Wednesday, 6 July 2016


No Fear. A saying borrowed from the surf lexicon and referring to the moment that one sallies forth, attempting the incredible feat of riding a moving body of water on a floating board. Catch the wave and hoist yourself upright, find your balance and enjoy the ride, fall off and get sucked under, remembering to keep the sun in your sights. Swim up to the surface, breathe. Repeat.  

Scary how quickly you can lose sight of which way is up and which way down, and it is only now - nearly three years later -  that I see just how far the current had pulled me under after Felix’s birth. For the first six months I was too busy tending to his ever present needs to consider something as intangible as my own mental health. After the physical trauma of delivery I was so grateful that I had healed and that I would not be (oh horror) incontinent that I felt utterly fine. Emerging from the first stage and entering the arena of weaning, sleep training and ever shifting patterns of napping, I was too busy to worry about my feelings. What new mother can spare the energy? In fact, it was only in the run up to his first birthday that the truth began to seep out, unbidden and unwanted. Until then I had assumed that my fears and anxieties were natural and normal, that the grief I felt in regards to my experience of labour, and the horror that engulfed me whenever I let my mind slip towards the black abyss, was simply a part of the healing process and that things would improve without the need for intervention. I let the tears flow freely and poured out my story to anyone who would listen, convinced that the telling would heal the hurt, the way it had always done in the past. The progressive insomnia was largely disguised by night feeds, providing a perfect cover for the fact that a cohort of demons had invaded and were slowly but surely taking over. In fact, it was only when Felix started sleeping through the night that the true damage was revealed, just as the low tide exposes all the detritus washed up on the beach.

I want to write about my experience ir order to help all those women who
have experienced complicated, traumatic, or tragic births, still births and miscarriages and other sufferings that have no name. You are not alone. Your grief and suffering is not impenetrable, you can and you should seek help. Among those who study postpartum afflictions, the profile of women exhibiting signs of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is on the rise. Two recent studies have found that approximately one-third of all postpartum women suffer some elements of PTSD, and three to seven percent suffer full-blown PTSD. “During childbirth, many women experience real threats regarding physical harm or death to themselves or their baby,” says Inbal Shlomi-
Polchek, a psychiatrist and co-author of the Tel Aviv study. “During a painful birth, many women believe that their bodies are torn or destroyed irreversibly.” Such is the truth of giving birth, and whilst a lucky percentage sail through with a minimum of fuss or pain, for many others the agony, fear, and torment they undergo during those insane hours when your baby goes from unborn to born, and you go from woman to mother, are deeply scarring, both mentally and physically.

Mothers and soldiers, we are kin, for it is these groups who suffer must from PTSD. I have come to perceive a very real stigma surrounding the experience of giving birth, and saying that you had an awful, potentially life changing time is frowned upon. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all over now’ and ‘But think how lucky you are to have a lovely, healthy baby’ is a sentiment I heard echoed more than once. Labour and birth are considered ‘natural’ and ‘wonderful’ and ‘life enhancing’, and no doubt that they can be, but they equally can be agonizing, terrifying, and dehumanizing. I’m guessing we wouldn’t tell a battle scarred soldier to chill out, it’s all over, and look, your all in one piece, would you? And yet that is exactly the kind of platitudes that traumatized mothers are offered. Some of it is just the luck of the draw; a quick and easy labour that develops swiftly and delivers a baby with minimum intervention, perhaps while bathed in warm water or in the comfort of a bed with family present and appropriate anesthetic. Unfortunately, and to some incredibly, modern medicine and care does not always, or even often, deliver this result. So what have a new mother and a soldier in common? The list includes long hours of pain and fear, exposure to the threat of death or serious injury - and believe me, fear for your unborn child is terrifying beyond compare - a loss of dignity and control, the chilling feeling that a battle is underway and must inevitably come to a close, and an all-consuming sense of the presence of mortality and the terrifying fragility of life, all this whilst you are experiencing the worst pain of your life. Without any training. Without any briefing. Without any armour. Stripped in fact, to the very essence of what you are. And when it is all over and your body has come through the ordeal, you may find, as I did, that your mind is caught in a web of grief, fear, anger and horror, and that you are unable to stop the endless replay of those bloody hours in which you were invaded, torn and mutilated, subject to fear and horror and a level of pain you have not previously imagined possible.

Mothers, hear my words; do not continue to suffer in silence, covering up your heartbreak and anguish. Your pain and grief can be addressed, they can be processed and ordered and stored correctly in your brain and in your heart, and you will find that an enormous, crushing weight has been lifted from your mind, your heart, and your spirit. You will rediscover your joy for life, enhance the love that you feel for your children, family, friends and self, feel once again free to contemplate becoming pregnant again without a sick fear invading your soul, scorching and rotting it like acid. When my ever worsening panic attacks, uncontrollable bouts of weeping, increasing insomnia, revulsion towards pregnancy, and terrifying surges of adrenalin become impossible to ignore or couch as ‘normal’ I thought, ‘OK, enough’. After a referral from my GP and a phone assessment from a clinical psychologist that diagnosed me as ‘probably suffering from post traumatic stress disorder brought on by a traumatic birth’ I finally had a name for what was happening to me. Part of the horror had been in feeling that a negative process had taken control of my psyche and was inexorably ruining what was good and healthy, blocking out the light and feeding on the darkness it created. A cancer of the spirit. What we know about cancer is that early diagnosis is vital in treatment, so too is early diagnosis and effective treatment in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

I write this for all women, for all mothers and soldiers, and for any who have been through ordeals which have stolen something intrinsic from their spirit. If any of this rings bells with you, if you feel that, just perhaps, you are not ‘quite alright’, if you can’t sleep at night or wake trembling in the morning bathed in the slick sweat of fear, if you feel that birth was something you survived or endured, and want more than anything to forget but cannot, then please, heed my words. Contact your GP, or any of the organizations named below, and you will be able to get help. After a course of trauma focused Cognitive Behaviour Therapy, a process that involves many hours of talking, re-living the experience, and then re-sculpting the irrational thoughts and fears that surround it, and finally letting your ‘updated cognitions’ take the place of those damaged and irrational demons, I have torn through the blackness and out of the abyss. I no longer feel broken and damaged, on the verge of tears, hyper alert and panicky, My sleep - blessed blessed sleep - is nearly what it was before. I can talk and write about my experience in a way that is hopefully helpful to others. I am no longer caught in the crossfire of my own mind, where ravaged memories seek endlessly to be laid to rest. The haunting is over and I am free. Free to contemplate having another child. Free to enjoy motherhood and life. And let me tell you, that this is freedom indeed.

Friday, 10 June 2016


Unpainted toe nails glow like pale shells against the lightly browned skin of my feet, and a very faint yet discernable tan line shows the ghost of flip flops. It is June 10th and it is finally summer, albeit a volatile summer peppered with abrupt drenching storms, rumbling claps of thunder and chilly days that call for coats and covered shoes. Solstice draws ever nearer, and on fine evenings an afterglow of day hovers in the sky till after ten. We have started taking breakfast in the garden whenever possible, and as I sit under the benevolent canopy of the ancient oak tree, watching as the sun rises over the roofs of the houses and pours honey-golden light into the garden, I can hardly believe a year has passed since we moved to Teddington. Robins and blue tits dart and chirrup and the movement of branches creates a kaleidoscope of greens, and I wonder how we survived so long without this blessed outdoor space. Not to mention a second bedroom.

Months have passed since I last composed an entry, and this self imposed silence has been a fertile time during which I have worked hard to reestablish my ailing career and allowed much needed time for reflection. And yet in recent weeks the urge to write has built steadily like a slowly worsening itch, and I have found myself scribbling thoughts on scraps of paper and in iphone notes. Rust never sleeps, and a writer can never really stop writing. Time then for another, belated entry, for I feel I have earned the right to bugle from the treetops. Felix is potty trained! The tyranny of nappies is over, naps and nighttimes aside for the time being, and I feel like a grave burden has been lifted. After months of procrastination and a failed attempt in the miserly dregs of winter – snowsuits and multiple layers proving an insurmountable barrier - suddenly 48 hours has changed everything. This only serves to mark how effortless teaching your child can be when they are naturally ready to receive the lesson, like a flower turned up to receive the morning dew. One evening a fortnight ago, Felix expressed clearly his wish to be rid of nappies, so the very next day out we stepped over the threshold, pants and jeans the only thing between his nethers and the outside world.

I’ve heard the rhetoric about keeping them in for a few days while you’re
training but that was never going to work for us. A wild horse cannot be stabled, so off we trotted to playgroup as usual, with firm entreaties not to wee in the bike seat and the potty lodged snugly in the bike basket. ‘Do you need to wee?’ I asked as we cycled off. ‘No’ he replied. Two hours and no wees later, I put him back in the bike seat. ‘Right, I have to go to the bank, tell me if you need to wee’. Queuing up to cash a cheque I noticed his face had assumed a charged expression, ‘Do you need to wee?’ I asked, ‘Yes mummy’ he replied, looking helpless. Quick as a flash I whisked him round the corner into the private banking section, thankfully empty, and whipped out the potty. At first he sat rigid and alert but then his body relaxed and an endless stream of wee poured forth. ‘I’ve weed mummy’ he cried in delight as I smuggled the slopping potty outside and slung its contents into the gutter. ‘Well done my boy!’ I felt as proud as a hen that has laid its first egg, and as we re-entered the bank I stifled a laugh. Lucky them, I thought to myself, that I didn’t sling the whole lot over them while screaming ‘This is what I think of your policies you bunch of scoundrels!’ The story has since done the rounds of friends and acquaintances, with some thinking me insane and others a hero.

I think a lack of shame and inhibition is just the ticket when you’re potty training; and I’m more than happy to pop him on his chamber pot on the train platform, high street or playground. As far as I’m concerned it’s a vital learning process that modern society has lost sight of in our obsession with cleanliness and the disguising of the natural functions of the body. How on earth are our children meant to learn when we spend all our time and energies shielding them from what is innate and essential? Maybe it is just that I’m not really British, at least not by blood, and therefore fundamentally uncultured and primitive, but my defiant Polish nature considers it an essential human right to piss when I need to. I must confess I am inordinately fond of weeing out of doors and sans toilet. Why waste water and paper when you can crouch and let nature take its course? Seen in this light, al fresco weeing is in fact the most environmentally friendly course of action, and one we should all adopt more of. I’m certain that having such an uncouth mother has done Felix the world of good, and allowed him to unleash his stream lot more easily than if I had been a buttoned up type who runs the tap when she’s whizzing just to disguise the shameful tinkling . He has now become so fond of his potty that he insists on carting it about in his plastic wheelbarrow wherever we go, eliciting fond smiles and occasional guffaws from those we pass. ‘Free The Wee’ I say, its time to piss and be proud.

Friday, 19 February 2016


For some time I have thought I should wrap up this blog; that perhaps I have written all that I can about motherhood, about Felix, about the all consuming, relentlessly mercurial nature of the baby - toddler - child. This force of nature that endlessly reinvents itself, developing new habits, skills and words seemingly overnight, shimmering in transformation like a mirage. And then something happens; something so significant, so wonderful, or so terrible, and I rush to put it into words and communicate it in the hopes that my words may reach others who understand, who also struggle with the immensity of parenthood and marvel at the complexity of the child. I see now that my urge to write has been underscored by the fact that I had my own journey to undergo, not only the incredible voyage of motherhood but also the journey through the darkness that began with Felix's traumatic birth. A year after his birth I wrote an entry entitled 'Dark Side of the Moon' that explored the possibility that I would never be ready to have another child. A lot has changed in that time; I have fought and won the dread battle with my demons, and thus I find myself in the astonishing position of seriously contemplating another baby. Not even in an abstract way but in a concrete, when shall we do this kind of way. 

Perhaps that is why it is time to stop writing Yellow Wellies, or at least to keep an end in sight. Not because the journey is over, not because Felix has stopped doing things deserving of recording and treasuring, not because I have simply run out of ideas, but because a new journey is beginning and it needs space to grow. In order for spring to bloom winter must first have its time. To strip the branches of old leaves, to wither the flowers and freeze the sap and aggressively clear the ground so that new growth may follow. The field must have its fallow period, its time of brown and empty ground when it appears sterile, when in fact the very earth itself is incubating life. Yellow Wellies has been a platform for sharing my experiences but also an outlet for the unspeakable pain inside, the void that opened up in those life changing hours between pregnancy and motherhood. That pain is now dealt with, not in a perfect, orderly way, but in a way that makes progress not just possible but necessary. Suddenly I feel like the time is coming, that within bare branches tiny buds are forming. I am preparing myself, mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually, to undergo the journey into the unknown where the ghosts of my demons lurk, and yet where a light shines so bright that it beckons me near like a lighhouse to a stricken boat. To once again carry life and give birth.

Who knows if it will even happen? Too many people I know try for a second child only to be confounded. Sad stories of miscarriage abound, unexplained infertility, months of hope followed by months of worry and frustration. I used to think that if you could have one child you could certainly have many more, but this is not the case. Nature, ever contrary, has her own ideas, and it may be that we only ever make this one beautiful, perfect, shining child. If so, I’m forever glad that child is Felix. A lifetime ago, before Felix really existed, I was convinced that I wanted a girl. I knew nothing then of the soul of the baby you carry within you, this innately unique person who emerges from the vessel of the mother fully formed, complete with its own personality, abilities, and passions. This entity that will follow its own course and increasingly display its will and desires to you as it learns to communicate. This creature that becomes more and more amazing every day that you spend undertaking the thousand seemingly mundane, workaday tasks that keep it alive, fed, amused, safe. That in fact this one remarkable child will take you on a ride through the undiscovered, untrammeled paradises of the universe. 

In having a child you become intimately conscious of your own place in the circle of life. The miraculous growth before you makes your own slow demise, your gradual, daily descent towards decrepitude and death bearable, meaningful, and essential. I can only imagine the heights of vanity, self indulgence and ultimately self destructiveness I may have achieved had I not been grounded by this anchor, a rock in the ever flowing river of life. In him I see the folly of eternity and the wisdom of mortality.

Tuesday, 12 January 2016


On the last day of 2015, Felix and I crouched in the damp earth and planted a bag of bulbs. A bright picture of spring idyll adorned the packet; ‘Blooms Bees and Butterflies’ it proclaimed proudly ‘Plant these and help combat the worldwide decline in the bee population’. Who could refuse such an entreaty, for the plight of our essential pollinators is an agricultural and environmental crisis of gargantuan proportions. ‘One bulb at a time’ should be the motto of us all.

2015 has been a year of epic change; Felix has metamorphosised from a speechless, newly walking baby to a chattering, dancing, fully fledged little boy. Over recent months I have worried that he was slow to start speaking, and his frustration at not being able to communicate his increasingly complex thoughts and desires mounted and created a barrier between us. And then, like a river bursting its banks, the words started to
pour forth in a glittering stream. His delight at being able to express himself has made a huge difference to our lives and daily his vocabulary grows in richness and diversity. He can request songs, ask for meals, make little jokes like ‘Knock knock, who's there? Felix!’ His passions and fears finally have a voice, and we begin see the person that he is becoming ever more clearly, like an oil painting taking shape layer after layer. First the background, then the shadows and highlights, and now the finer forms and figures become more defined with every brushstroke. I am sure that every parent believes their child to be a masterpiece that they have had a hand in creating, and after all I am simply a doting and pathetic mother. In his eyes the entire world is being fashioned as if from scratch, and I am in thrall to its splendour. This is not to say that he is not at times a wheedling, whining, tantrumming, insanely irritating and rude little toddler, for this he most certainly is. And yet his bounteous smiles streak across the surface of my heart like searing stars, and his voice melts any icicle of anger that forms. Mispronounced words become my own catchphrases, and every new sentence thrills me like the finest poetry.

During this year I have undertaken my own voyage, away from pain and fear and towards hope and the wish to one day have another child. Late last year, over a year after giving birth to Felix, I realised that rather than the horror of that event receding it was beginning to possess me. On the surface all was well; the physical effects of a complicated birth had healed but the psychological and emotional scars were burrowing ever deeper into my psyche. I was experiencing chronic insomnia, long after Felix was sleeping the whole night through. Words like labour, delivery and maternity lurked like giant spiders under every bed, always ready to wrap me in their terrifying embrace, invading my dreams and increasingly my waking hours. I suffered from palpitations, surges of unexplained adrenalin and unprovoked panics and bouts of weeping. I realised that the time had come to face my demons or risk being consumed by them gradually, like a death of a thousand cuts, and so I went to my GP, herself a mother of three, and confessed my fears. Rather than thinking them foolish or inconsequential she listened with grave attention and swiftly referred me for counseling for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder brought on by a traumatic birth.

I was lucky. I found a therapist whose natural sense of empathy and professional skill twined with my urgent need for a sympathetic and trained ear into which to pour my poisoned story, and so began a dance that would last several months and at times leave me as flayed and stricken as a victim of unspeakable torture. Together we relived and discussed the burning black details of those hours in which I hovered above the abyss, a gaping void of pain and dread poised to swallow me whole. I voiced fears that I thought had no name, regurgitated memories so twisted and grotesque that my mind had thrown them into the scrapheap, where the vile things survived like filthy maggots. Post traumatic stress was something I had associated with soldiers and survivors of genocides, not normal, healthy women like myself who had entered a hospital to perform that most ‘natural’ of acts, childbirth, and come out the other side damaged and disturbed. And yet, after consulting the scale of stress under which trauma is graded, it turned out that my experience ticked a lot of boxes. Long hours of pain, helplessness, fear that the worst might happen, and critically an extended period of time in which my body was under siege and therefore releasing a constant supply of the ‘fight or flight’ hormone adrenalin, which as it turns out blocks the brains ability to process memories as they are happening. This creates a situation where the memory is incorrectly stored and instead filed in its raw state; therefore repeatedly exposing the sufferer to the original trauma whenever it is triggered. I was living within a minefield, and the only way out was to find and name every hidden bomb. 

Nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks, depression, intense anxiety and insomnia are some of the symptoms of PTSD, as well as an inability to control emotions. Sweating, shortness of breath, a racing heart, hypervigilance (looking for signs of danger constantly = my giant spiders) and eventually acute mental breakdown if the original trauma is not dealt with. Make no mistake, PTSD is no walk in the park, and increasingly traumatic labour and birth are considered amongst the most common causes. Somehow, it’s OK for a soldier who has seen all manner of death and dismemberment to admit to these symptoms, and yet every day women suffer the most acute pain, fear, and loss of control of their lives and it is considered completely normal. It is time for this conspiracy of silence to end. Everyone who has have gone through any kind of complicated or traumatic birth experience should seek help, for I promise you, the visceral ghosts that stalk you can be exorcised.

Three months after completing my course of CBT, I feel I am cured. To me this is a miracle, and one that I know will alter the course of my whole life. I am able to discuss labour and birth, even my own, with dry eyes, not because the memories are blocked but because they are filed correctly under ‘past’. I am no longer under siege; I am free to go forth and consider the possibility of having another child. My giant spiders have been slain, each and every one, but only through sheer hard work and many hours of intense pain. The reliving of an acute trauma is something that you will never forget; if you do it properly it is literally like going through the event again; all the pain, fear and helplessness threatening to submerge you. You must then update it with more accurate cognitions, for example ‘I am dying’, but lo and behold, you didn’t die. ‘I cannot cope with the pain’. But look, you did, are you not here as hard proof of the fact? ‘I will be incontinent’. Nope, wrong again. You must face down each and every one of your fears, look them in the eye and realise they are in fact sordid phantasms. CBT helps to unblock the trapped memories and steer them into the right part of the brain, until you can look back and think; I survived. I did not die. I am here, and I am OK. Early on in my therapy, my wonderful, gifted, candid therapist, said to me ‘This will always be the worst thing that ever happened to you. We are not seeking to change or deny that. You have to learn to own this as part of you. What we can do is put this memory, for that is what it is, in the place where it belongs. We can close Pandora’s box, after looking deep inside it, and seal it up forever, knowing that what is in there did not in fact conquer or kill you. This is freedom; this is what can be achieved. But it can only be done by you, I will help you look into the abyss and yet not fall in, for the abyss is only in your mind and only you can reject it and live in the light. I am delighted, proud, and honoured to say that am living in the light once more, a survivor of a terrible trauma that produced the best thing in the entire world, and edging ever closer to doing it all over again.

For help and advice on recognizing the symptoms of PTSD visit

Tuesday, 15 December 2015


In the depths of winter it is impossible to imagine summer. T shirts and bare legs, picnic blankets and long warm days. Winter holds a beauty all of its own; more subdued and sombre but just as striking, you just have to know where to look and how to see. Witness the copper haze of bare willow branches against a grey sky, the translucent eggshell of a frozen puddle, just waiting for a foot to crack its brittle surface. The welcoming glow of lights from within when all is dark and gloomy without, and above all the scintillating, sparkling, twinkling festival of lights that is the run up to Christmas.

Mindfulness; how very current and fashionable a concept, and something that small children understand instinctively. Without effort they live fully in the present, and it is up to us to learn from them so that we too may become mindful and content once more. This most essential and noble of abilities, forgotten somehow in the clamour and confusion of growing up and growing old. What we need to do is grow down to the child’s level, for if you want to see something afresh, see it through the eyes of a child. The first step is to make sure you actually have your eyes open; so many people live like sleepwalkers, wandering with eyes fixed blindly ahead and never sparing a glance at all the wonders that surround us. And anything can be a wonder in the eyes of a toddler; a fallen feather, a shiny sequin, the plume of smoke from a lit chimney. Even the bleak and barren charms of winter are beautiful to the innocent eye; the newly bare branches of a tree, now a superhighway of activity for squirrels and birds laying down their winter supplies. Rubbish caught in a fence that looks just like a jackdaw, a pile of rotting leaves to kick and a puddle to stamp in.

It is unfortunate that those of us with children may feel more than most that every day is a rush to get things done, an endless struggle to get them dressed, potty trained, fed, to school, nursery or whatever else, but alongside all these tasks and responsibilities - within all the mad rush - lies a margin in which we can find mindfulness. It's time to get on your child’s wavelength and take pleasure in the small things, to marvel at a bus or a train as it rushes by, to feel the weight of wooden bricks in your hand as you help them to build a tower, to make a special trip to pick some holly, so gaily festooned with berries and thrillingly prickly. I promise if you do, and do it wholeheartedly, you too will find the magic that lives inside the everyday. 

Of course children need to fit in with your day, and in fact they enjoy the chores and tasks that we can find so dull; filling the shopping trolley, putting on a wash, even sweeping the hallway. Felix loves a broom and insists on helping me to push it about. But if you wonder why your kid is bored and resentful when all you've done is drag them around the shops looking for gifts for people you hate, then forced them into a high chair while you drink lattes and send texts, then shoved them back in the car to race home so you can make them a dinner they don’t seem to want in front of the telly they don't in all honesty need, then you might need to think again. Sprinkle some fun and adventure into their day and you might find that you too have your mojo back, as well as a child who eats better, sleeps better and I dare say behaves better. Children need fresh air and mud, they need to stamp and kick and touch. They need the park, the beach, the forest and the river. They need the wind in their hair and the cold on their cheeks. Not just the safe environs of the playground, not just the airless vacuum of the shopping centre. Too busy? Stop for ten minutes on the school run home and feed the ducks, no one will starve to death if you do. Or take the bus; children find public transport more exciting than you could ever imagine. There's a reason the wheels on the bus is still a nursery favourite after so many years. 

As Christmas approaches and the world is all glitter and gold and flashing gaudy snowmen, the time of the child draws near. The baby Jesus lies peaceful in countless nativities, whilst children act out the timeless tale of an urgent search for an inn by the guiding light of the Christmas star, with the three wise men and a poor woman in advanced labour forced to give birth in a stable. Spare a thought for her when you're complaining about secret santa. As gifts are bought and wrapped and hidden away, it is the children who really bring the magic to the day, and anyone who is lucky enough to be spending any part of Christmas with a child should start to count their blessings. We are the lucky ones, and in the choas and crassness that surrounds the modern Christmas our children are the guiding light by which we can all see more clearly. And so I wish you, and your kin, a very merry and a very mindful Christmas. Ho Ho Ho...

Wednesday, 11 November 2015


“Once a King in Narnia, always a King in Narnia. But don't go trying to use the same route twice. Indeed, don't try to get there at all. It'll happen when you're not looking for it.”

C.S Lewis, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

I have always been captivated by the work of CS Lewis, and never completely given up hope that I might stumble upon the door to another world. Thus while looking for an appropriate venue to host our wedding party, we discovered Nothmoor House; a manor so splendidly Victorian, rambling and remote and ever so slightly down at heel, I felt I may finally be close to finding that elusive magical wardrobe.

After a long drive from London Felix was desperate to explore, racing along echoing corridors and peeping into rooms which telescoped on infinitely. At one end of the ground floor a grandfather clock presided over the main staircase, at the other an old fashioned kitchen led to a network of rooms unchanged since the reign of Queen Victoria. Larders, pantries, cellars, billiard rooms and priests holes, every doorway revealed a new delight. Staircases multiplied as we roamed the house, trying to establish the order of rooms for guests who would soon arrive. At the very top of the house, tucked under the eaves, a small second floor beckoned. Taking Felix by the hand we climbed the steep stairs to find ourselves in a room of powder blue. Nauticalia dominated; a fine oil of a boat sailed over the mantelpiece, whilst a miniature galleon thrust triumphantly forth on the dresser. This was to be our room, a refuge from the celebrations that would spill merriment over the time worn bricks. ‘Bluey’ Felix remarked approvingly, ‘Bleuey bluey bleuy’.

We couldn’t afford a big wedding, yet fourteen years together called for a
decent show. Thus we decided on a two point plan to alleviate costs. Step one; tie the knot legally in a simple and cost effective registry do. Step two; host a debaucherous weekend of celebrations in a remarbable setting that would weave its own spell on our party, whilst doing all the catering, decorating and everything else ourselves. A triumphant team of toilers produced a sausage and mash that would shame a chef, and at a table laid by my nearest and dearest thirty seven candles shimmered in glass holders - one for every guest plus a few for absent friends - we savoured a repast prepared by loving hands, listened to heartfelt words spoken by those who know us best, and later danced to an ever changing band of musicians, one drummer succeeding another in an orgiastic blur of jamming. I wore a dress that belonged on a ballet stage; a hundred layers of tremulous tulle floating to the knee; on my head a crown of multicoloured flowers. Yellow, pink and blue blooms, red berry, green leaf and whispering white gypsomilia;
a nod to every season. In the garden a group had assembled around the firepit; clustering around the flickering orange glow as people have done since time immaterial.  Stars untroubled by city lights shone with bright cold clarity in a sky of black velvet, gazing down indulgently as we tried in vain to set off the heart shaped sky lanterns until at last one lit and flew trembling into the night sky. 

The next day a hungover group of survivors decamped to the beach, driving across an Exmoor aflame with autumn colour. Low mist hovered over the heather and gorse, painting the undulating wilds in a wash of watercolour hues. Lynmouth was as quaint and picturesque as could be, Felix chasing waves and throwing stones while we watched a striking sunset streak the sky with peach and rose. Back at the house, our numbers depleted but still great in spirit, we embarked upon an unforgettable game of Sardines. I have never played this other version of Hide and Seek and doubt I will ever play it as memorably as this. The endless rooms and stairways, innumerable bathrooms and uncountable nooks and crannies made for an epic game, culminating in a spooky final round. Just as we were getting tired of searching the house a peal from the servants bells rang through the silence, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. As we raced downstairs we saw a bell still slightly swinging but no one to be found, and when at long last we found the elusive seven, tucked behind pieces of furniture in the TV room like forgotten umbrellas, we raised a great cheer. 

That night, as I crept up to bed on the creaky staircase, feeling the half emptiness of the house yawning around me, I felt how keenly places like these need laughter and light and revelry. They need children and grandmothers and all in between to fill their echoing spaces and give them purpose once more. These stately homes that Britain has in such abundance, these crumbling and forgotten grand piles, these other Narnia’s waiting to be discovered. For one enchanted, unforgettable weekend I was both a bride and a memory of all the brides this house has seen. Every floorboard has been stepped upon ten thousand times, every bed seen its fair share of passion and anger, love and betrayal. Our wedding party joined a succession of events grand and humble, joyful and melancholy, that Northmoor has hosted. As I luxuriated in the giant clawfoot bathtub, the Victorian proportions of which have never been bettered, I felt the ethereal substance of history tangible about me. A princess for a weekend, just as every bride dreams of being.

On our final morning, as Felix and I wandered the grounds in the warm October sunshine, pilfering raspberries from the kitchen garden and watching the chickens peck about idly, I felt myself firmly rooted in the moment. This was me now; blessed with a beautiful boy as fair as the morning sun and a husband with whom I laugh every day, surrounded by friends from many corners of the globe, and cocooned in the warmth of love and festivity. ‘Damn it to hell' I exclaimed out loud, startling Felix and the hens, ‘We should get married more often’.

Thursday, 15 October 2015


After a cold and sodden August late September brought a much needed Indian summer. Mother Nature seized her moment, producing a second crop of blackberries and a triumphant blaze of late summer flowers. For a golden fortnight the primary colours of summer and autumn combine, scarlet berries jostling with yellow sunflowers, while lawns glisten thick with emerald blades, the smell of cut grass mingling with woodsmoke to create a juxtaposition of spring/summer/autumn. Ruby leaves shine beacon-bright on oak trees and horse chestnuts have slipped on their russet and gold cloaks, children have returned to school, but Felix and I bask in our extended summer. Almost too late we have found the rose garden at Hampton Court, a walled heaven of scented blooms carpeted with velveteen dropped petals like confetti. Felix races about sticking his nose deep in the flowers like a hummingbird collecting pollen, and the air is thick with the sweet, exotic smell of a hundred varieties. Rosa Dancing Doll, Nostalgia, Red Radiance; every name suffused with romance and promise.

It is true that I may be seeing the world through rose tinted glasses, for the past month has been studded with wonders almost too many to name. After thirteen happy and fruitful years my beloved and I finally tied the knot. We
walked down the hallowed steps of Chelsea Old Town Hall amidst cheers and fluttering confetti, the smiling passengers of a passing double decker adding a surreal twist. Defying convention as ever, a fortnight later I flew to Ibiza to celebrate my belated hen do. Nestled amongst the booming clubs and raging hedonism we basked in the September rays, laughter flowing as readily as the mojitos. There is a type of hysteria only achievable when a gaggle of women get together, prompting imbecilic antics that would shame a teenager. Five days of shameless indulgence culminated in an unforgettable sunset at the aptly named Sunset Ashram, a kind of hippy beach club that draws a blissed out crowd to celebrate the setting sun with pagan enthusiasm.

After such extravagance it was time to drop back to earth just in time to celebrate Felix’s second birthday. Well, almost in time, for in the pursuit of total honesty I have to confess that in the whirlwind of planning and booking that ensues when six busy women try to coordinate diaries, the date of my boy’s birthday was forgotten. As our departure finally approached there was a flurry of emails and whatsapps, when suddenly in a moment of cold horror I
realised my error. Return date, 22nd September, the very day Felix was to turn two. I spent the day in a fug of panic. What to do? Would I come back early?! Not likely, flights having been booked in advance it would be costly and I was loath to cut off my final day. In the end I confessed, hoping for clemency, and after much soul searching decided to return as planned. It was the first and only time I could get away with such a shocking display of bad mothering, and I was lucky that his nana and auntie arrived with gifts and party food aplenty, spoiling him rotten on the actual day. Whilst I lay on a secluded beach in an incy wincy pink bikini, savouring the sun and my final hours of selfish freedom, Felix ate a dinner composed mainly of sweets and ice cream. Arriving home late that night, exhausted and grainy with unwashed sand, I crept into his bedroom. A shock of blonde hair fanned out on the pillow, one arm protruding from the covers like an antennae, his sweet face even more angelic in sleep. I stroked his plump and velvety cheek and tucked the covers more tightly around him, then fell into bed for a few precious hours, knowing I had both had my cake and eaten it.