As I was scrolling through the socials a few days ago, I came across the following meme:

“It’s weird being the same age as old people.”

It made me chuckle and got me thinking about the laughter and pain I experienced over the New Year when I booked a last minute get away.

Myself and my partner, booked the holiday last minute and AT that very minute, I got cold feet and a feeling of… well… impending doom…

Now, I usually get stressed before I embark on a trip, but this was more extreme, somehow… As I deposited our 3 cats at a local cattery, my mood didn’t lighten, any. I felt ill at ease, since it’s not something we usually do with the cats, and I worried that they wouldn’t all get along in close confines.

The cats would in fact – the devilish voice in my head chided – end up dead or psychologically scarred, and it would all be my fault… Sounds crazy, right..? But that’s what ran through my stressed head at the time.

It didn’t help either, that with some difficulty, I had rounded up and wrangled my two into a carrier on my own, which they then almost immediately escaped from; making me late, so that once I’d stopped swearing, I’d had to calm them (and myself) down, pull them out of their respective hidey holes and incarcerate them again, this time into separate carriers, just to be on the safe side. Duly locked up, they both started yowling loudly in protest and didn’t let up for the whole trip, first to collect my partner’s cat, (who sat quietly and stoically throughout his part of the journey), then onto the cattery.

Regardless, I delivered them, said a prayer, and left them behind with a resigned sigh.

Now, the ‘boyf’ and I had read the blurb about the cottage and chosen it together… So, we knew it was small and that we’d have to negotiate some steps to reach it…

We set off late in the afternoon and 3 hours after leaving the middle of England, arrived at the seaside town of Barmouth in North Wales. It was dark and raining heavily. My chauffeur / chap parked the car and we met our genial host – Tim, who beckoned us down a narrow, dark alley… Next, we climbed up several flights of steep steps after him, holding our cases and bags of food aloft; as we stepped aside, over and round the water tumbling down them, providing a passable impression of a silent waterfall set to sweep us off our feet and swish us unceremoniously back to the street below…

Having conquered the stone stairs, we puffed along an alleyway which had doors and gates embedded into it on either side. It seemed as though we were pacing the realms of a magical world, where at any moment we would encounter a Hobbit or House Elf (a la Harry Potter)… And still, there was another flight of stairs… then finally we arrived, out of breath, at our own, magical portal.

Our host unlocked the door and bustled us inside. And whilst we knew we were staying in a compact cottage, the actual Doll’s House scale of it rendered us temporarily speechless, until our host left. “I’ve stayed in bigger caravans,” chortled Mark. “Me too,” I giggled, “single birth ones, at that…”

We spent SECONDS exploring our surroundings… Downstairs presented a two-seater sofa opposite a TV; combined with a kitchenette, which had a hob and combi microwave, along with the smallest fridge I’ve ever encountered. It certainly couldn’t contain all the food we’d bought along, so I distributed it on every available surface instead – the tiny table, behind the sink and so on, since there was no room for storage.

Beyond the kitchen was a shower and toilet. Both were compact, but completely functional, as was the tiny sink which was attached to the top of the toilet pedestal. The flush was operated by pulling up on a button in the centre of it and then the tap ran, allowing you to wash your hands as the water was recycled to the cistern below.

I then climbed the ladder to peer at the upper level, which had a bed built in at one end, occupying the space between the walls, with a soft mattress, sagging in the middle, curving gently outwards like the Mona Lisa’s slight smile. To get into bed, you had to clamber on all fours to reach the pillows, peel back the duvet, unfurl your body and throw the duvet back over it.

But basically, the cottage had everything we needed. It was also quirky, cosy and warm, so we happily settled in.

We laughed a lot throughout the next few days, as we frequently bumped into and belly danced around each other, whilst negotiating Doll’s House living, all the while re-arranging (throwing out of the way) the plethora of cushions and pillows which seemed to take up most of the sofa and bed space, except when they were constantly and comically falling on our heads.

Outside our cosy cottage we walked along the local coastline and took trips out to see waterfalls and a castle, after which at the end of each day, we’d climb the ladder and caterpillar up the length of the soft bed, to fall asleep; frequently awoken by the lashing rain beating down on the roof over our heads, inevitably joining forces with the torrent of water streaming its’ way down the stone steps to the street.

Thanks to the soft mattress, I’d get up in the morning nursing an aching back and shoulders, which I’d ease, gratefully under the efficiently hot shower. Then I’d climb back up the ladder to perch on the end of the bed and pull on the clothes which had been snatched out of my suitcase, since I’d quickly given up on tussling with the tiny mounted rail that masqueraded as a wardrobe…

On our last night, I packed up what I could in readiness for our morning check-out.

The next morning my bed achy back was complaining more than usual. As I was getting dressed, the aching suddenly exploded into wildly painful spasms. I fell to my knees and howled with shock as every single movement I made, no matter how small, created wave after wave of fresh agony. I yelled so loudly in fact, that any innocent neighbours or passers-by could only have assumed that I was giving birth… Regardless, no ambulance was called, so my fella, with quiet equanimity, came to the rescue, helped me get dressed, finished all the packing, then carried our collection of cases and bags, over several trips, to the car, which was parked some distance away.

In the meantime, I’d swallowed a handful of industrial strength pain killers, along with a muscle relaxant, which, by some dint of fate (well… it had happened once before, 8 years or so, ago…), I just happened to have in my small, but magically bottomless handbag, (an accessory successfully) designed to contain the means to survive just about anything that life could possibly throw at me… And that could include a bout of Lumbago, (the like of which I was currently experiencing), where the muscles at the base of my spine will spasm, something which happens every so often, but not usually of such magnitude as on this occasion.

I talked to myself throughout, telling me to stay calm, breath deep and be OK with it…

My fella, having completed his sherpa duties, helped me get my shoes and coat on. We closed the tiny cottage door behind us and stepped out into the alley. I then winced and gasped my way slowly down the flights of stone steps; walked along the street supported by my man, and yelped my way into the passenger seat of the car.

Once seated I was OK, having to shift around from time to time in order to stay comfortable. By the time we’d made it to our stopping point – Powis Castle, the drugs had kicked in, the spasms had stopped and the pain was subsiding.

My man gently pulled me out of the car. I couldn’t stand still and lowering myself into a café chair a few minutes later was painful, but I found that I could walk for short periods and take in the gardens of the castle in all their sparse, wintery glory.

After our break, we headed home and sprung the cats from jail, AKA the cattery. Despite my misgivings – they were all absolutely fine.

I didn’t take any more drugs until the following morning, when I woke up with a screaming pain in my lower back and muscle spasms when I tried to move. Since then, I’ve taken it easy and alternated resting with gentle movement – all with the plan of getting properly and gently back into the swing of my usual routine as soon as possible.

So I’m looking back on this experience now, wondering what I can learn from it, whilst both my cats, clearly having forgotten THEIR ordeal, lie next to me, both purring away…

Well… for a start, I’m reminded to listen to my intuition and body…, but I’ll muse on this some more, as I believe that what happened goes deeper somehow, on a mind / body level… In the mean time I’ve decided to choose my response to what happened. Fundamentally, that’s to laugh at what occurred, as I negotiate and deal with it.

As it happens, I’m 60 years old in six months’ time and so a nagging voice at the back of my head has told me to throw my hands up and accept that my body is on the trajectory of decline. However, I prefer to laugh at that notion… Aging is inevitable of course and my body will change over time, but you know what..? Being bloody minded, and despite or because of what’s happened, I’ve decided that it’s time to get FITTER – not older… And yes, maybe that’s a ‘new year, new me / start a diet and join a gym for 2 weeks’ sort of an impulse, (until I forget my resolutions and decide to decline into my dotage instead); or maybe it’s a wake-up call that being sixty is not a stop sign, but a flag to live my life to the full.

Bound up with this, I’m blessed with a body that lets me do so much. I’m incredibly grateful for that. I don’t want to squander what DNA and nurture has given me.

Right then, that’s it… the gauntlet has now been thrown down.

And actually, it’s NOT weird being my age at all. I don’t feel old (most of the time…), so I’m not! So… bring it on Sixty – this sister is gonna be meeting you – well and truly – head on!!!

Once my back is recovered, that is…