and commonsense.’ The image of me marching with my tent across ice fields made me snort into my curry. Yup, right.

As we left the night sky was just littered with stars while a platoon of dogs wound themselves around us, a silent wolf pack guiding us to the car.

Surprisingly and blissfully I wasn’t too badly hungover the next day which was fortunate as it was Hound Racing. Another uniquely Exmoor occurrence and a particular favourite. There are various hound races – from the big lollopy staghounds to the small sparky beagles. But our focus was the dog show. Unfortunately we missed the puppy class but James entered the SP for the terrier class (well, he is half-terrier) and for the child handler class. They didn’t win either but got a lurid orange rosette anyhow. James wasn’t impressed. ‘It doesn’t count ‘cos everyone got one,’ he said, disgruntled. See, prizes for everyone doesn’t quite cut it after a certain age.

‘Never mind,’ said I, laughing my head off at the sight of a very small little girl being towed across the ring by a very large retriever. ‘Another week, another dog show. It’s the terrier show next week.'

‘Hmm, maybe we should take Asbo,’ said Adrian.  We laughed weakly but hey....you know what – I think we just might.

Don't you love this picture - the SP's tail and ears wagging so fast they've turned into a blur....