My Family Heirloom - Debbie Young's Writing Life

What A To-Do! The Tale of My Young Daughter’s Action List

Posted on August 29, 2012July 18, 2016 by Debbie Young

Laura in Bronze Age costume at the Scottish Crannog Centre — Laura and friend travel back in time to the Bronze Age at the Scottish Crannog Centre

This evening, I’m intrigued to find my nine-year-old daughter preparing for a playdate in a very grown-up way: she’s made an action list.

I thought I was the only one in our household to use this method to try to squeeze more tasks into the day than time allows. Action lists, shopping lists, book lists – I’m constantly finding scribbled strips of paper stuffed in pockets and handbags that I’ve promptly forgotten without completing.

Even so, the act of writing down my plans gives me the illusion that I will at some point complete them. This is in spite of my self-scolding mantra: “The best way to get something done is to do it” – chanted to remind myself to stop messing about and get on with it.

Sometimes my lists are thoughtfully numbered in priority order or prefaced with egalitarian bullet-points, to deem no one item more important than the others. Either way, jotting the items down gives me the illusion that I’m in control of my hectic life. They usually contain at least 10 points.

I was therefore taken aback recently to hear an excellent management trainer declare that no action list should be bigger than a Post-it Note. My friend, who masterminds A4, Excel-formated to-do lists to manage all aspects of her life, was equally aghast. When it comes to to-do lists, less is apparently more.

Wearing the ancient plaid at the HIghland Folk Museum, Newtonmore — Sometimes I join her to travel back in time: enjoying life in an 18th century croft at The Highland Folk Museum

But it’s not the size of my daughter’s action list that impresses me: it’s the breadth and ambition of her planned tasks. Whereas mine is full of practical mundanities that I am not looking forward to completing (place grocery order, do ironing, buy school uniform), her neat, bullet-pointed list is positively adventurous:

travel back in time
get ship-wrecked
start an animal hotel

She pays no heed to boring time constraints, budget, nor the rules of nature. I am dazzled by her exciting prospects. Her to-do list certainly puts mine in the shade.

As Walt Disney said, “If you can dream it, you can do it. Just remember this whole thing was started by a mouse.” I reckon my problem is that I’ve not been dreaming enough. So I’ve put my old action list in the bin, and I’ll share with you my new list of things to do today – all the stuff of my dreams:

become fluent in a language that uses pictograms instead of lettters
have lunch with George Orwell and Gerald Durrell
discover the secret of how to become invisible
take a trip on a real flying carpet

And even better, I can fit it my new list easily on to a Post-it note! So what are your plans for today?

If you enjoyed reading this, you might enjoy these posts on a similar theme:

How To Get Things Done

How To Lose Weight By Feeding The Birds

Family, Travel

A Day At The Beach On The Isle Of Skye

Posted on August 16, 2012July 18, 2016 by Debbie Young

On the beach at Glenbrittle, Skye — The ambitious new sand palace begins to take shape

I’m concentrating on turning out the perfect sandcastle from Laura’s small pink bucket when I feel a sudden, unaccountable cold sensation at the back of my skirt.

Only when I realise that it’s also a very wet sensation do I swivel round to check the advancing line of the tide. In best pantomime tradition, it’s behind me. It’s taken me by complete surprise, as if playing an oceanic version of Grandmother’s Footsteps.

Building a river as the tide comes in at Glenbrittle beach, Skye — Building a river

Our planned sand palace for Laura’s toy dog, Candyfloss, is fast segueing into a water park. But are we downhearted? No, we are turncoats. We immediately set to work making a river, digging a trench from the water’s edge to the rocks a few yards further up beach. We are the antidote to King Canute.

“Come on, sea!” Laura coaxes. “You can do it!”

On this broad, shallow beach on Skye, we’re on to a winner. Our labours are soon rewarded. Laura is disproportionately joyful; I do not reveal how startled I am by how quickly the tide has encroached.

It is a sobering reminder of man’s powerlessness against the forces of nature. Against the almost primeval setting of the vast, bleak landscapes of the Cuillin hills, it’s not hard to feel small and insignificant – but it’s also exhilarating.

Laura beachcombing at Glenbrittle,Skye — “Anyone seen Sponge Bob about?”

What’s more, it’s a useful educational experience for Laura. I’m hoping an hour or two on the beach will counteract the hours misspent watching her favourite television programme, Sponge Bob Square Pants, set at the bottom of the ocean and defying all laws of nature. In Bikini Bottom, life carries on much as on dry land – only sillier. Repeated exposure colours your perception of reality.

Even I find myself pleased to spot a starfish (as in Sponge Bob’s best friend, Patrick Star) when we take a glass-bottomed boat ride a couple of days before. On the kelp beds beneath the Skye Bridge, there are numerous sea urchins – beautiful, fragile, spiny domes in ethereal shades of mauve, pink and flesh. “So why are there no sea urchins in Sponge Bob?” I wonder, before I can stop myself.

Paddling in the warm shallows at Glenbrittle, I scoop up a tiny crab in one of Laura’s plastic spades. What’s the first thing I think of? Mr Crabs, the miserly fast-food entrepreneur who is Sponge Bob’s employer. I really need to get out more.

Finally, Queen Anticanute’s work is done.

“I’ve made a rock pool!” she rejoices, waving her spade.

Promptly abandoning her post to let the tide demolish her sandcastles, she skips off to romp through the shallows with the energy and enthusiasm of a puppy, kicking and jumping about until she’s dappled with saltwater splashes.

Picking up her abandoned turquoise fleece to save it from the encroaching tide, I take shadowy snapshots against the westerly sun, vicariously enjoying her childlike pleasure in the sea.

Little girl in a big sea at Glenbrittle, Skye — Little girl in a big sea

She’s not really dressed for a dip, but in budding rock-chick style is wearing scarlet pedal-pushers beneath her new black “Stonehenge Rocks!” t-shirt. Her thick dark blonde hair has been dragged into a plait down her back to guard against the tangling effect of today’s strong winds, currently buffeting her daddy along the top of the Cuillin hills behind us. I wonder how long it will be before she’s a rock-chick in earnest, jaunting off to Glastonbury with her boyfriend. But for now I capture these moments in my camera in hope of freezing the passage of time.

Out of the corner of my eye, I espy four young German boys clambering over the black rocks that line the bay. I hope they have an eye on the tide and will not be cut off from a safe return.

Time and tide, my friends, time and tide.

Family, Travel

The Disarming Charm of Her Broken Arm

Posted on August 15, 2012July 18, 2016 by Debbie Young

Laura's new scooter — Have scooter, will travel

When towards the end of July, my nine-year-old daughter breaks her arm, my plans for her school holidays flash before my eyes like the life events of a drowning man.

No more scooting on her brand-new scooter, a start-of-holidays treat; no more swimming in the village school’s pool nor making waves in the high-tech leisure pools that we love to visit in Scotland; no flute duets with her best friend; and a no-show at the four art classes that I’ve booked her into for the following week. (She is right-handed and it is, of course, the right arm that she has broken.)

Laura is more optimistic than I am.

“Is it ok to do handstands?” she asks the kindly young doctor at the emergency fracture clinic.

Suppressing a smile, he shakes his head solemnly.

We’re lucky in that at least her arm doesn’t require a plaster cast.

“If you were a boy, I’d give you a cast, because a boy would just lark about and make it worse,” says the nurse. “But because I can see you’re a sensible girl, and the fracture is stable and self-supporting, we’ll make do with a sling.”

Laura is disappointed. She rather fancies a cast as a vehicle for autographs and a means of generating sympathy. We compromise by allowing her friends to write on the foam-padded sling.

I query whether the planned art classes count as larking about.

“No, you’ll be fine. Just rest the arm if it’s sore.”

Numerous charcoal and pastel drawings later, and with a clay sculpture of a beaming head to her credit, it’s time for us to fly north to join her father, already in Scotland with our camper van. With a heavy heart, I don’t bother packing her swimsuit or enquiring about the extra fee to take the scooter on the plane.

But on day one of our tour of the Highlands, it becomes clear that not only will the broken arm not put Laura at a disadvantage; it will bring her positive rewards.

We’ve stayed the night in our camper van outside a small parade of shops near Fort William, so in the morning I pop into a few of the shops to bolster the local economy. Laura comes with me to the charity shop. Choosing two small toy dogs at 50p each, she fishes a pound coin out of her purse. The lady at the till asks what she’s done to her arm.

“I fell off the monkey bars,” Laura tells her. “I’ve broken my arm.”

“Och, what a shame, dearie!” the lady says kindly. “Just put that pound coin away and we’ll call it 50p for the two.”

A little later, we enjoy revisiting one of our favourite local tourist attractions, the Treasures of the Earth mineral and gemstone museum. Laura’s already spotted that if you spend £20, you get a free gift from a lucky dip, and bemoaned the fact that her holiday money (and her mother’s indulgence) will not stretch to such extravagance. In the gift shop, she asks the lady on the till to help her find a souvenir that features the gemstone designated by the museum as her birthstone: an aventurine. The lady helpfully finds a small pendant priced £3.99. While Laura struggles, one-handed, with her purse, the lady enquires in a kindly voice what she’s done to her arm.

“I fell off the monkey bars,” Laura replies. “I’ve broken my arm.”

“Oh dear, you poor thing!” says the lady, scrabbling about behind the counter in what I suspect may be the lucky dip. “Never mind, because you’ve bought something, you’re entitled to a free gift.”

Opening the bag on leaving the shop, Laura finds, to her delight, a pair of rose-pink heart-shaped abalone shell earrings.

“Although I haven’t got pierced ears, they’ll look lovely on my toys,” she decides, satisfied.

We press on, heading for Skye. We spend a pleasant hour en route at Eilean Donan Castle, billed as the most romantic castle in Scotland. It is also in demand as a film set, featuring in many films from James Bonds to Highlander. In the banqueting room, an enthusiastic guide in full highland dress, a two-foot-long feather in his tartan bonnet, tells us all about the castle’s latest role. It is in the new Disney Pixar film, Brave. We’re hoping to see the film while we’re in Scotland. Our resolve is bolstered by the guide’s praise for the crack team of artists that Disney sent in to sketch the castle. Pausing for breath, he notices Laura’s sling.

“So what did you do there?” he enquires.

“I fell off the monkey bars and broke my arm.”

“Och, no! Well, here’s a wee present for you,” he says, extracting with a flourish the feather from his hat.

Laura is delighted with this unexpected gift. I’m not so sure. At this rate, instead of removing her sling at the end of next week, in line with doctor’s orders, she’ll be wanting to wear it ad infinitum. I’m starting to see a whole new meaning in the phrase “a lucky break”.

Laura at Castle Eilean Donan near Kyle of Localsh, Scotland — With the feather from his cap

Travel

Never Too Old For A Trip To The Zoo

Posted on July 27, 2012March 9, 2013 by Debbie Young

“The lions are on form today,” I thought, marvelling at how far their roar appeared to be carrying across Bristol Zoo‘s exceptionally beautiful botanical gardens.

And then I saw it: the first big dinosaur in their new animatronic display, brought in to spice up summer holiday trips to the zoo. There are about a dozen of them on the loose. Most are camouflaged among the spectacular planting, positioned so that you never see a whole one all at once. You first spot a foot or a snout of a tail, before realising you are dwarfed by a monster. Zoological gardens? Jurassic Park, more like. They certainly put the lions in perspective. And not just the lions, either. These lifelike giants put man in his place too.

Like most right-thinking people, I’m not a fan of caging animals, but in the case of zoos that focus on conservation, I’m prepared to make an exception. Last year, I made a pilgrimage that I’d been planning for decades to the former Jersey Zoo, now simply known as Durrell, in honour of its founder. Gerald Durrell was a pioneer in animal conservation. When I was a teenager, he charmed me with the killingly funny stories about his eccentric family in “My Family And Other Animals” and infected me with his passion for wildlife conservation. There were tears in my eyes as I crossed the threshold of his zoo. The love, humility and compassion with which the park had been planned made for an emotional visit.

Bristol Zoo's old polar bear pit — Bristol Zoo’s old polar bear pit, long since gone

On its launch, it was one of a kind, but since then all decent zoos have followed where Durrell led. Bristol Zoo was not always so. When I first visited around 1978, there were still animals turned half mad by inappropriate cages. Particularly distressed (and distressing to see) was a beautiful polar bear, endlessly pacing and turning, pacing and turning, along the back wall of its cage. When the bear died of old age, it was thankfully not replaced.

Now, the zoo is apologetic for its past. There are sad memorials to the past errors of its ways. There are the remains of the bear pole, a modest branchless tree trunk that bears once used to climb, to the amusement of the crowd. A notice on the seals’ enclosure, once the site of that pathetic , yellowing polar bear, remarks that in those days, the animals’ cages were designed to be as easy as possible for the keepers to clean. My jaw drops at this revelation, even though I’m old enough to remember when it was considered perfectly acceptable to offer chimpanzees’ tea parties as a visitor attraction and to use them to make advertisements for tea. Rumour had it they were given chewing gum to make it look as if they were talking, northern accents dubbed over the top to give them memorable conversations. So by modern standards it was politically incorrect in terms of the north-south divide too! There were memorable catchphrases.

“Can you ride tandem?”

“Cooee, Mr Shifter!”

“Do you know the piano’s on my toe, dad?”

They certainly shifted tea sales. (Click here to see some clips.)

Thankfully, those unenlightened days are long gone. Bristol Zoo now goes to the opposite extreme. Everywhere you go there are reminders of man’s responsibility to respect and preserve the natural world. There are shocking displays of illegal hunters’ trophies and animal-based Chinese medicines. There are samples of products and labels denoting sustainable sourcing of wood and fish.

There is also humiliating evidence of how feeble we are, compared to the rest of the animal kingdom. Above much of the park runs the relatively new Zooropia attraction – a series of telegraph poles connected by all kinds of walkways raised high above the ground. Visitors are invited (for a small fee) to negotiate narrow wires, ropes, tyres and wooden bridges. Despite being securely attached to a safety harness, first-timers quake at the elevation, at the difficulty of their path, and at the thought that missing their footing could send them tumbling from a great height into the gorillas’ enclosure. Each path is named after a particular animal that would make short work of the challenge – another reminder of man’s inferiority in athletic terms.

There’s also a compelling series of challenges scattered about the zoo, united by the topical theme of the Zoolympics. You are invited to compare your abilities with that of the animal kingdom. How long can you stand on one leg? Ten seconds? Twenty? That’s nothing compared to the flamingo, which does it for hours at a time. How far can you reach with your arms? Not a patch on the albatross’s wingspan of three metres. How many times can you flap your arms in a minute? Nowhere near as many as the tiny hummingbird’s 5,400 wingflaps per minute (hence the hum from which it gets its name). Don’t expect to emerge with any medals from this competition (though if you want to feel better about your athletic prowess, comfort yourself with a visit to the sloth).

It’s good to see young visitors really engaging with these challenges and learning a profound respect for the rest of the animal kingdom. But will the presence of all these dinosaurs confuse them, I wonder? Many of them are too young to differentiate between an animatronic and a real animal. They may go away thinking that all the animals are real, including the dinosaurs, or that the all the Zoo’s residents are pretend. (I remember when, at Laura’s age, I visited Disneyland in California, I was convinced that not only were the mermaids we saw were real, but also the working model of Abraham Lincoln, and that used much less sophisticated technology.)

I’m grappling with this problem, berating the Zoo in my mind for playing a foolish trick for the sake of increasing gate takings, when it occurs to me that actually it’s a rather cleverer idea than I’d first realised. For surely, the lesson to be learned here is that if mankind isn’t more careful in future, many other residents of the Zoo will be relegated to the status of the dinosaur: extinct.

It’s not pure whimsy that guided my hero Gerald Durrell’s choice of animal statues to welcome visitors to his Zoo. Ladies and gentleman, I give you the dodo.

If you enjoyed this post, you might like others about our trip to Jersey: Have Hairdrier, Will Travel and What Size is Your Jersey?

Or these about other family days out to the SS Great Britain and the Roman Baths at Bath.

Family, Travel

New Beginnings and Old Friends in Ancient Cities

Posted on July 8, 2012July 18, 2016 by Debbie Young

Although Bath is known for its elegant architecture and very smart shops, I am surprised to spot quite so many beautifully dressed people walking down Milsom Street on Wednesday as I head for the Roman Baths with my young American visitor in tow.

It’s just an ordinary weekday afternoon, but half the population appears to be on its way to a wedding. And not just any old English wedding. There are some exotic costumes in evidence, such as jewel-bright saris, with gold trimming glinting in the unexpected afternoon sun.

Then a beaming young lady walks past me wearing a mortarboard and academic gown, and the penny drops. It’s Degree Day. As we descend down Union Street, we see more soon-to-be-graduates, flanked by proud parents, ebbing down towards the Abbey. I’m glad for them that the sun is shining: it’s an auspicious start to the next stage in their lives.

Behind their broad smiles, the gowned ones look a little nervous. I know how they are feeling: recognising the end of a relatively carefree era and apprehensive about what the future might hold. I recall sitting in the back of the white van in which my brother collected me and three years’ worth of accumulated belongings. As we pulled away, I watched the porter’s lodge recede behind us. I was reluctant to turn round and face the way we were going: I did not want to acknowledge that university and York were now just a part of my past.

A little later on this sunny Wednesday in Bath, we’re emerging from the Pump Rooms after a fascinating tour of the Roman Baths. As we step out on to the pavement, a policeman extends his arm to halt our progress. And so we just avoid bowling into a procession of Bath’s brainiest and best in all their academic finery – presumably the Chancellor, Vice-Chancellor, Dean and senior dons in full formal regalia. It’s a brilliant-hued collection of medieval robes and caps, all velvet, brocade and long feathers. The big double doors of Bath Abbey are flung open in front of them, and they being to process inside to confer degrees.

As we watch their slow progress, I’m taken right back to another such ceremony which I chanced across in Oxford exactly 23 years ago. By coincidence, I was showing round another American girl that day – my old schoolfriend Cindy. We had been at an international school in Germany before returning to our home countries. I don’t remember how Cindy came to be in the UK, but she was, and she had a day to spare, so I blagged a day off work to take full advantage.

At that time I was living in Tring, Hertfordshire, but even so we headed for the Cotswolds, always my spiritual home, and broke the journey at Oxford. Strolling through that ancient city, we turned a corner and almost bumped into a long, double line of colourfully dressed academics. It was a vision as sumptuous and historic as the display I’ve just witnessed in Bath (though this being Oxford, they’d probably have considered that academically they pulled rank). We even spotted some famous faces – I think Magnus Magnusson might have been one of them.

I can be precise about the date because it was just a month before my first marriage. I told Cindy all about the plans for our big day. We developed a running joke about the inequality of our match, because whereas I had acquired a new dress, bag and shoes for the day, my future husband was economising. He’d recently bought two new suits to start a new job in Bristol, and he was to wear one of those. All that he needed was a button to replace one that had fallen off. So whereas I got a whole new outfit, all he would be gaining was a button. This thought sent us into paroxysms of mirth for the rest of the day. It probably accounts for our broad grins in the photos we took of each other in front of various Cotswold landmarks. (Unfortunately I can’t find them to publish them here.) Cindy was yet to meet her match, but our lives were full of promise. I think she may have been about to start a new course at university. It wasn’t just the Oxford graduates who were heading towards a new beginning that day.

The author graduating from her American-style high school in 1978 — Speaking at my high school graduation in Germany

Since that lovely sunny day, Cindy and I haven’t knowingly been on the same side of the Atlantic. She’s now settled in Florida, I’m in the Cotswolds. We’re over our new beginnings; you might say we’re somewhat advanced in our middles. We’re each married with a beautiful daughter who lights up our lives. (By chance, my current American guest is the daughter of a treasured mutual friend from the international school). We’ve done ok. And I’m sure that if we met up again tomorrow, that button would still make us laugh.

Congratulations to all those who are graduating this month, and may the sun continue to shine on your new beginnings.