My Transgender Coming Out Story - A Tale of Difficulties and Deep Joy

So this is me.  Or one version of me.  A selfie taken a few days ago in a moment of deep joy and contentment at the top of a hill not too many miles from home.  I share it because it's where my story is right now, four years after coming out as a transgender woman.  There I am.  Just me.  In what is one of the stranger pictures.  You won't see many selfies of a transgender woman in a post about being transgender that look quite like this one.  Welcome to my reality.  I like it.  Especially when I'm being a little more crazy or weird than usual.

I just read an article about what one person has learned coming out as a non-binary trans person at the age of 43. After 100 days they say they did everything too fast. Their experiences are those of one person.  It is their truth.

My experiences and truth are also those of one person. They're bound to be a little different because I'm a woman, pure and simple, and about as far from non-binary as any woman gets. The article got me thinking about my own transgender life and the way I came out to the world and began to live publicly as a woman.

Here's a little of my experience. Just one woman trying to navigate her way into her truth. I've free written what follows and haven't edited at all.  Any mistakes are my own.

I came out to myself in a way I couldn't ever deny again at the age of 43. 43 years to get to that point. From then on things moved quickly.

2 weeks on: I dressed solely in women's clothes. Except when preaching. Not publicly in skirts and dresses. Not yet. But solely in woman's clothes I'd bought for myself via the miracle of very cheap charity shops. I didn't have a clue what I was doing. Everything was a matter of experimentation and sometimes I got it very wrong and nobody told me quickly enough before I had a chance to inflict my lack of dress sense on the world.

4 weeks on: I had told pretty much everyone that I was now Clare. The church leaders panicked about how to tell everyone and that delayed legal changes and the whole process. Most people were okay about it. Some people rejected me. Some people told me at length how staggeringly wonderful they were to not totally reject me. Gee, thanks!

8 weeks on: Having sorted things out with the church and had a ten day holiday as Clare (during which time my transition was officially announced to the congregation) I got round to legally changing my name. Much paperwork. Some people change their name quite often. They must love paperwork.

I was that (appearing to the world) 40 something man in a frock. Dark shadows of stubble. No make up. No hair removal. Hair that I'd cut short a few weeks before coming out. Totally, completely obvious. I was yet to meet anyone from Tyne Trans (as was). I had asked the GP to refer me to the gender dysphoria service – 27 days after coming out to myself, half of which was waiting for the appointment! - but my first appointment wasn't until three and a half months after signing that deed poll. To all intents and purposes anyone who saw me in the street would have clocked me as a cross dressing man not as a woman determined to be herself.

And sometimes, unsurprisingly, the world made things bloody difficult. Bloody difficult. Transphobia is real. If I had phoned the police every time I experienced it I would have been phoning a lot. Every. Single. Day. At times it was horrible. Truly horrible. And I was one of the more fortunate ones. Others have suffered a hell of a lot more than me after coming out. Every one of them is amazing for getting through that hell. When people quote the suicide and attempted suicide rate for transgender people I can only wonder why it isn't higher. For the record, in the UK nearly half of all transgender people have attempted suicide.

Four years have passed since I came out and demanded to be called Clare and she. Woe to anyone who deliberately calls me he or protests that they don't see an issue with it if I get misgendered or who tells me it's too hard to remember that I'm female and so would like to be addressed as female. Fortunately that doesn't happen much now – and most people I see never knew me as he. Yes, pretty much my entire life, excepting family, is filled with people I didn't know four years ago.

I've learned a lot in those four years.

Would I do it again? Come out like that?

You bet I would. Except I'd have done it quicker.

And I wouldn't allow a religion to delay anything. I truly wish I'd come out to the church in the middle of a sermon I preached. It was very tempting indeed and I wish I'd done it. After coming out I was told that it would be "inappropriate" for me to preach or lead anything in case "anyone is ever worried." All the confusion. All the having to meet with diocesan pastoral advisors and so on. Just so I could be banned and yet find that the congregation itself was supportive. Yeah, I wish I hadn't let the panicking of the CofE delay me for one second.

If I knew now what I knew then I wouldn't have been so afraid. And to be honest I spent the entirety of those 8 weeks in a state in which my great joy at accepting myself was mixed with an immense amount of terror. Some days I didn't know whether I could do it and without my immediate family and the support of another church - Northern Lights MCC - I might have taken longer about the whole thing.

If I knew now, there would have been less fear. And I would have reached that deed poll milestone quicker.

I have regrets. I shouldn't. Because what's the point? I might as well regret not coming out when I was at college – and I was thinking only this morning of a couple of times the truth was very close to the surface in my mind and how things could have been different if I'd only chosen to speak one sentence differently. I might as well regret my A level choices or giving up the violin when I was nine or anything else that I can't change. Maybe they're not regrets. And each one led in some way to my life being as it is.

But I'd certainly change some parts of the coming out process if I had the chance. Not just the CofE thing.

I regret not telling my online world en masse rather than having to pluck up courage - through terror, always through terror - to tell people one at a time. I'm grateful my mum accidentally outed me to some people, after which I just said "To hell with it" and told the rest.

I regret that my Facebook account is not the one I had under my old name. There were many years of history on that old account and I wish I'd kept it back than and closed this one. The account is still there. With no friends. My old name isn't even friends with my new name.

I regret how defensive I've been about the whole trans thing and how much of that arose from fear and an expectation, borne of 43 years of self rejection and self hatred, that many people who reject and hate me too. I guess most people who come out can got through an over-defensive time arising from that same fear. Bear with us, we get over it – just don't expect us to ever give way to prejudice. We won't.

But these regrets and others are only little compared to the satisfaction and life-changing wonder of coming out at all, of acceptance. It's not just that I'm happier as Clare, more content, and so on. My life has been completely changed in many ways that wouldn't have been possible probably had I not done this. Or if possible, very unlikely.

I have met so many amazing people I wouldn't have met otherwise - including many of you. I've been so blessed. And I meet many more amazing people every time I uncover a little more of myself – this transgender, autistic, creative, weirdly spiritual, nature loving woman.

I've done amazing things too. In my own way. And being Clare has allowed me to start to work through other aspects of my life and being and slowly begin to heal and allow myself to be me.

Without coming out I don't think I'd have been able to accept being autistic. I don't think I'd be exploring creativity as I am. I wouldn't have encountered Broadacre House, wouldn't have completely transformed my faith and spiritual life - and I don't think I'd ever have found the freedom to leave church and start to find my own path again.

Yes. It's been bloody difficult. And there have been lots of difficult things in the past four years. Autism - yeah, that's been tougher than being transgender in very many ways. I've cried. Lots. I've been rejected by some. I've been labelled an abomination by my own church pastor (not the CofE or MCC one). My mental health, while generally much improved, continues to be a minefield just as it always has.

But it's been worth it.

Fabulously, profoundly, superbly worth it.

And I look forward to my future as Clare, as the person I'm discovering myself to be. I am excited for my future. Excited to meet more amazing people and do more amazing (for me) things. Excited because there always seems to be a new surprise when you allow the surprises and give them permission to bring change.

I'm typing all this in my bedroom. Nearly everything in here isn't just something I didn't own before coming out. It's something I wouldn't have considered owning at all. Not just the obvious clothes. But soft toys, my books, the purple Buddha on the wall, that whisk over there that doubles as a head massager (buying it was hilarious), precious things from autism conferences, poetry books, writing books, the meditation material on the bed, precious items from Manchester, even a series of books called Skulduggery Pleasant. I wouldn't have read those if I hadn't come out.  I look at this room and know that my life is almost infinitely better for coming out.

My life is very much not as I would have expected it to be. And the changes just keep happening.  There are more on the way that I know about.  And there will be more surprises too.

I give thanks for Clare.

In ten days time I will give thanks again. For it will be the fourth anniversary of the night I looked at myself in a mirror, fully dressed as myself without guilt for the first time in my life, and greeted myself as Clare for the first time. Welcomed myself into the world.

The Girl Whose Good Fortune Nearly Killed Her - Part one of two

I'm not well again.  So for today you're only getting half a story.  I'll finish it for tomorrow's post.

The following was inspired by the Sunday Assembly, Manchester.  Partly.  I was able to be there for their meeting last weekend.  Unfortunately I couldn't stick around for cake.  The subject of the meeting was luck and a fortune cookie was placed under each chair.  I sneakily took two cookies away from me and as I waited for my coach back to Newcastle a story idea came to mind.  What if someone believed such fortunes and took them literally?  This is the first half of that story, based on the two fortunes I received.

Please excuse the bad focus on my photos - my phone wasn't coping well with tiny writing and bad lighting.

Mary woke up in pain.  Her chest hurt more than anything else, as if an elephant had stood on her rib cage or a family of mice had burrowed into it, ripping through flesh with their tiny teeth.  Her head hurt too as if she was subject to the worst of hangovers.  Thinking about the pain only caused her more pain.  Thinking about opening her eyes when there was obviously an intrusive bright light above her made the pain in her brain far worse.  Mary lay there for a while.  Maybe if she lay still long enough everything would feel much better.  She didn't know how long it was but the torment inside her mind gradually subsided from hurricane force to just a severe gale.

Mary opened her eyes.  She was in a hospital bed and her mother was standing over her.  Staring at her with a very worried expression on her face.  She had been crying.

"Thank God.  You're awake.  You're a fucking idiot Louise.  What the hell did you think you were doing?"

The sound of her mother shouting made Mary's head hurt again.  She closed her eyes for a while.  Slowly it came back to her and she realised what must have happened.

"I was obeying it mum.  That's all.  I did what it said and you told me it was true didn't you?"

"What was true?  Whatever possessed you Louise?  You're bloody lucky to be alive.  Could have killed yourself you dunce.  And heaven knows how we're going to get the stains out of the carpet."

Mary's mum started to cry.  "Just look at what you've done to your mum.  I could have lost you."

Mary could only stare.  It had all made perfect sense in her mind.  Had she really almost died?  How was that possible when she had only been walking in obedience?

"Mum, mum.  Don't cry.  I did it for you.  Because you said to and you gave them to me.  It should have been okay."

"Sod it Louise!  Of course it wasn't going to be okay.  And you'll be scarred for life.  Scarred.  I was so scared when I found you lying there.  Thought someone had murdered you.  Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph I did.  And then I saw those knives."

She cried more and fell across Mary's legs, grabbing her hand and clasping it tightly.

"Mum?  I'll be fine and we'll work it out.  Maybe I did something wrong.  Although I can't think what.  And mum?  My name's Mary now, do you remember?"

"God Louise, is this somehow related to that?  I told you the first time that you didn't have to take it literally and act on it."

"Yeah, but mum, that's not what you said in the restaurant and it was such a special night and that Chinese man said it too and you said that he looked like some kind of prophet.  I think he was.  My name's Mary.  I had to obey because you said and I did too."

Perhaps it had been a mistake from the beginning.  Perhaps Mary's mum should never have agreed to take her to a Chinese restaurant to celebrate her twelfth birthday.  At home they only ever ate good, wholesome English food and that's the way Mary's mum liked it.  But then Mary had seen a programme on television about Chinese food and had spent the next month repeating those strange words over and over again and pestering to be allowed to try them.  Chow Mein.  Foo Yung.  Wonton.  What kind of words were those?  Mary's mum believed only in chips, steak and kidney pudding and foods she could understand.

But Mary had gone on about it so much that eventually her mum could take it no more and said that they would try one Chinese meal.  At a restaurant in town.  When the day arrived Mary was dancing in excitement.  She had been obsessed with the menu for weeks, downloading it from the restaurant website and learning it off by heart.  All she could think about was what Kung Pao and Dim Sum might be.  Her mum was scared.  Scared of the new foods in the new place.

At seven o'clock they arrived for their meal.  Mary's mum didn't know what to do or what to ask for so the waiter helped her explore the menu.  She was relieved that the final section contained some English dishes so she settled on roast chicken and chips for her main course.  Mary said, "Oh mum, that's so boring.  I'm going to order a starter, two main courses and a pudding and you can try them too.  You'll see.  You'll like them."

It was true.  Mary's mum did like the food and by the end of the meal was surprised that she regretted ordering chicken and chips.  That char sui chow mein Mary had ordered turned out to be delicious even though it had such a strange name.  She decided that one day she might risk a Chinese ready meal from the supermarket.  Maybe they sold chow mein there too.

At the close of the meal the waiter gave them the bill on a little plate.  There were also two little packages.  Mary's mum called the waiter back, saying, "Er, excuse me, sorry.  But what are these?"

"Madam, special gift from us to you.  These are fortune cookies.  Inside each cookie there is a piece of paper and it will tell your fortune or give you a special insight into your life.  It never fails.  It's almost as if the gods were inside the fortune cookies."

"Oh, I don't think I want to try that.  It all sounds a bit superstitious to me.  It's probably true if you say it is but I'll stick with my God thank you and trust him to know my fortune.  I don't want my cookie.  Sorry."

"That's fine madam.  You don't have to accept the gift.  How about your little girl?"

"No.  I shouldn't think she'd want to have one either."

Mary piped up.  "Actually I'd like to.  The man said it never fails and you said it's true.  Can I have your cookie too mum?  Please.  It is my birthday."

Mary's mum relented, saying, "Louise, Louise.  You do have a lot of funny ideas.  But I suppose it won't do any harm just this once."

Mary put the cookies in her pocket.  "I'll read one tonight and then the other in a few days.  Make my birthday last a bit longer."

That night Mary opened her first cookie.  It didn't taste very nice.  Nevertheless she ate the whole thing before opening the small piece of paper inside.

It read "A good name is better than riches."

She thought hard about what that might mean.  She hadn't got many riches, just a few pounds in a piggy bank.  She didn't think she had a good name either.  Louise?  In what way was that a good name?  It wasn't in the Bible or any of the other holy books her mum had.  It was a bad name and she couldn't begin to see why her parents had given it to her.  Perhaps it was all her dad's fault.  Mum often said he was a bad man and they hadn't seen him since Mary was two.

There was only one thing for it if she wanted to obey the fortune cookie.  She had to get rid of her riches and change her name.  Then her life would work out for the best.  It was obvious.  The Chinese prophet said so and he was obviously right.

The following morning Mary went down to breakfast with her piggy bank.  As her mum served her with toast and jam Mary said, "Mum, can I give all my money into the second collection on Sunday.  It's Peter's Pence isn't it?  It'll all go somewhere worthwhile."

"I suppose so.  If that's what you really want.  But weren't you saving up for something?"

"Oh, that doesn't matter.  It's only riches and there are better things than riches.  Can I?  Please mum."

"Okay.  You're a kind girl Louise.  I'm so lucky to have you."  Mary's mum gave her a hug.

"Oh, and mum.  I'm changing my name.  I don't like Louise any more.  I want to be called Mary.  That's a good name isn't it?  It's the kind of name you might have if you are pure like Jesus' mum."

"No you can't.  That was your dear departed gran's name and she was a good soul even if your dad turned out to be a child of the devil.  You're not changing your name.  And that's final."

"But mum.  I like Mary.  It suits me because I want to be obedient too.  And you said it was probably true and it is true just like you said so I've got to be Mary.  Got to be.  Please mum.  I have to do it."

"Louise Baker you shut your mouth now.  You're not changing your name.  Not while you live under my roof."

Mary shut her mouth.  It was all so unfair.  The fortune cookie had told her to be called Mary, hadn't it?  So that's the way it had to be.  And since it was impossible to change her name while living under her mum's roof ...  Later that day Mary wrote a note to her mother.

"Mum, I'm sorry but I am leaving home today.  I have to be called Mary and you've made it impossible.  So I've got to go.  I've left my piggy bank next to this note.  Could you see that the money inside, three pounds and fourteen pence, are put into the offering?  Thanks Mum.  I love you.  I'm sorry to leave because I do love you ever such a lot and it was so funny watching your face when you tried that first mouthful of chow mein.  Don't worry about me.  I'll have a good name and that's better than riches.  I have to obey and I hope you can see that I'm doing the right thing.  Your obedient daughter, Mary."



[1680 words]

Days of Gratitude - Creativity, Charity, Cafes, Carousels, Coaches. And Darkness.

Five more days.  They were good days.  I spent them in Manchester staying with an awesome person, the creator of my soft toy Blob Thing.  She's a very busy person these days, excelling in her passion and slowly working her way towards her dream.  I believe that she will achieve that dream.  She has found her niche and it's a place where that great passion is combined with a talent and definite flair and I believe that she is going to affect the lives of lots of people in a very positive way as she continues to walk this path.  Autistic children will benefit massively and so will their parents/guardians and those around them.  They already do benefit massively but this is only the beginning.  One of my joys over the past sixteen months since meeting her has been to watch the way she has run down this path with such total enthusiasm and to watch the way that she has begun to create something pretty damn marvellous.  When I met her this thing did not exist anywhere but her head.  And now it does.  And there is much more in her head to become a physical reality at time progresses.  I am looking forward to watching it happen.

Five more days.  Since Amanda is so busy I now have to occupy myself quite a bit when I'm there.  I am finding ways to occupy myself and know that there is never a cause for me to be bored either when reading and writing at her house or when I go out - walking, visiting a town, writing in the library, or finding new places and people.

This visit was no exception and below you will find a few things I am excited about.  And a cafe that I'll be returning to.  It even has convenient plug sockets for a laptop.  Southport has also given me a writing prompt for a story that is churning in my head right now.  At some point it will come to rest and I'll know the broad outline of the tale.  But that's not something for now.  I'll just tell you it involves palmistry and an impossible fortune becoming possible.

Something else.  I am typing this at the Literary and Philosophical Society Library.  I joined today.  Yes, I am now officially a member.  I plan to spend lots of time here writing and reading.  Perhaps there will be people to meet too and it will become the source of more surprises in my life.  I hope so.

16^th December


Grateful to have found amazing places and things while having to spend hours in Manchester city centre without a plan.

Here:

A brilliant free creative space in Afflecks. With a possibility something similar might happen one day in Newcastle.

The awesome art cafe.

Some great street art.

So many pictures to choose from.

17^th December

Grateful for a great day with Amanda in Southport.

Chips, ice cream, charity shops, a carousel, and tea. Our kind of day.

And it was the first time I have ever seen the sea it Southport. On every other visit it was miles away.

18^th December

Grateful for darkness and light.  The not-church church I attended in Manchester was based on the theme of darkness.  I liked the people there.  I don't think it would be "my" place but I did like them and I liked the honesty and openness that was greater than that seen in most church churches.

And grateful for the women's toilets here in Nexus Art Cafe.

Yep, a gratitude post about a toilet.

19^th December

Grateful to spend most of the day with Amanda.

We caught the bus to Leigh for charity shops and to visit a very good cafe there.

A screen in the cafe displays slideshows of someone's photos. As I was paying I noticed the photos at that moment were of Newcastle.

20^th December

Grateful to have achieved the front seat on the coach back from Manchester.

Grateful for an easy journey.

And grateful for roast chicken. Because I am still a corpse eating monster.

Days of Gratitude - Tea, Cafes and The Rocky Road To Manchester

Five more days.  The solstice will soon be with us and then Christmas.  And then the close of this year of gratitude.  I'm still undecided on what will replace the gratitude diary next year.  How about this:

http://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

or this:

https://dailypost.files.wordpress.com/2013/12/365-days-of-writing-prompts-1387477491.pdf

Each of those contains a writing prompt for each day of the year.  I think personally I prefer the look of the first set.  I also have a couple of books with daily writing prompts.
Maybe that should be the replacement.  A short piece of writing every day from a prompt.  It would be both enjoyable and a challenge.  I wouldn't be too religious about it or force myself to catch up if I missed it every day for a week.

At this point I don't know how my writing will develop in 2017, how much I'll be sitting in the Lit & Phil Library, whether I'll be entering any competitions or submitting any work in the hopes some editor will like it and publish it.

At this point I don't particularly care what I'll find out about those things.  I do expect my writing will develop, that I will be sitting in the Lit & Phil, and that I will probably see some competitions or calls for submission that look enjoyable enough to play with and not care about so-called "success".

So here, five more days of gratitude.

I type this while sitting in the Nexus Art Cafe in Manchester.  In a couple of hours I'll be back in Salford.  I arrived here at 10.30 for a not-church church thing called Sanctus and stayed to write and be in a nice place for a while.  If you're in Manchester I can highly recommend the place.  Unless you need wheelchair access or can't deal with steps.  It's in a deep basement - with a window into a back courtyard - and the place doesn't have a lift.  Apart from that, I can vouch for the toasties, the tea, and the cake.  Also the toilets.  They're pretty cool too.

I spot that I haven't posted anything apart from gratitude posts recently - unless you include Blob Thing's blog which has been a little wild recently.  I'll try to post something else soon.  I hope to get a story posted here by Christmas.  It's a Christmas story so it should be posted by Christmas!  I'm quite happy with it and, at 15,000 words, is by far the longest piece of fiction I've ever written.

It's all progress.  Looking forward to the progress of 2017.  It's going to be special.

11^th December


Grateful to have been able to spend more time than expected with a friend.

Grateful for her treating me to lunch at Tea Sutra.

And that she wrote something meaningful for me.

12^th December


Grateful the new printer works so I have been able to print the Christmas story for a friend so she can be the first to read it.

Grateful too for a year old memory shared.

Cheating - but it's the only photo!

13^th December

Grateful for a quiet day.

Grateful for new internet, and new electricity and gas meters.

Glad to have finished two of my many unfinished books. That's almost miraculous.


14^th December


Grateful to have found the item I needed to complete Amanda's present.

Grateful for everything said at the school parents' evening.

Grateful for comments about the last Blob post. It's the graveyard one at blobthing.blogspot.co.uk
Unless it's a .com.

3400 words of an event I don't remember.

15^th December

Grateful to have returned to Manchester.

Grateful for Megabus tickets and odd sights in Salford.

Days Of Gratitude - Experiences of Wonder Inn Manchester. That's Not a Typo.

As I type it is December.  Twelve days have passed since I returned from Manchester once again.  The days below cover my time away there.

Days away have changed somewhat since I first started to visit the place.  It's a good thing.  My friend has got a lot busier with something that is her passion and which she could have been designed and built for if humans were designed and built for different purposes and roles.  I'm very proud of her for the way she's created something that is good, something that helps other people, something that is needed.

But it does mean that when I'm there I'll see less of her than I once did.  And that means I have to occupy and entertain myself much more than I used to.  That's okay.  We have some time together still.  When I started visiting last year I would have found it very difficult to occupy myself so much.  I found Manchester big and busy and anxiety producing and had no confidence to not get completely lost and worried and generally confused by the place.  Over the course of the year I've got more used to the place and more used to how the pieces fit together.  There's still a lot of scope for getting lost but I have much more confidence there now.

So what to do when I have to spend the day alone in Manchester?

On a day of fair weather that's easy:  Take myself somewhere and have an adventure.  So I've just finished posting about a day spent wandering round reservoirs.  I've got plenty of plans for places to see.  In the sunshine a day alone is no problem.

What about a day of rain?  That's been a worry for me.  Especially if it's a day of rain on which I am not able to stay in the house.  What should I do?  On this visit to Manchester I solved my problem.  My worry has gone.  It wouldn't have been solved though had I not had the moment of total clarity I wrote about a month ago.

I know now:  On a rainy day when I can't be in the house I can spend much of it writing.  And I have found what is for me a perfect place to write.  It's the Wolfson Reading Room in Manchester Central Library.  This place.

It's quiet.  It's light.  There are no distractions.  There are enough plug sockets.  And there is free Wi-Fi.

What more could a woman want if she has to use some hours on a rainy day in Manchester?

As I return to Manchester later this month and then again next year there will be rainy days on which I can't be at the house.  At all.  On at least some of those days, The Wolfson Reading Room will be my very happy home.

It spoiled me though.  It did.  It spoiled me totally.

When I got back to Newcastle I wondered whether I could find an equivalent place to write.  Somewhere I could make it a joyful discipline to visit regularly.  Somewhere just as silent.  Somewhere with just as little distraction.  And plug sockets.  And Wi-Fi.  And no cost to be there.

I hunted.  I found nowhere.  I asked for advice.  There was nowhere.  There are libraries with silent rooms in Newcastle.  But the University doesn't offer membership unless you have an academic or specific research reason to be there.  And the Literary and Philosophical Society costs £120 a year to join which is more than I can afford just to have a quiet room to write in.  Unfortunately they don't have a membership option for people who haven't got lots of money.  There is one for people who don't want to borrow books from a library.  Maybe I should ask about that.

Fortunately I have a home here so really have no excuse not to write.  It would just be nice to be able to allocate a day each week, perhaps more later, to going to a specific place to write without faffing around for half the day and then realising I've done very little and then getting despondent about the whole thing!

16^th November

Grateful to have been able to return to Manchester after a six week absence.

It's been too long but that couldn't be avoided.

Here is the view from the front window of the Megabus before leaving Newcastle.

17^th November

Grateful to be able to spend a bit of time with Amanda.

But only a bit of time. I had to be elsewhere for most of the day. Grateful to have found somewhere good to sit and write. There will, I suspect, be more days sat in this room.

Also grateful to have found an awesome cafe, The Wonder Inn, to have a drink in that afternoon. Very awesome. So awesome that a weird organisation called the Sunday Assembly has chosen to meet there.

18^th November

Grateful to have survived the rotten weather and come back with lots of charity shop purchases - six items of clothing and seven books - for £8.49.

Grateful to be looking forward to an evening with Amanda. In the quiet. Our first in a while.

The photo is of one of five elephants that live in Notlob.

19^th November

Grateful to spend the day with Amanda. Grateful for good charity shops, good lunch, the exciting V bus routes, and a bit of madness.

Also for buses bearing registration plates such as this one. Deep joy!

20^th November

Grateful that the journey back was easyish. I spent it behind the driver of the Megabus because I had been struggling rather while waiting for it.

Grateful for an adapter bought in a crappy shop while I was away. It means I can finally use my snazzy moving colours light bulb.

A Three Reservoir Walk In May - 3. Turton and Entwistle, Lancashire

Moving on up, we're moving on up, moving on up ...

The path from the Jumbles Reservoir led me uphill.  After crossing the main road it led through a one person wide tunnel under the railway, across a muddy field and then into the woods up the hill.  At this point the path became almost indistinguishable from the rest of the wood.  But that was fine.  The way forward lay at the top so getting lost would have been difficult.  Difficult but not impossible.  I have a talent for getting lost even when closely following a map.  I once got lost on a mountain ridge.  With only one logical choice for my route to get down.  Yet I found myself in totally the wrong place, half way down a wet bank in thick clouds, knackered, and not knowing quite how I got there.  If only I had carried a camera back then - the Carneddau are beautiful even in cloud.  Is it always cloudy on the Carneddau?  Probably not, but I never once had a view from the summits of Llewellyn and Dafydd.

That was a day ten years ago.  I had carried a decent OS map and a compass.  If only I had remembered to use them before striding out confidently from the summit towards a handy cairn, just visible through the gloom.  If only.  It's okay.  No one died!  I got it sorted and eventually found my way out of the clouds and down to the falls above Abergwyngregyn.  Hey, they get a mention in my blog two posts in a row.

On my reservoir walk I journeyed without useful navigation tools.   All I had was a single sheet of A4 paper with some printed directions and a rough outline map with a route line across it.  My outline map showed the relative positions of the three reservoirs I was visiting.  But not much more.  So far the directions hadn't led me astray.  That would come later, just as an added bonus before finishing the walk.

The woods let out into open country and the warmth of the sunlight.  The route crossed fields before leading onto a track.  The views were good, the air felt good on my face, the light made me smile and it was too hot for a jumper.  Yeah, life was excellent.  I had to feel a bit sorry for my friend.  I had a conversation with her via WhatsApp while I stood and looked at the view.  She was stuck at work.  A necessary thing but I would much prefer to be in open countryside than stuck in a workroom in Manchester.

The view speaks for itself, even in photo form, which can never compare with the reality - even when people are clever with lighting and have super-snazzy cameras and then edit their photos carefully and fiddle with colour and contrast and everything else.  I'm afraid my pictures aren't like that.  They're all just point and click with a pretty cheap phone camera that I hadn't learned to use.  None of the pictures in this post have been edited in any way.  Not even a bit of judicious cropping.

These pictures won't win awards.  Nevertheless, some shots from the track:

Eventually the track descended back down to the road and from there it was just a short walk down to my third reservoir of the day, the Turton and Entwistle Reservoir.  The dam at the end of the reservoir was once the highest in Britain.  The water flows out and down to Wayoh Reservoir - the first I had visited - and then on to Jumbles Reservoir - the second reservoir of the day.

More pictures.  The path round Turton and Entwistle feels very different to the route round the other reservoirs.  Maybe it's due to the tall forest rising up around most of the lake.  Maybe it's due to the entire path being flat and very well made up.  Maybe it's due to the bigger car park and the popularity of the place.  Maybe it's just that my unfit legs were getting tired and hoped that they would be back at the railway station soon.  Whatever the reason, it was a contrasting experience.

A couple of reservoir views.  I think six months on I'd probably take slightly different photos.

Quiz.  What types of evergreen trees are native to the UK?

This reservoir felt large because I was tired.  But it isn't really very big.  The water in Kielder Water would fill the Turton and Entwistle Reservoir nearly thirty times and my entire walk length that day was a couple of miles less than the length of the perimeter of Kielder.  Next year I must see if there's any way I can get to Kielder.  It's tantalisingly close to home but public transport is almost non-existent and we have no car.  Does anyone want to volunteer to take me out walking there? 

Now.  I had a choice.  Should I continue to follow the reservoir path?  A nice, flat, easy, well made path.  A path that led to another easy path through the wood and back to the railway station.  A path I could follow with no difficulty whatsoever.  All I had to do was to cross one of the bridges over the stream feeding the reservoir.  And then follow that easy path.  That's all.  God in his infinite wisdom had given me a second chance to be sensible knowing that it was unlikely that I'd be sensible straight away.

The first bridge was large.  The second smaller.  Here's Blob Thing sitting on it.  He was trying to tell me to be sensible.  He said, "We've got to cross this bridge so we might as well follow the obvious path."  Would I listen to my friend?  Of course not.  The directions on my piece of A4 paper didn't say to follow the reservoir path.  They said to cross the bridge and turn left.  Head up into the hills again.  I had my directions and I had to follow them no matter what a reasonable soft toy was telling me.

My route - our route - rose steeply along an obvious path.  It then became less obvious.  It then became invisible.  I stood in the fields and all I knew was that I had to get to a stile I couldn't see.  Somewhere in the rough direction of over there.  Did I just go back down to the reservoir and follow the sensible route?  Of course not.

I would persevere.  My route directions governed me.

My route directions had guided me well.  But now they didn't.  Now they became quite useless and my map was of no use.

I made it though.  To that stile.  Across mud.  Across bog.  Across the unknown.  It wasn't at all pleasant.  But I made it to that stile.  Success.

The path then led downhill from that stile.

Back to the reservoir.

About a hundred yards from the bridge.

Dammit!

From there it was an easy stroll along the remainder of the water - I walked most of the three mile perimeter - and up to the station.

Entwistle request stop.  It's not the busiest of places.

The walk was over.  And I was happy.

We arrived back at the Manchester home and sat back on the sofa.  Content.

We rested and gave ourselves three rewards:

Tea.  Cake.  And memories.

A Three Reservoir Walk In May - 2: Getting In A Right Jumble

Onwards and downwards!

That was my immediate future.  I didn't mind.  Life has its low moments and it has its high moments too.  There is meaning in both and there is often more life in the valleys than on the hill tops.

I had reached the south end of Wayoh Reservoir, part way through a day of walking between three reservoirs on the border between Bolton (Greater Manchester) and Lancashire.  It was proving to be just the kind of day I needed.  My own company, hardly seeing another person.  To be among nature - even though in this case nature included three man made lakes.  To see the open sky and to be blessed by the light.

My path from here took me through the little village of Edgworth, Lancashire, and then along the stream running from Wayoh until I reached the Jumbles Reservoir.  Before leaving Wayoh I took another look across the valley at the view.  My immediate future was down.  But I knew that later in the day I would be standing on the hills I could see.  I looked forward to the up.  And to the down.

There's not much to be said about Edgworth, at least not as it pertains to this walk.  I passed through as quickly as possible, following the busy road.  I was momentarily tempted to change my plans completely and catch the bus that was due - a rare sight in the village - and explore somewhere unexpected.  My soft toy Blob Thing was amused by the names of places we passed that day.  He liked Wayoh.  He liked Jumbles.  But the highlight of his day was that before leaving the main road we had passed from Edgworth itself and into Turton Bottoms.  Blob Thing is easily amused.

On reaching the bottom of Bottoms we crossed the water before leaving the road behind to follow the water.  A signpost ahead told me in big letters that the footpath was closed due to a broken bridge.  That wasn't pleasing news.  The road route would be less than ideal for a quiet day and I knew that I had missed the infrequent bus.  Fortunately the signpost was a lapsed signpost.  It had lost its meaning just like the church no longer has relevant meaning for a lapsed Catholic.  Fortunately the path had officially reopened a few days earlier.  The bridge had obviously been repaired or replaced.

The way ahead was clear and we were soon in quieter surroundings - this water was only a few metres along the path.  I wonder where it all is now.  How far have the different molecules travelled in six months?  How many still swim in Jumbles?  [Can a molecule of water swim in water?]  How many have passed beyond to the sea?  And how many evaporated and dropped elsewhere as rain?  The life of a molecule is unpredictable.  It has many highs and lows.  But do you hear it complain?  Even in the death of the molecule, its transformation into another form, it is silent.

The surroundings improved further. This nicely paved path was a joy to walk along.  Everything was calming.  The reflections smiled and the trees sang their songs and chants.  Birds and insects followed their lives and somewhere out there, unseen, there may have been mammals hiding or sleeping.  The path buzzed with electric life and I breathed in a touch of freedom.

Continuing the walk, lest I were to end up reprinted in Pseud's Corner in Private Eye, I encountered this:

I suspect that the bridge had not been sufficiently repaired while the path had been closed!

Fortunately there was a pipe across the little stream so crossing was easy.  The main waterway is to the right of the photo.  It was only a little stream - without the pipe I'm sure I'd have found a jumping across point.  Or just used the broken bridge.  It looked safe enough.  Just broken.

Following the water downstream.  Isn't it gorgeous?  Don't you wish you were there.  It would feel very different of course right now.  Bare trees.  Cold air.  And starting to get dark as an early night falls across Lancashire.  I would still like to be there.

A little weir.  Enough said.  The sound helped clear my head further.  It wasn't like the torrent of a waterfall, where I would like to sit and just be still with that one sound in all it's variations.  I love the clarity of the waterfall and the way it excludes all other sounds.  Just that one noise.  A life noise.  Not the thousand death noises of the city streets.  I'm the same with the sea.  The noise and appearance of the sea is life for me.  It doesn't matter whether it's calm or a raging storm.  It's life for me and the moods of the ocean lift me whenever I allow them.

Next year I must see if I can seek out some excellent waterfalls.  When we lived in North Wales we had waterfalls I could get to relatively easily - and my mental health was such that I didn't grab hold of the opportunities enough.  To be exact, I grabbed them rarely.  Which is kind of a vicious circle.  Poor mental health leading to not going to the place that's good for my mental health leading to poor mental health.

This year has been a promising start to escaping from that cycle and I've been aided and abetted by my bus pass.  I've been able to go out more and not worry about spending the money we don't have.  It's been fantastic.  I still don't always grab hold of the opportunities.  There are still days on which I can't get out of course.  That's one thing.  But there are others on which I don't get out even though heading off on some wild adventure on a bus would be the best thing for me.  This year though I've seen more of the area in which I live than in the five years previously.  And I'm eager to see more.  To see it all!

Walking onwards from the weir that I wasn't going to say anything about, the water widened.  A rock face appeared opposite.  I was now at the north of the Jumbles Reservoir, opened in 1971.  The rocks opposite had once been a quarry.  The reservoir also covered a large complex of mills and some bleach works that didn't do much for the water quality.

The reservoir.  Very pretty.  I am told that it's even prettier in the autumn.  Maybe next year I'll find out for myself.

One distinct bonus of Jumbles Reservoir is that near the car park at the southern end - which is in Bolton, Greater Manchester - is a cafe.  I was very tempted to buy some lunch there even though I was carrying a smattering of food.  Tempted.  But I wanted to eat by the water instead.  I did treat myself to an ice cream though.  It was good - though not as good as the home made blackcurrant and liquorice ice cream sold in a shop in Southport.  There cannot be many ice creams as good as that one.

The path led across the water leading out of the reservoir and then my downward route came to and end, being replaced by an upward route.  As you might expect.  As the path rose back to the level of the water I was greeted by a tree.  A rather lovely tree.  And, as any regular reader will know, it doesn't take much to get me to take a photo of a tree.

The path then led along the other side of the reservoir.  I found a quiet spot to sit on a bench by the water.  Very quiet.  Nobody passed by as I ate.  I was happy.  Who could possibly complain about their life when it contained moments like these?  [I'll tell you who could.  Me.  That's who.]

Part way along the water my route took me away from Jumbles.  Wayoh and Jumbles had been life giving.  And the day wasn't over.  There's a third post to write about the day.  A third set of photos to make me smile with memories.

Onwards and upwards!