When the Chips Are Down: A Tale of Frustration, Sailboats, and Sharing

“Po-ta-toes,” said Sam. “The Gaffer’s delight, and rare good ballast for an empty belly. But you won’t find any, so you needn’t look.”

— J.R.R. Tolkien, “The Two Towers” (The Lord of the Rings)

Thursday April 17, 2025 was a big day for me. I took myself on an adventure. It wasn’t a big adventure. Just a day out at the coast. But it was the first time I’d taken myself out for the day in almost a year. Last time it was a trip into the city to see an exhibition of paintings by the renowned English landscape painter J. M. W. Turner. There was no aim or goal this time beyond a sense of curiosity. How would it feel to be out of my usual environment after so long? I’d chosen a day when the weather promised to be dry and bright, but beyond that I had only the loosest of plans. I’d catch the Metro train to Tynemouth, walk to the sea front, then head north. Maybe I’d walk on the beach. Maybe I’d paddle. There were any number of cafes, coffee shops, and pubs I might stop at for something to eat or drink.

The one thing I did want to do was buy chips and sit eating them by the sea. There were a couple of options. The fish and chip van that often parked just along from Tynemouth Aquarium. The fish and chip shop at Cullercoats. Either of those would be perfect. There was a fish and chip shop in Tynemouth too, but that wasn’t as close to the sea front. Whatever else happened, whatever I saw or did, a tray of chips — even better, a chip stottie — would make the perfect memory of my day out.

Tynemouth Metro station was deserted when I arrived. I took a few moments to photograph the stunning architecture. The broad central steps leading to the footbridge to the opposite platform. The sweeping ironwork of the roof, renovated in recent years. I made my way from the station towards the sea front. The main street of Tynemouth was as pretty as I remembered it, lined with pubs, bars, and gift shops. A display of rubber ducks in one shop window. I took photos as I went along and shared a few in chat with Fran for when she woke. It was a little after nine thirty. Too early to stop for food yet. I’d had breakfast before I set out and had a flask of coffee with me. The thought of chips later spurred me on. A walk first, to give me an appetite.

I stood for a while before the looming mass of Tynemouth castle. Beyond the railings the moat fell twenty or thirty feet, then rose again in a steep grassy slope to the gatehouse beyond. I thought of my unpublished novella Playing at Darkness which is set within the walls of the castle over the course of one day and night. A key scene plays out in and around the moat. If I half closed my eyes I could almost — almost — see the drama unfold in front of me. There’s a lot of me invested in that place, emotionally and creatively.

I turned away and began my walk north along the promenade. King Edward’s Bay opened below me to my right. Memories of time spent on that little beach over the years, alone and with friends. I shook my head to centre myself in the present. Pausing on one of the many benches I opened my diary and began to write, holding the pages flat against the breeze.

10:05 am. Tynemouth. A bench overlooking the sea.

Well, I finally committed to my little adventure! It’s a quiet day, not many folk about at all. I guess the question I’m posing by doing something different is “what difference does it make?” Why did I come here instead of spending another morning writing at Costa? Is this better? The same? Or is the question itself meaningless? There’s no scale against which to measure any of it. Do this. Do that. The universe doesn’t care — or even notice — what I choose to do or how I choose to spend my time.

I closed my diary and put it away. I continued my stroll north, stopping to take such photographs as caught my eye. The castle and priory. The sweep of the shore. Shelters silhouetted against the skyline. A small wooden rowboat, anonymous save for the number 12 painted on her stern, converted into a quirky planter for tulips. It was another echo of my novella, which recounted a different rowboat marrooned high above the tide. The overlap of reality and fiction. Then and now. Real and imagined.

The old rowing boat is nothing special. For sixty years she worked the mouth of the great river, plying the dangerous waters around Black Middens until the old trade waned. Now she is the last of her kind. Five winters weathered her boards on the steeply banked pebbles of Prior’s Haven. Then men took her, painted her gaudy in blue and white and named her anew. Now the “Northumbrian Water” rests high above the water line, berthed forever in the turfed earth beside the Gibraltar Rock.

Ahead of me in the distance I could see the wide white bulk of the Tynemouth Castle Inn. It would be pleasant to sit outside there with a pint. I’d done that once or twice before. It was still early, though, and I wanted to eat before I thought of beer. Maybe on the way back after I’d had my chips. Beyond the hotel, the aquarium. More memories, old and less old, general and specific. The most recent was some six years ago. January 2019. Sheltering in the doorway from the rain as I waited for a friend. A few hundred yards beyond the aquarium carpark was where the chip van plied its trade. I could see a large van pulled up there, but as I got closer I saw it was selling ice creams and drinks only. A minor disappointment, but I consoled myself with the thought that the chip shop still lay ahead. That would be better anyway.

It’s no more than half a mile between the aquarium and Cullercoats bay but I took my time. I sat for a moment on another of the benches that line the promenade. How am I feeling?I asked myself. Right now. What am I feeling? It’s only a year or so since I learned about alexithymia. It’s a term for the difficulty many people — me included — have in identifying and communicating their emotions. I’ve written elsewhere about alexithymia and how it affects me. In a very real sense, it was impossible for me to describe how I felt as I sat on that bench in the sunshine. I was feeling something but I couldn’t label it. Even distinguishing my feelings as “good” or “bad” was a challenge. There was a sense of satisfaction, that I’d taken myself out for the day. But uneasiness too, because I wasn’t sure that it was meaningful to have done so. I had no real aim, beyond that tray of chips.

As I continued my walk, the broad sweep of Cullercoats bay came into view. I could pick out the lifeboat station, the slipway, and the steep slope that led down to the beach from the road. Across the road, the row of buildings that included a cafe, a couple of bars, the community centre I visited last year with my friend Aimee to attend a mental health event, and the chip shop. Maybe I’d take my tray of chips down to the beach. Or just sit looking out across the sea as I’d done many times in the past.

The chip shop was closed.

It was a few minutes before eleven o’clock so I wandered a little further to photograph the bay from the opposite direction. Eleven ten came and passed. Eleven fifteeen. There was no sign of light or movement from inside the shop and no indication of its opening hours that I could see. It might open at midday but that felt too long to wait around. I wasn’t sure what to do. The cafe was open but looked busy. There was another cafe around the corner and a coffee shop a few minutes walk away. I didn’t want a sit-down meal, though, and I still had coffee in my flask. Nothing I could think of was what I wanted.

I had a flashback to 2020 when hospitality began reopening after months of lockdown. I took myself into Newcastle city centre with the sole intention of revisiting my then favourite coffee shop, Caffè Nero at St Mary’s Place opposite the Civic Centre. I arrived to find a note in the window explaining they couldn’t muster enough staff to open. There were other coffee shops in Newcastle. There were at least two more Caffè Nero stores, any of which might well have been open. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I caught the next train home. I recalled how other people had reacted to my story. “If you’d held yourself open to opportunities instead of getting all huffy you might have had a great time, just a different time.” That was true, of course. But I hadn’t been huffy. Not really. Disappointed, yes. But by heading home I wasn’t giving up on my day. I was honouring my folorn hopes and aspirations.

It didn’t look like I was going to get any chips. It was a disappointment, for sure. More than I’d have imagined. Maybe I’d tied my hopes too tightly to the idea that at some point I’d be sitting on a bench with a tray of chips. Maybe a chip butty. With salt and vinegar and a dash of brown sauce. I could practically taste it. I took a few more photos of the bay and began walking back the way I’d come. I couldn’t think of anything else — or better — to do. What did “better” mean, anyway?

Passing the park my attention was caught by a flash of movement. White sails on the boating lake. There’d been none earlier. I recalled there was a model boat club that met at the park. I hesitated, wondering if there was any point in crossing the road to take a look. Without consciously deciding to, I found myself sitting on a bench in the park as maybe a dozen radio-controlled yachts raced back and forth across the water. For the first time in my day I felt fully engaged with what was happening around me. I watched the yachts for a while, recording a short video to share with Fran later. It was getting close to the time for our call. It was pleasant sitting there, but a bit breezy for a video conversation.

I found a shelter a few hundred yards along the promenade and settled in out of the breeze. While I waited, I recalled other times I’d been disappointed by events that failed to meet my hopes and expectations. One evening walk during covid came to mind, when a succession of small grievances left me feeling cold, wet, and grumpy. I smiled at myself, remembering it only too well. Other potato-related disappointments came to mind. The takeout meal that arrived without the chips that had been ordered. Another takeout, at my friend Aimee’s this time, when the chips had been so disgusting I couldn’t eat them at all. I smiled again. Potato-related disappointments indeed!

Fran messaged to say she was free for a call and in a moment I was no longer on my own with my thoughts. She told me she was proud of me for taking myself out on my little adventure. Rather than ask how I felt, she invited me to share what I’d been doing, knowing that’s much easier for me to describe. I recounted my day in brief, from my arrival in Tynemouth. I did share one emotion. The one I had no difficulty labeling. My disappointment at the lack of chips!

I told Fran about the boats on the lake and sent her the video I’d recorded. We discovered we each had childhood stories of owning a model yacht. As I described mine to her I could see it clearly. The solid wooden hull, the metal keel, the buff coloured sails, the rigging with its nylon fittings. The small flag I’d added, cut from a scrap of red fabric. Memories swirled around us as we shared our respective stories, like the sailboats on the lake.

After talking a while, we moved on. As we walked, I shared with her the sights and sounds of the coast. It reminded me of other times I’ve walked with friends beside the sea. We watched a huge container vessel as it made its way towards the mouth of the river. I showed her King Edward’s Bay and we stopped for a few minutes by the castle and moat. Fran recalled that I’ve taken her there on calls in the past. Prior’s Haven, and along the pier to the little lighthouse. It warmed me that she remembered.

Marshalls Fish Shop was open, but by now I’d settled into the idea of not having that particular expectation met, and we kept walking. We stopped by the stern bronze statue of Queen Victoria to say hello, but she declined to smile. We got back to the station and crossed the foot bridge to the opposite platform. Our train arrived within minutes. Fran stayed with me on the call most of my way home. We parted easily, both grateful for having shared my adventure.

Once home, I went through the many photos and videos I’d taken, posting the best to social media to share with my friends and followers. I may not have had my chips, but I’d had a good time and I was glad I’d taken myself out. Later in the day, I checked online. The chip shop in Cullercoats opens at 11:30 am. If I’d thought to check while I was there, or stayed another twenty minutes or so, I could have had my chips after all! It was fine, though. There was no more — and no less — meaning in my chip-free day than there would have been if my hopes had been realised.

When the chips are down what matters, what makes things meaningful, is less the things themselves — what you do or where you go or what you eat looking out over the sea — and more the opportunity to share them with a friend.

 

Photo by Martin Baker, Grand Parade, Tynemouth, September 2018.

 

Togetherness Apart: Walking on the Beach With Friends

I need the sea because it teaches me.

— Pablo Neruda

Being out in nature is often advanced as a counter to depression and other mental health difficulties. I’d never go so far. Mental illness can have many different causes and its symptoms are not so readily lifted. Having said that, spending time in the natural world can take us out of our present situation, both literally and figuratively. Alone or in trusted company, such times afford us the opportunity to gain distance from, and perspective on, whatever may be going on for us.

I was reminded of this the other day. Fran was telling me of the great time she’d spent the day before with a mutual friend of ours on Ferry Beach in Scarborough, Maine. The setting itself, the companionship, the conversation, had meant a lot to Fran. I thought back to when she lived on Peaks Island, when we were first friends. She’d walk on the beach there, occasionally sharing her location with me so I could follow along virtually. She’d return home and tell me about what she’d seen and heard and thought about. One spring, as she emerged from a crippling episode of depression, she’d bring me haiku-form poems that came to her on the shore, holding the words on her fingers until she could write them down. The title of the book we’d later write was born in the lines she brought home from Centennial Beach.

high tide
low tide
edgeness..

After our conversation ended, I thought of times I’ve walked by the sea with friends over the years. In its own way, each was deeply meaningful to me and is fondly remembered. I explored several of these occasions in poems, connecting my experiences across three decades and three thousand miles with Fran’s walks on Peaks Island.

Silverdale

January 1981

My first vivid memory of being on the beach with friends dates from January 1981, two months before my twentieth birthday. Somehow, I found myself sitting with friends by a driftwood fire on the shore of Morecambe Bay at Silverdale in Lancashire. I say “somehow” and “found myself” delberately, because that’s how it seemed to me at the time. I felt welcome, but these were mostly recent friends and being with them was new and strange to me. I was content go with the flow, experiencing things as they unfolded, but my amazement and delight came with an equal dose of uncertainty. A reality, a way of being, was being shown to me that I’d scarce imagined possible. I have no photographs of the day, but I wrote the following poem shortly afterwards.

Driftwood (no sunset)

No sunset flares breathless and photogenic
In the skies over Silverdale
As we light our little fire amongst the sheep and pebbles.

Nothing but these few flames to dare the dark
Gathering, oozing velvet from every rocky pore,
Caressing the shadows
Fluttering mothly where the firelight fails.

Few would share our vigil
Lost in a blaze to which we feed
Our driftwood dreams, our precious pasts,
In fire to purge ourselves of fear or false regret.
Dry and tear-damp — crack — in fragments burst
And burn, or shower their sad sparks skyward
With a little sigh
— Hot ashes scattered by a west wind.

Nothing to dare the dark …
But silver in the shallows
And high stars trembling

and the mercury constellations of the bay
map flights of fancy beyond Heysham Head.

What I recall most clearly is everyone sitting around the fire we’d built with wood collected along the shoreline. I lent one of my friends my coat and walked with her to the water’s edge. For reasons I never understood, she suddenly lay down in the water, still wearing my coat. It was a lesson in acceptance, emblematic of the in-the-moment approach to life I was being offered. I travelled home on the train next day wearing a coat that was still damp and smelled strongly of wood smoke.

That evening and the night that followed are among my most precious memories. One year later I recorded in my diary that “The memory is still deep within me, but it seems removed beyond the claim of Time, somehow. It isn’t really meaningful to say ‘a year ago’ because it is a part of me — then and now.”

Sheringham

November 1982

The second walk on the shore I want to share happened in 1982. I was on a six-month placement from university, working at the regional hospital in Norwich, Norfolk. One Sunday in November I accepted an invitation from Janet, one of the friends I’d made there and a fellow pharmacy student.

After lunch I went out to post Dawn’s letter. Later, Janet and I went out for a run in her car to Sheringham for a walk along the shore. It was quite wild and cold, but very Romantic [...] no less so because we were both thinking of Other People.

Those few lines from my diary belie the significance of the event, which is more fully commemorated by the poem I wrote at the time.

(In the depths of) singing

Down the western reaches of the sea i
Findme walking with a friend,
Wind and seasalt wildly in the sky, you on
My mind. Late november: pebbles in a
Wilderness of oceans and a fulling moon.

Something like the flesh of friends too
Raw for touching walkwe. Two
Investigating puddles. Our togetherness apart
We wander down our dreams while all the
Waves one water can involve strike
Sparks about our feet. From flints we
Gather in the night.
We gather. In the

(o i love the waves that break upon me like you)

nightly

Janet and I weren’t close friends and we didn’t keep in touch after completing our respective placements. I’ll always be grateful to her, though, for our afternoon on the shore. The “other people” I was thinking of, the “you on my mind,” was my best friend and first love, Dawn. Leaving her and other friends behind in Bradford for six months was hard, but we kept in touch by letter and phone call. Walks in and around Norwich, and by the shore that afternoon, allowed me space to think, and not think, to feel, and to let my feelings go. The phrase “togetherness apart” was my attempt to express the paradox of sharing time with someone yet experiencing it in an intensely personal way. My friend Janet and I walked the shore together, talked together, but also took time to wander separately or in mutual silence. Each of the memories I’m sharing here was like that.

West Wittering

October 1985

I described the background to this walk in a recent post on mental health in the workplace. Here, I want to focus on the walk itself and what it meant to me. I was working in London at the time, unhappy with how things were going and on the verge of giving it all up. Frustrated and uncertain about my future, I took time out to visit a dear friend from university. We spent the evening watching English singer-songwriter Judy Tzuke in concert in Guildford. That was a beautiful and intense experience in itself. I’d seen Judie Tzuke previously in Bradford and her music was part of my emotional landscape. The concert in Guildford reconnected me with my friend, with the years I’d spent at university, and with the people I’d known there.

Next day, I was supposed to head into work but I wasn’t ready to return. My friend suggested a trip to the seaside and I was happy to abscond with her for the day. After a little deliberation we settled on Wittering on the south coast. The hours we spent walking and talking on the beach are amongst the most impactful I’ve ever spent. The following is excepted from my diary.

For us both, shores are very personal places and we separated; [she] plotting the height of the waves with pebbles on one of the breakwaters, me just wandering along the beach.

The break away from everything I’d been going through and stressing about was exactly what I needed to gain perspective. I wrote to my friend afterwards.

Eloping with you gave me the opportunity to find some calm, and to remember that there are more important things than whether or not I’m 100% happy in work. Like people.

At the end of the year I was able to look back and write of that day on the beach:

All this [the concert and our time on the shore] brought me to the edge of decision. Suddenly, in a moment, all the months of anguish, distress, planning and indecision evaporated: and I realised (in that moment) that my reasons (legion) for leaving did not exceed the single, small, terrifyingly potent reason to stay. The love and support and Reality of friends and family: my life in London.

A year later as I was about to leave London for a new life in the north, I put it more clearly if less poetically. “It wasn’t just [my friend] it was the release she gave me from the terrors of the department.” She’s unnamed here because we’re no longer in contact and I can’t ask for or assume permission, but I will always be grateful for that day, and much more. In a spirit of disclosure I’ll note it’s the same friend who rolled in the sea wearing my coat at Silverdale four years earlier. Some friendships, some people, some lessons, are more important than a ruined parka.

King Edward’s Bay

January 2019

This story isn’t mine to tell, but it’s impossible to write of significant moments I’ve spent with friends on the shore without including it. “Togetherness apart” captures the day as I experienced it. Walking together and on our own. Words spoken and unspoken. Trust offered and accepted. Being there for a friend.

Other Times and Other Shores

Those are my key walking on the shore with friends moments, but others are worthy of mention.

PJ (Pamela Jane) and I never walked together on the beach, but one day in September 2005 I took a day off work and spent it at the coast. At the Rendezvous Cafe in Whitley Bay I wrote my friend a letter, as I’d done almost every day for two years, as her world contracted due to illness. I never posted the letter. That evening I got the news that PJ had died the night before. A month or so afterwards I repeated my walk along the shore, allowing myself to remember and re-feel all she’d meant to me.

I’m reminded of walking along the promenade at Crosby beach in Liverpool the evening before my mother’s funeral, and again the next evening. The following short poem came to me on the latter walk.

Wandering
Wondering

How do I feel
What do I feel

Release
Relief

Re birth

Stillness
Silence

Un known
Un homed

Un tethered

Still
Calm

Centred (thank you

— Liverpool, March 26, 2018

When Fran lived on Peaks she’d take me with her virtually on walks around the island. I’ve likewise shared many calls with her by the sea over the years. I specifically remember calls at Prior’s Haven at Tynemouth, along the shore on Holy Island (Lindisfarne), and the promenade at Whitley Bay.

My most recent coastal walk was this July when I visited Blyth Beach with my friend and fellow blogger Aimee. We didn’t venture onto the sand but had a marvellous time walking, talking, and taking photos. It would be good to visit there again and maybe go paddling together!

 

Photo by Yuliia Herasymchuk at Unsplash.

 

Growing Old and Staying Young: Thoughts Inspired by an Urban Ramble

“We need old friends to help us grow old and new friends to help us stay young.”
— Loretta Cottin Pogrebin

I had the pleasure recently to meet up with two friends for an urban ramble in my home city, Newcastle upon Tyne. It was my first outing with Paul and Fiona since we first met three years ago on a bench overlooking Derwentwater in Keswick.

For anyone interested in our route, we met outside Newcastle’s Life Centre and walked down to the river via Central Parkway and Forth Bank. Passing beneath the Tyne Bridge we continued east along the Quayside as far as the Millennium Bridge. We crossed to the Gateshead side and stopped for coffee and cake at the Baltic gallery café, overlooking the river. Returning to the Newcastle side, we continued east to where the Ouseburn stream meets the Tyne. Turning left, we explored the winding Riverside Walk as far as the City Farm and Cluny music venue, then made our way through Shieldfield, emerging close to Northumbria University. We concluded our jaunt at Caffè Nero, St Mary’s Place.

The inspiration for this post, though, isn’t the ramble itself but some of the topics we discussed (or rambled on about!) in the three and a half hours we were together. We covered a lot, but looking back on the day there were several themes which can be summarised as newness vs. oldness.

New Friends and Old Friends

The most obvious new/old aspect was that despite having known each other on social media for three years, I was new to Paul and Fiona and they were new to me. It’s been a while since I added to my circle of friends — especially my circle of local friends — and I was happy to discover how well we got along. I’m confident it won’t be our last time out together. My local friends are mostly younger than me, and whilst that’s never been an issue it was good to be out with people a little closer to my own age. Almost all my close friends, local and otherwise, are women, and it was something of a novelty for me to get on so well with another guy! (Fiona, I think you’re great too!)

Sharing Old Memories and Building New Ones

Some of the places we visited held specific memories which I enjoyed sharing. The Life Centre which I visited with my friend Aimee on our first “bloggers’ day out” three years ago, and where I received my covid vaccinations this year. The Tyne Bridge from which I’ve zipwired twice for charity. The Quayside which I’d last visited in November 2019 on a sponsored walk for the Chris Lucas Trust. The Cluny, where I once performed a live reading from High Tide, Low Tide.

It was a day for building new memories too. The many sights we encountered on our walk, the conversation, the little interactions with other people we met, and (far from the least memorable) stopping at the Baltic gallery for coffee and cake overlooking the river. We each kept our mobile phones at the ready and shared photos afterwards, posting the best on social media and tagging each other with good-natured abandon. It added a lot to the day for me. I printed a few of my photos and added them to my beloved Passport Traveler’s Notebook, which Paul has always admired. Paul, you’re in there now!

New Tellings of Old Stories

Within minutes of starting our walk, and noticing the “Boys Get Sad Too” badge in my lapel, Paul commended me for my mental health work and asked how I’d found myself on that path. Most of the people I hang out with know the stories well, and I was grateful for the opportunity to share the highlights of the past ten years or so for a new and attentive audience.

I told them how it started when Fran and I first met online in 2011, and our first and only face-to-face meeting two years later when Fran stopped in Southampton en route to Germany. I described learning from Fran about the realities of living with mental illness, and how our book came into being. I talked about how I came to volunteer with Time to Change, my involvement with the mental health team at work, and some of the great people I’ve met along the way.

Paul and Fiona’s stories were new to me too, and I hope they found sharing their tales as rewarding as I did hearing them. I was fascinated to discover how neatly our life experiences interlaced in places and differed widely in others.

Old Labels and New

When I told my friend and fellow blogger Aimee Wilson of I’m NOT Disordered that I planned to blog about my day out, she suggested “Mental Health Conversations and How They Help” as a title. That didn’t quite work for me, but mental — and physical — health featured prominently and those conversations were amongst the most interesting and helpful of any we had that day.

Most of my friends have first-hand knowledge of living with mental illness. I learn a lot from those relationships but it was good to share insight and ideas with people who, like me, lack first-hand experience of mental illness, but understand what it means to love and care about people who do.

We discussed the distinction between struggling mentally where the causes or triggers may be short-term, situational, or environmental, and longer-term or life-long conditions which may be biologically or genetically based. (The term severe mental illness, SMI, is sometimes used to refer to severely debilitating conditions such as bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, but it’s not a term I favour because supposedly “lesser” conditions can still have a devastating impact on the people living with them.)

We also discussed some of the labels — clinical and otherwise — used to describe mental and physical health conditions, and how labels and treatments have changed over the years. I was reminded of the novel I recently reviewed (Matilda Windsor Is Coming Home, by Anne Goodwin) which describes life in mental health institutions in the latter half of the twentieth century. As a society, we can be rightly proud of the advances in treatment and care, but I think Paul and Fiona would agree with me that there’s still much work to be done.

One of the most interesting things that came up was how such labels as “cripple,” “mental,” and “mad”, long used as terms of discrimination and abuse, are being taken back and owned by people to whom they have been applied by others. It’s a topic with broader relevance, given that certain diagnostic labels are hotly contested by some to whom they are applied by clinicians. Chronic Fatigue Syndrome — variously referred to as CFS, myalgic encephalomyelitis, ME, CFS/ME, or Systemic Exertion Intolerance Disease SEID) — is one example. Borderline Personality Disorder (also referred to as emotionally unstable personality disorder, EUPD) is another. Our conversation was a valuable reminder that the words we use matter, but that there is no universally accepted or acceptable lexicon when it comes to matters which affect large numbers of people deeply and personally.

Urban and Personal Regeneration

The second half of our walk, after leaving the Baltic gallery and returning to the Newcastle side of the Tyne, took us along the Ouseburn Riverside Walk. Paul and Fiona knew the route from previous trips but it was a revelation to me. I was especially fascinated by the mix of old and new. Seeing our photos on social media, a friend commented: “The whole area is gradually being developed, often very sensitively. Brilliant vibe, a bit ‘hipstery’ but it’s transforming what used to be a rough and extremely run-down area.”

The hodge-potch of buildings reminded me of the decaying sprawl of Gormenghast Castle in Mervyn Peake’s eponymous trilogy. We even saw a horse on a rooftop, although unlike Peake’s it wasn’t swimming! Gormenghast was locked in its past, however. Attics and extensions had been tacked precariously onto the castle’s crumbling edifice over the years but there was no sense of development, growth, or progression. As my friend noted, the Ouseburn is opening to new investment, input, and creative expansion.

As I thought about it afterwards, I drew parallels between these outer examples of regeneration and the inner, personal changes I’ve been working through of late. Architecturally or personally, it’s not always clear which things can be salvaged, repaired, or repurposed, and which are due for replacement. It can be tempting to bulldoze everything to the ground and start again. That may seem cleaner and more straightforward, but a great deal of value can be lost in the process, or buried beneath the concrete and glass of new construction.

I’m reminded of a line from a poem of mine from years ago, complete with pretentious Homeric references:

How fair the stars beneath an Illian sky … but concrete and prestressed demands a new vibration

In that poem and others, I sought to explore the changes I was experiencing as I left my cloistered life at home for university. I’m not sure how successfully I regenerated myself in the process. I’ve often found myself on the outside of things rather than integrating into a new environment. I’ve struggled to find that sensitive balance that might have honoured both old and new and allowed for growth and development.

The challenge for me now is to achieve the kind of transformation that eluded me in the past.

The Old World and the New

At the end of our walk, I introduced Paul and Fiona to my favourite city coffee shop, Caffè Nero at St. Mary’s Place. Our conversation turned this way and that as we explored more of our stories, experiences, and beliefs, including our thoughts about covid and the wider world situation. Even for someone like me who has been described as “pathologically positive,” it’s hard to remain optimistic in the face of such monumental change and uncertainty. The past eighteen months have overturned everything we thought we knew about ourselves and the world in which we live. There’s no way back to how things were before. I’m no fan of the phrase “new normal” but in a very real sense we are already living in a new world (not so much post-covid as alongside-covid). Individually and collectively, we are figuring out what that means.

My friends’ essential hopefulness provided a warm and welcome reminder that there are good people in the world doing good things. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed and uncertain for a time, but if life has a purpose it is surely to live as well and as creatively as we can. I can do no better than close with a quotation from arguably the most inspiring artwork we encountered on our urban adventure. Arch 4, Stepney Bank hosts the beautiful Ancient Place mural by artist Faunagraphic, with lettering by Ciaran Globel.

An ancient place / Of lead and stone and steel and scrap / Sluice gates, water, tunnels, mud/ Children, artists, beasts and birds / Where future grows /and shakes its wings

 

Cold, Wet, and Grumpy: A Few Thoughts on Expectation and Acceptance

When I set out for my evening walk last Friday I was feeling good. I’d finished my first week working from home after a fortnight’s lockdown vacation and was looking forward to the weekend. The weather forecast held the possibility of rain but I was well prepared. My Doc Martens boots, a micropile fleece and gilet for warmth, and a light raincoat that is past its best but more than adequate for the occasional shower.

In a small bag beneath my coat I carried my journal, my favourite fountain pen, and a birthday card I needed to post. I also had my phone and Bluetooth headset. As I headed out I messaged one of my best friends to see if she fancied joining me on a video call. She replied to say she was about to have her dinner. I was disappointed; a little dejected. I loved having company on my walks and a call would have set me up for the weekend after a busy week.

I smiled to myself, recognising the frustration and feelings of abandonment that tend to arise when things don’t go the way I want or expect them to. I’m better at handling them than I used to be. My friend and I hadn’t spoken in a few days but there was nothing wrong. She wasn’t cross with me. She didn’t hate me. We hadn’t fallen out of friends. She was having her dinner, that’s all!

I walked on until I got to my favourite bench. I often stopped there to write or think, or write about thinking. I took out my journal and began to explore what was going on for me. I managed four and a half sentences before it started raining. It was little more than a fine drizzle but journaling would have to wait. It was okay. I’d still get my walk, and I could call at the little shop for milk and a few groceries so there’d be less for me to carry home from the supermarket next day. I might pick up a couple of beers. If my friend had finished eating she might still be up for a call. If not, I’d send her a few photos along the way. It would be fine.

The rain wasn’t easing. If anything, it was getting heavier by the minute. I sheltered beneath a stand of trees at the roadside. It’s one of the most photogenic spots on my walk but it was too dull for photos. Even the bluebells and snowdrops looked forlorn. Most days, I’d walk a few hundred yards further to the small bridge that spans the Ouseburn. There are cherry trees laden with blossom on the other side of the stream: beyond that, a field with three or four horses. Not this time, though. It was too wet to walk any further. I was beginning to feel a long way from home. There’d be no shelter once I moved from the cover of the trees. If my friend messaged now to say she was free it was too wet to have my phone out for a video call. Voice would work because I could keep my phone in my pocket, but I wasn’t even sure I was up for that now.

As I headed back I could feel my mood shifting from disappointment into annoyance, frustration, and resentment. No relaxing walk. No call. Not even the opportunity to journal how I was feeling. In different circumstances, I’d have found it easier to be philosophical. In different circumstances, I’d be turning to one of the key mantras that Fran and I talk about in our book High Tide, Low Tide:

Feel it. Claim it. Love it. Let it go.

I scowled as I crossed the road. I was certainly FEELING IT. My resentment and grouchiness had reached epic levels. How dare my friend be eating her dinner when I wanted to connect with her? How dare it rain so hard that we couldn’t have had a call anyway? How dare the water be running off my coat and drenching my trousers? My feet were dry in my DMs but that seemed little comfort. I could only hope the birthday card wasn’t getting wet inside my bag. There was no way I was going to make it as far as the postbox now — or the shop. The whole purpose of my walk — every aspect of it — had been taken from me. By this point, I was hoping my friend wouldn’t message to say she was free — and furious that she hadn’t. Oh, I was feeling it all right!

I stomped on. What came next? Oh yes. I always struggled with the CLAIM IT part. It was hard to accept my feelings and responses as my responsibility. They were, though. My friend had done nothing wrong. She wasn’t ignoring me. She hadn’t cancelled plans at the last minute. She was having her dinner. Likewise, the universe wasn’t conspiring against me. What arrogance, to imagine my plans worthy of the universe going out of its way to get in mine! I’d been looking forward to a nice walk and a call with my friend. It hadn’t worked out. It was raining. That’s all that had happened. End of. The feelings that had been triggered in me were no one’s responsibility but mine. A glimmer of awareness opened up for me.

If the rain had stopped and the sun had come out it would have been nice. It didn’t, but I could feel a certain lightness as I turned for home. I wasn’t easy to LOVE IT but my mood was beginning to shift. It was okay for me to be grumpy. Who enjoys getting soaking wet when they’d hoped for a pleasant walk? Who would be happy if they didn’t get to talk with a beloved friend? No one, right? I could forgive myself for “getting in a tizz,” as my mother might have said. I could be gentle towards myself for doing the best I could in the circumstances. I could love myself — and my friend, and the universe — for being precisely how and who and what we were in that moment.

As I arrived home I could finally LET IT GO. I messaged my friend.

Maybe it will rain again on my walk tonight. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll get to speak to my friend today. Maybe not. Whatever happens, I will hold the moment lightly and gently for what it is.

 

Heartwarming Moments on the Jingle Bell Walk

I was proud to take part in this year’s Jingle Bell Walk in support of the Chris Lucas Trust which raises funds for and awareness of children’s cancer. I did the walk for the first time last year and was keen to do so again. I wasn’t alone! According to event organiser Lynn Lucas over four hundred people registered with more turning up on the night – all the more impressive given the rather damp weather we’d had all week!

The start coincided with the lighting ceremony for the huge Christmas tree outside Newcastle Civic Centre. I’d never witnessed this before and it made up for me missing the turning on of Newcastle’s main Christmas lights this year.

We set off from outside St Thomas’ church at Haymarket just after six pm. Four hundred walkers in Santa hats led by a marching band is quite something to see (and hear) and we drew plenty of attention!

The 2.5 mile route took us down Northumberland Street which looked very festive with the Christmas market in full swing and a mini fun fair complete with carousel and helter-skelter. The windows of Fenwick department store are something of a regional attraction at Christmas; this year’s theme is based on the Roald Dahl classic, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

We continued past STACK and the Tyneside Cinema before joining Dean Street close to the Theatre Royal. From there we walked down to the Quayside, under the Tyne Bridge and along the riverside to finish by the Millennium Bridge. Santa was there with his reindeer. There was music and dancing, a bubble machine, and hot chocolate for all donated by the Pitcher & Piano.

After a drink in the Pitcher & Piano it was time to head home. I called a friend of mine in the States to wish her Happy Thanksgiving and she kept me company as I walked along the Quayside and back up into the centre of town to Haymarket where the walk had started. I smiled when I realised I’d done the walk again in reverse – so if you sponsored me you really ought to pay double!

Here are a few of my personal memories of the evening:

• The brilliant family atmosphere at the start as everyone gathered for the off.
• The rain!
• The man watching us go by the entrance to Eldon Square, holding the cutest puppy ever!
• Two women waving to us all from an upstairs window on Dean Street!
• The marching band’s (ahem) interesting selection of anthems from the WW1 playbook!
• Singing Let It Go! WAY too loud (and without the benefit of alcohol!)

I asked organiser Lynn Lucas for her thoughts of this year’s event:

It was a great night from start to finish. The rain didn’t stop the fun and everyone supporting our charity to raise funds for childhood cancer. We try to make it magical for all with a marching band and at the finish Santa, reindeer, hot chocolate etc. The feedback has been fantastic; already looking forward to the next one! Support from everyone involved was really appreciated.

The Chris Lucas Trust is a registered charity supporting research into childhood cancer. You can find out more about the work of the Trust on their website www.chrislucastrust.com and follow them on Twitter (@chrislucastrust). To donate directly to the Trust visit their JustGiving page. The Jingle Bell Walk has its own website www.jinglebellwalk.co.uk.

 

Old Memories and New: A Stroll down Memory Lane

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I'll meet you there.”

― Rumi

I’m on holiday this week at a cottage in the English Lake District I’ve been visiting for decades.

Each evening rain or shine I walk to the village. It’s a mile each way, give or take, but I can be out a couple of hours. I amble. I stop to watch the sheep, rabbits, and birds. And I think.

Over the years I’ve had many folk with me in my thoughts as I’ve walked the single track road to Great Musgrave. So many that long ago I named it Memory Lane. A very few have joined me on phone or video calls. It’s a joy to share special places with those close in heart if not always in miles.

Not all the memories are easy, but they all get to be here. Memory Lane can be a place of healing too. And there’s always room for more. As a friend said to me the other day, it’s good to make new memories. It can help cleanse us, move us forward. Sometimes it’s just nice to layer new memories on old.

So tonight, once again, I will walk the path I know so well. Maybe I’ll meet you there and we’ll make new memories together.

 

Ten Ways to Turn a Bad Day Around

There’s nothing inherently wrong with having a bad day. It’s natural, I would even say healthy, for our mood to fluctuate in response to whatever is going on around us. On the other hand, no one wants to stay stuck in a rut.

Here are ten techniques I use when I’m having a rough day. Several of them feature in my Wellness Recovery Action Plan (WRAP).

It’s worth saying these are not fixes or solutions for anxiety, depression, or other mental health conditions although they might form part of a person’s wellness toolbox. They help me weather the ups and downs of life and I offer them on that basis.

1. Go for a Walk

I’ve written elsewhere about how important walking is to my wellbeing. It’s my go-to strategy when things are getting me down. Walking allows me to acknowledge whatever feelings are present for me, experience them, and then let them go. I sometimes use the “hot coals” technique I learned from Fran. I close my hand at my chest, taking hold of whatever feeling I wish to release. I extend my hand to the side and open it, palm down as I walk on. As silly as it might sound, it works. Try it next time you are feeling stuck.

2. Talk with a Friend

I’m fortunate to have a small number of friends I can turn to if I need to share what’s going on for me. I don’t find it easy to be vulnerable but with these few people I feel safe enough to be myself, knowing they will listen without judgement. There are few personal skills more important and healthy than the art of listening.

3. Write It Out

Writing features prominently in my Wellness Recovery Action Plan (WRAP). Apart from our two books and my blogging I’ve kept a daily journal since I was fourteen years old. For most of that time I wrote my diary each evening for the previous day. More recently I’ve started capturing my thoughts in the morning and at various times throughout the day. This means my diary is more of an in-the-moment account of how I’m feeling than an historic account of “how I felt yesterday.” Although journaling is an important part of my wellness regime I occasionally find myself trapped in an unhealthy cycle of introspection. To break the pattern I might challenge myself not to write any more about a certain person or situation until something specific changes.

4. Distract Yourself

Distraction is a core strategy of Dialectical behaviour therapy (DBT); others are self-soothing, improving the moment, and pros and cons. My friend and fellow mental health blogger Aimee Wilson has written extensively about distraction in a DBT context on her blog I’m NOT Disordered. According to Aimee,

Distraction can include writing and other creative activities, reading, beauty treatments, really anything that can take your attention away from what is bothering you. It is important not to overuse this or it can become avoidance.

I find distraction techniques help when I’m feeling stuck or overwhelmed, especially if other approaches aren’t working. Recently I’ve distracted myself by listening to the BBC News channel when I’m at work or at home in the evening. I can understand that for many people the barrage of world affairs might be upsetting or triggering but it stops me obsessing about things that are troubling me. Music can have a similar effect although I’m careful what I choose to listen to in case it exacerbates how I’m feeling rather than providing relief.

5. Escape for a Bit

Escape is similar to distraction except that the intention is to consciously set the difficult situation aside and find comfort and solace elsewhere for a while. Movies and television shows work well for me, especially when Fran and I watch DVDs or Netflix together online. For an hour or two we can put everything on hold and immerse ourselves in whatever we are watching. This doesn’t fix things but it allows time for my emotions and thoughts to settle and for fresh ideas to emerge. Taking a break from social media can have the same effect.

6. Reward Yourself

I’ve written elsewhere how important it is to recognise and celebrate our successes. That said, when I’m low or upset it’s hard to believe I’m worthy of reward because my default is to blame myself for whatever’s gone wrong. My friend Jen reminded me that no matter what’s happening I can take responsibility and reward myself for that.

What about playdates, Marty? Do you have playdates with yourself? Take yourself to a movie, or to dinner, or to a good bookstore?

This doesn’t work too well if my underlying mood is very low; rather than celebrate I’m likely to spend the time brooding. But if I’ve begun to shift things using some of the other techniques, treating myself can help move me forward.

7. Find Solid Ground

When I’m overwhelmed it can be hard to find a stable point of reference. Paying attention to my day-to-day routine helps but it’s not always enough to get me to a place where I feel grounded and secure. When other techniques fail I sometimes attempt to “jolt myself” back to a time or place when I felt more stable. Music from a particular period in my life can work, as can looking through old photographs or reading my journal from years ago. The aim is to get my feet under me again and then return to the present to face whatever is going on from that place of stability and safety.

8. Change Something

Changing even one small aspect of your situation can affect how you feel. When I’m low or stressed I take less interest in my appearance. Sorting out a nice shirt and my favourite tweed jacket in the morning can be all it takes to shift my mood in a positive direction. Get out of the house if you’ve been stuck inside. Try a different café or even a different table at your regular place. Drive or walk an alternate route to work or to the store. Talk to someone other than the people you usually turn to.

9. Accept How It Is

Despite having all the techniques at your fingertips, sometimes nothing can turn the day around. Processing, talking, escaping, distracting, rewarding — they all take time, energy, and focus and sometimes you just can’t. All you can do is accept you’re having a rubbish day and handle it as safely as you can. Cry, scream, grumble, isolate — whatever it takes to get you through. The very act of “giving up” can help shift your mood. It may not, but it’s worth a try.

10. Go to Bed!

If you’ve made it to the evening — or even the middle of the afternoon — and things are still looking grim, sometimes the best option is to turn your back on the rest of the day and turn in. Tomorrow is a new day and maybe things will look different in the morning.

I’ve shared some of the techniques I use to turn the day around. What works for you? I’d love to hear your thoughts, experiences and ideas!

 

One Step at a Time: Walking for Wellness, Walking for Me

When I’m happy, I walk.
When I’m sad, or lonely or lost.
When I’m hurting, or numb.
When there’s too much to think about
Or nothing on my mind.
I walk.

Walking has played an important role in my life for as long as I can remember. So much so that it was one of the first things I included in the wellness tools section of my Wellness Recovery Action Plan (WRAP). It’s also made its way into my writing more often than I’d realised until I began writing this article. (The idea for this piece came to me whilst, wait for it, walking into work one morning a few weeks ago.)

My family never owned a car, so when I was growing up in Liverpool if I wanted to go somewhere it was catch the bus or walk. From the age of eleven I walked thirty or forty minutes each way to and from school, lost in my thoughts about whatever was going on for me at the time. In my late teens I remember going for Sunday evening walks to West Derby village and back, a round trip of maybe an hour and a half at my ambling, contemplative pace.

About that time I started going on the Ramblers’ Association (now The Ramblers) public walks every couple of months with my aunt and her friend. I loved the exercise and the sense of freedom, being out on the hills. The people were lovely but I mostly kept my own counsel and walked separately the rest. There was one exception, a lady whose name escapes me some forty years on. Her spirit is captured, however, in one of my poems from that time.

Song to the high hills

Take my hand offered
across streams
we jump
that trickle your laughter
down the savage fen.
Share with me one day’s
journey
in this weird land,
where even the spring shuns
the mark of our
trespass
and unnamed birds cast down
forsaken echoes
from the high hills above us.
Do you not see
the whole earth bleeding …
distant mountains burn
a venous red
and at our feet
the bare rocks haemorrhage,
oozing lichen up from unseen wounds.
Believe me,
cares that clothe us
city-bound
will fall
today
like autumn leaves
       that colour in your hair
come winter’s purge.
And yet, in all of this,
a little rain might mark my sadness
sevenfold
to court you but a day
—surely inhibition falters
as we share the innocence
of exploration together.

Innocence tempting revelation.

From: Collected Poems: 1977–1984.

I joined the hiking club at university but didn’t keep it up. I do recall one hike with friends across Ilkley Moor during a thunderstorm that painted the sky in all manner of crazy hues. Instead, I took to taking urban walks on my own, mostly early in the morning. A favourite route took me out of town to a park where I would sit a while by the lake before making my way back for lectures. One day I went further than I intended and got myself a bit lost. I remember taking my shoes off and walking part of the way back barefoot across a golf course in the rain. A different early walk, along a derelict railway to the local park, was captured in another of my poems.

The Bunch of Wild Flowers

this morning
as you slept in his arms
I wandered,
picked you flowers white as sonnets
early in the morning
where the lonely go
and lovers wonder)

stirring in your arms he
tasted autumn in your hair
ascent of flowers,
brushed away the cobwebs or a dream
and (plucked one throbbing rose as red as
kisses
early in the garden
where the lovers grow
within each other’s arms

And bore you welcomes wild
of flowers truer than all orchids
my love
this morning as you slept
in his arms I wandered
gathering poems deep as daisies
early in the morning
where the lovers
go,

From: Collected Poems: 1977–1984.

Urban or rural, walking for me has always been about space: space in which to think or not think, depending on what I most need at the time. It is my instinctive response to uncertainty, challenge, and loss. When I got the news that PJ, a dear friend from university days, had died my instinctive reaction was to get out of the house and walk. It didn’t matter where, I just needed to be moving. (Years later, that one evening of loss is imprinted on these local streets, although I’ve added many overlying layers of other days, people and memories in the intervening years.) A week or so later I took the day off work and went to the coast for a solitary hike, long enough to try and process the fact that my friend was no longer here. After my mother died I walked by Crosby Marina the evening of her funeral. The words that came to me are, perhaps, a poem. If so, it is the first I’ve written in many years.

Wandering
Wondering

How do I feel
What do I feel

Release
Relief

Re birth

Stillness
Silence

Un known
Un homed

Un tethered

Still
Calm

Centred (thank you

— Liverpool, March 26, 2018

I mostly prefer to walk alone but there have been times when I’ve taken a trusted friend along. One of my dearest memories of PJ is of walking her home in the snow one dark winter night. Years later I recall another walk in the snow with a different friend, when we got seriously lost on Wimbledon Common. The walk Fran and I took around Beaulieu in 2013 when we met in person for the first time was, quite simply, precious.

We walked, and talked, and took photos of the Abbey and gardens, and went on the monorail and the old open-top bus, and walked some more, and sat, and talked some more. It was amazing—and the most natural thing in the world. If we were a little shy it didn’t show. We were just two friends out together enjoying the day.

From: High Tide, Low Tide, The Caring Friend’s Guide to Bipolar Disorder.

Walks by the sea are special. I spent six months in Norwich on placement from university. One Sunday I drove to the coast with one of the other students for an hour or so walking on the shore.

(In the Depths of) Singing

Down the western reaches of the sea i
findme walking with a friend,
wind and seasalt wildly in the sky, you on
my mind. Late november: pebbles in a
wilderness of oceans and a fulling moon.

Something like the flesh of friends too
raw for touching walkwe. Two
investigating puddles. Our togetherness apart
we wander down our dreams while all the
waves one water can involve strike
sparks about our feet. From flints we
gather in the night.
We gather. In the

(o i love the waves that break upon
me like you)

nightly

From: Collected Poems: 1977–1984.

That memory sparks another. One morning long ago when I ought to have been at work but instead spent the day on the beach walking with a friend who understood that sometimes shared solitude is just what is needed.

A few years ago I paddled in the sea along Long Sands Beach at Whitley Bay here in the north-east. At first it was cold. Then my feet went numb. I probably should have come out at that point but I kept going to the point when my feet were hurting with cold. I got out of the water, dried my feet, and put my thick socks and boots on, expecting my feet to warm through within a few minutes. They took so long to thaw out I was beginning to think I had caused some serious damage. I have paddled in the sea several times since then, but not in quite such extreme conditions.

Over time, regular walking routes become saturated with memories. The best example of that is the walk I take each evening when on holiday at the Cumbrian cottage my family have rented for the past twenty years or so. So rich are the echoes of the people and situations I’ve brought with me in mind and heart over the years that I’ve named it Memory Lane. Fran has accompanied me on that walk many times via the magic of Skype. A few other friends have done the same.

I have done a few sponsored walks. When I was at school I organised a twenty mile walk for friends in aid of the World Wildlife Fund. I think only two of us completed the task but we did raise some money. More recently I have done the Alzheimer’s Society Memory Walk a couple of times, and taken part in the NAMI Maine Walk, accompanying Fran from 3,000 miles away. Last December I took part in the Jingle Bell Walk to raise money for children’s cancer charity The Chris Lucas Trust.

Returning to my solo walks and their place in my wellbeing, the best example is the walk I took almost every evening during the summer of 2013 when Fran was traveling in Europe. Those walks were part of my wellness plan for that period, which was the most challenging we’d faced as friends and one of the most traumatic Fran had ever experienced.

That wellness plan developed into the Wellness Recovery Action Plan I mentioned at the start of this article. It is a living document and will grow with me as my needs change, but I cannot imagine walking not being in there as one of my key wellness tools.

Well, this article has turned out to be rather long and rambling, much like many of my walks!

I will close with another passage from our book, because short or long every walk starts out as a single step, then another, then another. And where steps are concerned, size and speed are not always the most important things. The important thing is to keep moving.

As we like to say, baby steps are steps too.

This is one of our favourite [sayings]. It reminds us to stay focused in the present moment, to take life one step at a time, and to acknowledge that even the smallest advance counts as progress. Fran is very goal-oriented, and becomes frustrated if she seems to be straying off course or failing to make fast enough progress. In depression, this can reach a point where she despairs of ever achieving her targets or even progressing further towards them. At such times, “Baby steps are steps too” reminds her that she rarely stays stuck for long. She will try new ideas, or re-visit old ones, until something happens to move her forward.

From: High Tide, Low Tide, The Caring Friend’s Guide to Bipolar Disorder.