Goodbye 2019

I suppose it’s inevitable that as the decade draws to a close, we look to the future with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Whether it be a small promise to oneself to eat cleaner, give up the booze or in my case sell up and move to a different country, a New Year gives us the impetus to leap into the proverbial fire. It’s no secret that the last half of the 20teens was frankly horrendous for me so I’m definitely looking forward to seeing the backside of 2019. And if you remember reading one of my first blogs recanting a friend’s advice on not making any radical changes in the first year of widowhood, I’m certainly ready to throw everything at 2020 now.

Having blasted the last few years as hideous, the last week spent with my family at L’horte was the ultimate Christmas present. And like all Christmases should be, it was a time filled with reminiscence of times past and way too much food ( I think my tum has booked an all-inclusive at a macrobiotic spa for the next month). And as much as I want to rid my karma of all the bad stuff, the 24 years of life at L’horte which was essentially built by Pop gave us so much in the memory bank. Lives were nurtured there. Nine grandchildren learnt how to manoeuvre a canoe and tip it on a regular basis, some even learnt to swim in the process. Bodies were thrown in gay abandon (can one still say that?) off a zip wire hopefully hitting the correct deep water spot and dogs ran amok on the endless acres of playground until their time was done. Oh and aperitifs on the verandah ahhhhh…

It was only fitting that we should scatter Pop’s ashes on the land he made for his family to come together on. Of course, even this act involved some hilarity on the part of the dogs, namely mine as usual. My younger brother had given a brilliant Christmas present to all with a number of trees, climbers and bulbs to be planted across the property and up the houses in Pop’s memory. I have done the same at chez Knollys by the way with roses for Tony. Off we went en masse to dig up holes and plant various greenery in semi-organised fashion. I would like to point out that such acts of love should really be carried out without an over-excited Border terrier, a somewhat confused Norfolk and three ‘let’s play fetch right now’ German Shepherds. Led by Arry. Naturally. And his pet rock(s). The aim was to drop his pet rock in whatever hole had been dug then lead a musical bark session until the rock was lobbed somewhere. And repeat. I would apologise to Moth for my chaos-inducing canine except for the less than calming comment about using a pick axe with Alice’s presence nearby.

” Careful of Alice, I’m seeing Ring of Bright Water here”

“Oh you mean that book that guy wrote who was responsible for the demise of X whale population”

“Probably but right now I’m seeing the ending of the book in graphic detail”

“Best move your dog then”

I love my family…….

So let’s raise a glass to 2020. I hope for all that it is the start of something big and shiny. Love the Widow plus her Woofers.

” The dog was created specifically for children. He is the god of Frolic” (Henry Ward Beecher)