My Ectopic Pregnancy

Around one in 90 women in the UK experience an ectopic pregnancy, and most of those take place in the fallopian tubes.

Unfortunately, in the unlikely event that you do get pregnant with a coil, there is a raised risk of an ectopic pregnancy, which means the embryo cannot grow.

I had my second copper coil, otherwise known as an Intra Uterine Device, in 2018.

I had come back from an epic hike round the Pyrenees – a mountain range in the south of France. We had driven down there to explore the area and walk the five day “Pass’Aran” route.

When my period did not arrive, Google reassured me that this could be caused by low progesterone (hormone) levels, which could be caused by “extreme exercise”.

Then I had sore breasts, and once again Google said this was due to low progesterone levels, but as I was also feeling a bit more tired than usual, I checked with a pregnancy test.

Pregnant.

It didn’t say Not Pregnant. It must be a mistake.

1-2 weeks (it confusingly showed 2-3, but this meant weeks since conception which the leaflet explained was 1-2 weeks pregnant).

So it was early. I walked around swearing, head in hands. What was I going to do?

Did I want it? It was so inconvenient – we were in the process of buying a house, my boyfriend works away, we were going to New Zealand…now was not the time.

But I could not kill something that was both of us and I could not kill something I really wanted. Yes it wasn’t the right time but when was?

I didn’t have time to process, I had to get to work.

But I had to get dressed first and find the few bigger clothes I’d bought from another time I temporarily gained weight.

I wondered who to tell. Should I tell anyone but Jonny?

Maybe Jonny wouldn’t want it and then there’s the shame of abortion, so I wouldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want anyone judging me.

I couldn’t keep it in and I needed emotional support, so I confided in a close friend and it really helped. Her cousin had had an ectopic pregnancy it turned out, and they had also found out at six weeks. She had her fallopian tube removed, as the embryo can damage it. At least we are born with two.

Before seeing the GP I wanted to talk to Jonny – then I could ask for an abortion as well as a scan if needed. He was shocked and froze but he wasn’t annoyed or upset as I expected. He said we should see what was going on with it first, before we made a decision. Ever the pragmatist.

“Is that the only one you did?”

“No, it’s the third.”

“Oh………Is there anything else that could make it test positive?”

“No Jonny!”

The next morning I contacted the GP first thing and filled in an online form. Almost immediately I was text with the first appointment of the day. I explained how I’d started spotting instead of a period and then how my breasts had become sore and that as of Thursday night, it looked like I was having a period.

The doctor examined me and referred me to the Gynae Accident and Emergency department at the local hospital for a scan (my second time as an emergency patient in a year). She said to make sure Jonny was with me and to tell Gynae if I had symptoms that would suggest even more of an emergency, like pain or heavy bleeding.

After an hour of waiting at reception, the nurse did a safeguarding and general information interview. “From your dates you’d be six weeks pregnant” she said.

She took me round for a urine and blood test and after waiting for ages, I had a scan.

I was excited as I held my boyfriend’s hand down the corridor, wondering how he’d feel when he saw our baby.

“Do you want me to show you the embryo if I can find it?” the nurse asked.

“Yes please” I replied. “Jonny, do you want to see it?”

“Yes” he said, looking both excited and confused.

I had read that an embryo of six weeks sent out an electrical signal that sounds like a heartbeat on a scan. It would be the size of a pomegranate seed and look like a tadpole.

I waited to hear the signal.

There was silence and a lot of prodding. It was uncomfortable but didn’t hurt.

“I’m very sorry to tell you this, but I can’t find a pregnancy in your uterus. I can confirm that it’s likely to be an ectopic pregnancy, which means it’s growing outside of your uterus.” I was devastated.

“It’s growing next to your ovary.”

“Next to the ovary?? outside the uterus?? not on the ovary then??”

“Do you want to see?”

“Yes please”.

The nurse rotated the screen and there was the dark space of my ovary and then a dark space next to it that looked like a comma stuck to my ovary. I couldn’t make out any details as it was grainy.

“I can’t be certain, but that may be the sac there.”

It was so strange to see, but it made it feel more real and I was glad for that, as it helped me to accept that this was really happening, and I needed to get my head around it.

Not only was I pregnant, but it could not continue. I knew logically that was good as it was the wrong time for us, but it didn’t make it feel any better emotionally.

How? why? why me?

I then waited two more hours for the blood test results.

Jonny came up with lunch. I felt sorry for the other pregnant ladies, who had also been waiting hours. One woman had an overweight partner who was snoring loudly and continuously falling off his chair. He hadn’t got her any lunch, but if he did there was a risk that he wouldn’t hear what the nurse had to say. I wondered why they didn’t have a ticket system, like they did with blood tests.

The doctor called me in, finally.

He explained about the pregnancy hormone they had measured for. I replied “oh yes, Human Immunoglobulin something…”

“yes, that one. It’s at 500. We need to wait and see what happens, because there is a still a chance that you are pregnant in the uterus and we can’t see it, as it is so early.”

“But I thought there was a mass?”

“Yes, but that could just be a cyst.”

“So we will have you back in in two days to see what has happened. If it doubles it is likely to be in your uterus. If it doesn’t then we can confirm an ectopic pregnancy.”

My treatment options were:

1. Expectant management – waiting to miscarry (and hoping I didn’t die from a ruptured fallopian tube).
2. Have an injection to stop the cells growing, and make them reabsorb into the body (genius).
3. Have my fallopian tube removed with keyhole (laparoscopic) surgery (also genius, but less chance of getting pregnant in future).

I felt fortunate that as of the 1980s, option 2 had also become available. The drug was previously only used in cancer treatment but has no bad side effects. Also, keyhole surgery has drastically reduced the time you need to spend in hospital – you can leave the same day instead of being on bed rest for weeks.

Google informed me that 500 HcG was the average reading for five weeks of a pregnancy in the uterus.

Dame Laura Kenny, the Olympic medal-winning cyclist, has recently spoken out about her ectopic pregnancy experience and this is why I’m blogging about it – it helped me to read about other women’s experiences.

I was relieved that hospital was done with. I had a missed a day of work and I was emotionally drained.

When I got home I lay on the sofa for a while, but life goes on, I had a night out with the netball girls.

Turns out you can’t enjoy alcohol pregnant – it just made me feel sick.

And so did a Dr Pepper can and a frangipani almond croissant. I didn’t like salad before, but now I want lots of dark leafy green salad and steak. Your body craves what it needs.

Best to act like it isn’t happening! I’m at the back putting.

A Sardinian September

Booking a holiday during a pandemic is fraught. Will I have to cancel? Will I get my money back?

We had booked Rome for March. Obviously we couldn’t go. We booked France for June and that also wasn’t an option, as my boyfriend can’t isolate with his work. Then we booked Sardinia for September. Third time lucky?

The company, Much Better Adventures, kept us updated with the Covid rules at our destination and we were able to go.

I was so excited. How had we managed to escape England in the middle of a pandemic?

We didn’t even need to get a Covid test as there was an outstanding appeal on the rule. Surprisingly there were no controls at the Italian airport at all. We appeared to be the only passengers around and the arrivals hall was empty.

Sardinians were very relaxed. They didn’t really bother to social distance, they could still spend time in large family groups, laughing at chatting. Although they were supposed to wear a mask outdoors, most of them didn’t bother. We only saw two policemen, one was on his phone and the other was more interested in us crazy tourists than any crime.

It was a refreshing change from the panicky Brits, dashing about and glaring at anyone who coughed.

We arrived a day or two before our scheduled activity in Alghero and went swimming at a lovely local beach. Unfortunately it was so popular that the only spot to stop at was a bit of rock in the sea. The snorkelling was pathetic after The Philippines (which is said to have some of the best snorkelling in the world). I only saw a few brown and grey coloured fish. Then a massive dark cloud raced towards us and soon enough it emptied its contents, leaving the sunbathers sprinting for the car. Of course as Yorkshire folk we saw it coming and were nearly home and dry before any of the Italians even moved.

We went on a delightful boat tour round the islands. The snorkelling was rubbish again, it was hardly worth bothering. I really want to return to The Philippines to see the kaleidoscope of rainbow coral, fish and the giant clams. One day.

We were going for a sea kayaking holiday with Much Better Adventures. We had a lovely American guide who had made the island his home. We stayed in a lovely hotel that did dinner, on a farm. The kayaking mostly got rained off, but we got one day of good weather where we could try it.

Unfortunately I had just been diagnosed with Graves disease so I was pretty tired, but I could sleep for an hour or so before dinner. The doctor had said I could go if I took it easy, as I was still on medication to keep my heart rate low. The guides were great about it and told me to let them know if I was struggling. I managed to kayak out and then had to kayak and rest, kayak and rest to get into the nearest bay to be picked up. Luckily we had a double kayak so my boyfriend did most of the work with his ex-rower biceps.

The scenery was beautiful – sun sparkling on bright blue waves, cliffs with scrubby bushes and trees everywhere, the odd beach or 16th century watch tower. The island to the left of Italy was covered in mountains and trees. There were no queues for anything and the “main tourist street” was empty.

Bosa castle

We explored the town of Bosa, where all the houses were painted bright colours and they had a small red brick castle on the hill, built in the 1100s. It had some fantastic wall paintings from around that era that they had found in the chapel. The colours shone depicting angels, saints and apostles.

We also explored some of the towns and had ice cream almost every day, as they make such great flavours with their Mediterranean fruit. Our guide said it was sad how the main tourist street in the town was now empty, and that many people were going to lose their livelihoods.

We marvelled at museums full of ancient artefacts, dating from 4000BC, from before the Iron Age. They had the Nuragic people, unique to Sardinia, who built spectacular sacrifice monuments out of dark big stone blocks. They also knew how to cast in bronze, fashioning lots of warrior, shaman and mother and child figures and statues. The island had then been conquered by the Phoenicians, the Greeks, the Romans and the Vandals.

We visited some vast ruins near the sea. One, Nora, was established by the Phoenicians as a trading post and still had towering white Greek-style pillars and mosaics and the ruins of Roman temples and baths. The Romans had abandoned it when they were attacked from the sea, during the period where the empire was crumbling.

Another was originally a Nuragic settlement (tribes who lived on Sardinia for 600 years around 4000BC). You could tell where the Romans had built on top with their paler stone and bricks, and it still had a Roman road. Both sites were still being dug up by archaeologists.

A Nuragic animal sacrifice monument from 4000BC, complete with an obelisk (out of shot on the left).

We returned refreshed and victorious that against all odds, we had made it abroad, with no quarantine being imposed in our absence.

Panglao’s Princess Retreat: Mithi Hotel and Spa

I don’t normally do reviews but this slice of heaven had to have a special mention.

Imagine individual cabins sprinkled next to the sea like stardust. You can hear the waves lapping from your balcony and feel the sea breeze cool your face.

Out to sea there is a small man-made island for picturesque weddings. To one side is the wooden platform where you enjoy meals with a sea view.

It was a world away from the hectic streets of Cebu. Here life was slower and more beautiful.

Sparrows chirped in the palm trees and in the day you were dazzled by the aquamarine ocean.

From their private beach you could have a tour of the local sardine sanctuary and swim in the middle of their vortex. You could stroke a giant clam as they closed gently, poke brightly coloured anemones and admire a rainbow kaleidoscope of coral waving their little fingers at you.

The staff were kind, helpful and attentive. The room was spacious with a luxuriously comfortable bed and there was a rain shower in the walk-in bathroom.

You could book yourself into the traditional wooden spa for rejuvenating massages.

If you’re staying in Panglao and you’re looking for rest and relaxation, look no further than Mithi Hotel and Spa.

Panglao Paradise

Panglao was the best island I visited in the Philippines.

Why?

Fewer tourists and the local lifestyle did not appear to have changed as a result of them. A lot of rainforest was intact, though it was rapidly being sold off and cut down and stone houses were springing up. There were still some traditional ones made of bamboo, flax and rattan.

The hotel I stayed in there was the best – Mithi Resort and Spa, a peaceful secluded spot right next to the sea, with a small private beach, incredible snorkelling and luxury accommodation. It was so popular that the standard room had sold out when I paid for it, but the upgrade was worth it. Although I had not paid for a sea view I could see it from my balcony. The staff were so attentive and friendly.

I got there from Cebu by taking an Ocean Jet ferry to Tagbilaran and then the hotel picked me up and drove me over the bridge. It took a few hours.

I made the most of my time there. I found a great private driver hire company, Valleroso and Ralle. You gave them your itinerary and the driver would take you wherever you wanted for a reasonable price, just £30 a day. I asked different companies on Facebook (their companies are all run from social media) until I got the best price, as I was on a budget and kept going over it.

At 10am (I am not a fan of early starts) I went first to the Hinagdanan cave. It was not worth the visit, being small and already busy with tourists.You literally just stand on a ledge once you descended, there is nowhere to go.

The water looked a bit dirty too, I could see grease on it. The tide was out, so we could not enjoy the water. I saw a much better cave in Bohol where you can swim. I will write a post on that soon.

We went to the Blood Compact monument near the port. This commemorated the moment when the local tribe signed a peace deal with the Spanish, drinking drops of each other’s blood in wine in the traditional Cebuano style.

Next up was the pentagonal Spanish watch tower, built so the new settlers could be alert to local attack on all sides, and a church with a pretty painted ceiling.

I was able to get cash out at an ATM without being charged. They had a guard for safety, although the driver told me that they rarely had crime. Everyone knew each other.

I had read about a restaurant with panoramic views on social media, appropriately called Le Panorama, over on Bohol. I went there for lunch and had the best fresh prawns I had ever tasted, in a very tasty tomato sauce, with rice. It was midday but being on holiday, I had to wash it down with a pina colada!

After lunch I had asked the company where a good beach was that locals used, I avoided Alona beach as I had heard that it was packed with tourists and had litter. I won’t name the beach as it is secret, so it doesn’t deteriorate too.

There were palm trees all the way along the shore, only two other tourists and lots of locals fishing in one corner, swimming and snorkelling. One of them came up to me and said I should stay at his brother’s apartments and like everyone around there, said I should live on the island.

On the way back I wanted to try some traditional food so I stopped at a street stall selling fried chicken. I hadn’t seen any cafes or restaurants. The islanders seemed to eat at home. I asked for two pieces. The man went to the back of the stall and started hacking up chicken. People around gawped, even looking back from their scooters. I asked my guide what was happening and he said “you wanted two chickens didn’t you?”.

The Philippines – Cebu City

En route – Singapore Airport’s Butterfly House

It was my first holiday alone and I was nervous. Would I be safe?

I’d survived the 20 hour flight, thanks to a Singapore Airlines voucher giving me a free shower, like the relief of a wash after a festival.

Cebu City is a bustling, chaotic, hot, noisy, dusty city of around 100,000 people packed into a small space.

My Grab app would not give me an option to hail a taxi so I got a metered one. “Make sure the meter is running when you get in” Lonely Planet advised, so I checked.

The driver, Marlin, had a side business as a tour guide. He put the price up by 200 pesos (about £3). When I asked why he said “I haven’t changed the sign yet.” He had two children, a girl of 4 and a boy age 14. The girl had been a surprise and he was still paying off the emergency caesarian.

Rows of cars trailed as far as the eye could see until the early hours. My tour guide dropped me off at 5pm and didn’t get home at midnight, on Valentines Day.

He was back to pick me up at 9am “no problem with traffic this morning, I come straight here!”.

It was cheaper than official tours and more flexible. I could go where I wanted, when I wanted. I could have lunch with him at McDonalds or nothing, as we didn’t have enough time, so I passed. After the 20 hour plane journey I still couldn’t stomach a burger.

Grey oblong concrete blocks rose into the sky, but they weren’t very high. It was an urban jungle.

There were only some skyscrapers in the Central Business District, and a mall which only took cash. Fortunately the restaurants outside it took card payments, as you got charged for withdrawals unless you used the HSBC ATM kiosk at the back round the corner.

There were no lanes on the roads and scooters, bikes and rickshaws were weaving around and jeepneys which are open air vans, their buses.

We drove first to the Taoist temple, built in 1967 in one of the wealthiest areas, the gated hilltop community of Beverly Hills. Surrounded by the first bit of greenery I saw, skyscraper fingers framed the horizon. There were pagodas, dragons on the roofs and fountains. I admired the painted ceilings in the tranquillity.

We then went to the city’s museum, a former American jail. It explained the history of Cebu and the islands, from the original bamboo and flax huts and reliance on fishing, to a failed invasion of Cebu by the Portuguese who were beaten by machetes, and then the Spanish in 1521, who decided to have an artillery attack from the boat before coming ashore and taking over with the famous Ferdinand Magellan, a Portuguese national, as their captain.

They brought Catholicism and they are said to have found a figure of the baby Jesus, the “Santo Nino” and that this kept them safe. The five walled watch tower on Panglao and the fort of San Pedro did as well. Eventually the Philippines wanted independence from Spain and there were frequent uprisings. In this climate the Americans came and conquered the islands with the help of the rebels, in 1901 after a two year war. But hopes of independence were dashed as the Americans took over. 

The island nation then fell to the Japanese in December 1941, who established strict military rule in which anyone carrying local banned currency was killed. But the money continued to be used in the black market. Notices were put up everywhere warning of heavy physical punishment for any disobedience. Some locals were put in Prisoner Of War camps and there was a shirt there from someone that had worked in it for five months without being given another. They were beaten regularly by the fearsome Kempe-tei, the prison guards. The Americans helped the guerilla Filipinos once more, and this time The Philippines were granted independence, in 1946.

There was a chronological trail of artefacts, from Japanese guns to a ceremonial Afghan sword bought from merchants.

I realised I’d been about two hours and felt guilty, it must be hot waiting in that car. The driver was cross, “you take too much time, we late now, you must go faster”.

We stopped at the Basilica, a church with a piece of cross in it apparently from Magellan’s voyage, but I couldn’t find it! I saw the replica, which was enclosed in a stone dome with a nice painted ceiling. Then I queued up to see the holy relic, the Santo Nino, said to be found by the Spanish when they first landed and which brought good luck to the locals, as they all kissed and touched the glass, muttering and crossing themselves. There was a prayer area outside with stone carvings of what I had just seen and the arrival of the Spanish.

I then visited a recent towering monument built in the 1990s, showing the settlement story, mostly with figures and with some boats and buildings. The Santo Nino was there as it is in every historical depiction.

Down the road on the right was the oldest house. We had been by the oldest street, a wide road with grey concrete blocks on either side. It was one of the ugliest cities I had seen, but the pleasant kind people I met made up for it. I got approached repeatedly by the same man to buy plastic pearls. Once in the house I was given a tour in English. It had been bought from the Filipinos by Chinese merchants in the 1600s. They had decorated the house with jade ornaments and intricately patterned blue and white vases. It had then stayed in the family for generations. The house was made of thick wooden beams and it was cooler than outside but still warm and airless.

Outside a father and son were playing a duet on a small harp and ukelele. The boy was about four and had obviously had a lot of practice.

I went to another old house, Casa Gorado. I am not sure how old as I was concentrating on the animation on the board in front, which showed how the Spanish had moved the Cebuanos up the hill away from the fishing by the coast, to land that they could not farm because the soil was unsuitable. They could grow corn though. The Spanish arrived in 1565, setting fire to a village and blasting another with cannons. Then Chinese merchants began to settle in the 1600s and they were allocated a part of town near the Cebuanos, but they were only allowed to trade if the changed their surname to a Spanish one and converted to Catholicism.

We finished the tour with the San Pedro fort. It looked grand from the outside but once in it was just the wall and nothing much was left. It isn’t worth visiting, but it is a good stop if you want to be near the port, as you go up the drive and right and it is down the road a short distance on foot.

My taxi driver decided to be honest and stick to his original price, so I paid him the inflated amount he first quoted in appreciation. I navigated the poorly signed full port and off I went over a smooth sea to Tagbilaran…

My First Pandemic

scientificanimations.com

If you want a break from continuous Covid-19, I have an article coming soon about my Philippines adventures. The photos and memories are an escape from the chaos.

The threat emerged in China. It was awful but far away.

“Don’t go” my aunt begged. But there were few cases in the Philippines. I was going via Singapore. People had spread it at their airport and a London airport shortly before I arrived back, but it was not a common event.

Someone on the plane has a fever.

A poster at a bus stop, beside a nurse who was coughing profusely.

We were hovering over Heathrow when cabin crew marched quickly up the plane, one wheeling a suitcase. There was a flurry of activity up the aisles and a curtain was yanked shut.

“Just to let you know, someone on the plane has a fever” announced the captain. There was stifled anxiety and a father was explaining the situation to his child.

We landed and a health visitor distributed forms. Unlike the cabin crew, reassuringly, he was not wearing a mask, just gloves. Waiting outside the plane a medical professional stood wide-eyed, wearing a hazmat outfit with a clear visor covering her face.

Days passed and I heard nothing, so I forgot about the pesky plague.

Then it came to Italy and coronavirus contaminated my newsfeed.

I’ve got a temperature.

My boyfriend had gone skiing in the North Italian Alps in February and there was a good offer for the Austrian mountains, in Tirol.

“Do you need another ski holiday?”

“It’s not for long” he replied.

I said goodbye on the 1st of March.

“I’ve got a temperature so I’ve come back from work early” the text read, on Wednesday 11th.

He phoned NHS111.

“You haven’t been to an affected area so you don’t need a test” they responded. No mention of infection control.

The first UK nationals returning with the virus had been on holiday to Europe. A friend who had dared to enjoy the Sagrada Familia and Sangria in Barcelona was now cuddling her cat in bed.

We never get ill. Not like this.

Worried, I text my boyfriend. “What are your symptoms?”

“Headache, aches, sore throat, cough and my chest feels tight”.

“You must isolate.”

“I’ll go back to work when I’m feeling better.”

Day 3:

“How are you?”

“Temp going up and down now. Woke up last night with the heat, had some really weird dreams. It’s strange how a fever affects you.”

On Saturday 14th March the panic started.

It was day 4 of my boyfriend’s fever but it was finally dropping. I wanted to be sure.

I desperately visited every shop in a five mile radius.

Boots nearby? sold out.

Boots in town? sold out.

Superdrug? sold out.

Argos? sold out.

John Lewis? didn’t sell them.

Online? sold out all over England.

This could have put his life in danger. Why were they so selfish? Why didn’t they have thermometers? Why didn’t we have thermometers?

Because we never get ill. Not like this.

The media started announcing a daily coronavirus count. There would be bulk-buying. But to my surprise it was business as usual in the pharmacy that morning. There was still a sense of calm. Everything was in stock apart from most of the paracetamol. I bought two lots of products to ease flu. One for me, one for my boyfriend.

A man in the queue turned and looked at my basket, whispered to his wife and walked to the side to wait for his prescription, staring at me nervously as I purchased the items.

“Is this just for you?” the retailer asked.

“No, it’s for someone else as well” I said smiling, as the shop went silent and people gawped.

I was in Waitrose looking for snacks. The bread shelf was empty. The flour shelf (to make bread) was nearly empty. The pasta shelf? empty. The soap shelf? empty. The medicine shelf? empty. The Vitamin C shelf? empty. The toilet roll shelf? empty. Why? “Well at least there’s still beer” someone joked.

A nurse was crying in her car after trying to get food. She has now come down with it too, possibly. My brother came back from an A and E shift in Wales to find his supermarket almost empty. My sister found the same in London.

I was going to see a friend that night when she messaged. “Sorry, I have discussed it and we don’t think it’s a good idea”, explaining that her boyfriend had asthma and sending a link to government advice on social distancing. I don’t know when I can visit her again.

Some people have had to make the heartbreaking decision not to see grandparents,parents, partners or even their own children.

Only £94 sick pay.

The Prime Minister’s announcement came on Sunday 15th. All those with symptoms were to isolate for seven days. My boyfriend now needed to stay home for another four days.

“Great, that’s only £94 sick pay.”

“Think of the vulnerable and older people you’ll be protecting.”

I went swimming with a friend and we went in the steam room, with no steam. I had not wanted to go in but there was only one other person.

My friend is a cancer survivor and had been told she was “medium” risk. She has now received a letter telling her she was one of the 1.5 million English nationals that could end up in hospital from the virus. She had been out on the town until midnight, should she worry about it? she asked. No, I replied. Better to go out now than at the peak of the epidemic in mid-April or May. I sent her a flowers and wine delivery with some of the last Merlot left in the city. Yesterday I won the last sour cream in my neighbourhood and last week I bought the last two packets of chicken in the supermarket. Yet I was frustrated one day when I forgot to buy the vegetables for dinner and couldn’t make another trip for a single cabbage.

Her colleagues got coronavirus taking blood.

I later read that the virus was easily spread in Chinese gyms. But again the source was not revealed, so could not be verified. Fake news and “medical” advice began to infect social media, including gargling with salt water for “protection” and holding your breath for ten seconds meant you had “virus-free” lungs. You could “wash the virus away from your lungs” by drinking tea and “kill the virus” by sunbathing.

I informed my friend that the “e-mail circulated in a hospital” was  actually government guidelines with a smattering of lunacy.

The only way to avoid contagion is to keep your distance and wash your hands.

But the public think that does not apply if you are outdoors, so now, as of Monday 23rd we are all on lockdown and gatherings of more than two people are banned. Countryside car parks are shut and the roads are almost empty, perfect for cycling. Meanwhile, our heroic key workers are keeping the country going, including my siblings. My sister worked on the “front line” for two weeks without adequate Personal Protective Equipment and four staff at her hospital tragically died. Her colleague got coronavirus taking blood with only gloves on, and survived.

My brother got infected from his girlfriend who worked on a coronavirus ward. Luckily they got off with a cough and fatigue.

From day 4 onwards my boyfriend started to get better.  His sore throat eased and he no longer had a temperature.

A week later, his only irritation was an inflamed nose and a reduced sense of smell. His housemates did not get infected as he kept his distance, wiping kitchen and bathroom surfaces after touching them.

The Guardian has recently reported that around 70% of infectious people have few or no symptoms. With that figure it is easy to understand why numbers are increasing rapidly. This is from a reputable source, a microbiology professor.

Help others more and read the news less.

Now, every time I get home I wash my hands and wipe down anything I have touched before that. I have even started spraying my shopping in case it has been touched by someone who has coughed coronavirus onto their hands. It is so unlikely, but why take that chance.

People suffering from anxiety have told me that the worry around them has made theirs worse.

The most effective way I have found of dealing with the apocalypse is to help others and to read the news less.

One useful story referred to Mutual Aid groups mobilising volunteers on social media. I joined one and bought some items for a local family.

Do you think she’ll get worse?

A family of four was isolating due to their daughter having a cough. She would give me money. I gave her my details for an online transfer instead. The money could have the virus on it. “I will stand three steps away” I replied.

There was the patter of little feet running to the door. A toddler peered up at me with bright eyes.

“She doesn’t seem to have a temperature” I remarked.

“No, she just has a cough” her mother replied.

“She probably doesn’t have it then” I said, hoping to reassure her.

“But children aren’t as badly affected are they.”

“Well no, that’s true.”

“Do you think she’ll get worse?” she asked.

“No, if she’s only got a cough she should be ok, and like you say, children aren’t as badly affected.”

“Will I get it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What if I get it? Will I get it worse?”

“Well have you got a good immune system?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any underlying health conditions?”

“No.”

“You should be fine then.”

She thanked me and I left, assuring her that I’d message her if I needed anything. I delivered more bread and milk a few days later.

A board read “GO HOME, COUNTRYSIDE OUT OF BOUNDS.”

Last weekend we went on a walk with my boyfriend’s mother. As we expect that he is immune, we were not worried about him spreading it. He will not be able to see them now until the non-essential travel ban is lifted. Roadblocks have begun to spring up on local motorways.

A fast-tracked emergency bill is ensuring that new infection control laws can be enforced.

The beautiful Pigeon Tower above Upper Rivington Reservoir in Lancashire. Copyright literarylydi

I tried to keep my distance from in case I was asymptomatic (infectious but with no symptoms). We also tried to create some distance with groups walking past. It was only a problem if they coughed or sneezed the virus, but better safe than sorry. Irritatingly we ended up sandwiched in between groups of people and sharing narrow paths with them.

No one was willing to keep their distance. We wiped our hands before eating and at the car before we went home, as we had been touching gates.

That land is now shut.

On the way home in the Peak District, we saw a board that read

“GO HOME, COUNTRYSIDE OUT OF BOUNDS.”

The streets were nearly empty and older people were all inside, isolating for 3 months.

At least we don’t live in fear of nuclear attack.

But there were people sitting in parks, walking and cycling. I doubt we will see icecream vans for a long time, maybe not even in the warmer months.

I have been watching “Summer of Rockets” on the BBC recently and it has reminded me that things could be worse. At least we don’t live in fear of nuclear attack.

Audio poems are soothing, those who are creative can find comfort in the arts. Those who are practical are doing more D.I.Y, the drilling disturbing my work. But at least I could cook myself lunch and spend the rest of the break shooting hoops.

There are entertaining videos and memes doing the rounds. An unemployed sports commentator has done commentary for everyday events, such as the “South East halloumi-buying champions” frequenting Waitrose.

There was a video of the actor Antony Hopkins playing the piano with his cat on his lap.

Classic FM/Instagram / @AnthonyHopkins

I have also found it helpful to try not talking about it, to absorb yourself in escapist programmes and do what you can, instead of fretting about what you can’t.

No, we can’t go to schools, universities, gyms, pubs, clubs, cafes, clothes shops or restaurants (as of Saturday). We might not be able to see our family, friends or colleagues in person, maybe even our children.

But we can see them online, as long as the Internet withstands the increased demand.

We can do so many things in our homes or individually to entertain ourselves and exercise, so we must enjoy that.

Stay three steps away from others, don’t touch your eyes, nose or mouth and wash your hands when you get home.

The poem If by Rudyard Kipling is good to keep in mind: “if you can keep your head, when all about you. Are losing theirs[…]you’ll be a Man, my son”.

My favourite is Warning, by Jenny Joseph.

As they said in another war: “Keep calm and carry on.”

Philippines Planning

 

Writing without inspiration is like chips without vinegar. Pointless.

I haven’t been writing for some time due to a lack of inspiration, probably because of work sapping creative energy.

I only usually post on here when I am inspired as I think it improves the quality of my material.

The less I work, the more inspired I get. Hundreds of years ago artists had the time and luxury to express themselves thanks to their wealthy patrons. Now you have to squeeze out your craft whilst doing your day job, or live in penury unless you are really lucky. So when I retire, if I can ever afford to or if I must due to ill health, I will finally be able to finish writing that novel.

I am not inspired now but I do not want to neglect you readers, as I usually have an offering each month. I write not for the figures, but because I must.

Inspiration is a peculiar beast. When you want it you can’t find it. But when you are in that flow state you have to harness it and make the most of it.

After pitching my novel idea for a documentary, audience and in front of a panel of literary agents and publishers, I was so motivated that I rewrote my entire 16 chapters.

I will not tell you about the plot because hopefully one day you will read it and find out for yourselves. But that is a long way away because I do about a page a year, if that. Again I can only attend to that when I am inspired. I never know when I will get that creative spark, or how long it will last.

We nearly died

Writing without inspiration is like chips without vinegar. Pointless. And that isn’t even a good analogy because my brain is currently tired after a long trip back from my boyfriend’s parents’, in which we nearly died because someone moved into our lane instead of going off at the wrong junction. Luckily my boyfriend has speedy reactions.

Bohol’s “chocolate” hills

Anyway, the Philippines. I am going solo in 2020.

I have never been on holiday by myself before.

Mum’s reaction was “you’ll get raped and murdered”, so if I live to tell the tale, I will let you know.

Why did I choose it? Because it’s one of the cheapest holiday destinations with beaches, it will be warm and it isn’t Europe, so if Brexit makes things expensive it does not matter.

It ended up being more pricey than expected because I hadn’t factored in hotels (£60-70 a night) and the amount of taxis, car hire and ferries I will need to get about. I would love to be sustainable but unfortunately their buses takes twice as long as a car.

I arrive in Cebu city, across to Bohol and then down to Siquior. The Philippines has more than 7000 islands so there were plenty to choose from.

Did you hear about the British man and his wife that got abducted whilst sunbathing on a beach? and returned after a gun battle? That’s the island below where I’ll be staying. That is obviously a no-go zone according to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. The places I am visiting are not marked as risky. Not yet.

I managed to get vaccines of Hepatitis A, diptheria, tetatnus and polio this month and previously tuberculosis, measles, mumps and rubella ones. So at least I won’t die of those.

Possible hazards other than rape and murder include earthquakes, tsunami, kidnapping, mugging, typhoid, cholera, Hepatitis B, Japanese Encephalitis, dengue fever, rabies, and an aquatic parasite that lives in snails and under human skin.

More minor hazards include missing the last ferry or what happened in Vietnam, where a taxi driver refused to let us out until we had paid more than the meter.

Wish me luck.

Rapa Nui – An Isolated Island

I have been fortunate enough to travel around the world. Nowhere was as uniquely beautiful as Easter Island, also known as Rapa Nui.

The tiny spec on the world map was finally discovered by the Dutch in 1722.

Named after the day of its discovery, the island may have been spotted as early as 1686, by Captain Davis, an English explorer.

Originally named “Davis” island, this was the land mass the Dutch were seeking. It was later visited briefly by James Cook in 1744. He soon continued on his way, declaring that the island had nothing substantial to offer. He noted that there weren’t any trees or animals and few birds. You can read the fascinating diary of the experience here.

The indigenous people would have looked something like this.

Some twenty years before, the Dutch had killed 12 islanders for coming too close. Perhaps when Cook visited, the natives thought that appeasing these powerful people would enable survival, so they hoisted a bunch of bananas up to the boat as a peace offering.

Those courageous seafarers must have been glad to arrive – Easter Island is one of the most remote locations in the world. Accessible from just Tahiti or Chile, it is a five hour flight. The tiny airport usually operates one flight each day. If you want to go the old-fashioned way, a journey by boat takes a week and only two operate annually.

We flew business class because it was the same price as standard and it was a pleasant experience, with fully extendable seats. Our flight was as cheap as it gets at £400 return, as we went out of season in June when it is cooler and wetter. However, it was still warm, with temperatures between 18-20 degrees celcius. We were lucky enough not to get rain during the day. 

Winter is the best season to visit, as there were only a few small groups of tourists at key sites and it did not seem to get hot enough for there to be any mosquitoes.

The fish was lovely and fresh, with a choice of large tuna, reinata and merluza to name a few, along with squid, prawns and other crustaceans.

On the last day we swam in the sea, which was luke warm and very pleasant. The island only has one sandy beach and you can admire a row of “moai” statues as you swim. This area of the Pacific must be one of the least polluted in the world, owing to its isolation.

The best way to see the statues is to cycle. This means you can go at your own pace and avoid any pesky tour buses. Most of the sites close at 4pm. We hired electric bikes from a great shop off the main street for about 17 000 pesos, £20 a day. Don’t bother with the bike shops on the main street, most of them are broken and you get ripped off.

All photos on this page copyright literarylydi

It was this isolation that caused at least three near extinctions of its indigenous population. The Polynesians are believed to have arrived in 700-800 A.D and settled there permanently 100-200 years later. They are believed to have travelled thousands of miles, from the Marquesa Islands.

Those ancient voyagers looked for islands after studying the migration patterns and habits of birds and then navigated using the position of stars. With their large double-hulled wooden canoes, they travelled with basic foodstuffs to help them farm the new land. From 1000-1100 A.D. they also brought sweet potato, perhaps from contact with South America.

Copyright literarylydi

Its Polynesian name is Rapa Nui. From the 1400s, the island was so successfully cultivated and well-populated that the tribes started building the famous megaliths with smooth expressionless faces. To this day, no one knows what they symbolise. They have a dramatic and haunting beauty. They tower above you, silently watching over the farmed fields, undulating hills and red rocky cliffs. Built from around 1400 until 1650, they have watched generation after generation flourish and fail.

Archaeologists found that the islanders all worked together to build and enlarge them, until the tallest statue reached over 20 metres high. They called them moai, which means to exist, and each one is carved with slightly different features. Perhaps they were self portraits of their chiefs. This would explain why only one group of statues face outwards to the sea, the last group to be built. The Rapa Nui tribes had realised that they needed protection from outsiders. The joint effort to build them must have encouraged peace and harmony between the tribes, essential when resources and land were scarce. But the islanders paid a high price for this dedication – they had cut down all their tall trees for monument transportation.

Popular myth tells a story of self-sabotage, where the people cut down all the trees and then starved, as they had nothing to build or cook with. However, a recent study refutes this. Scientific analysis such as carbon dating showed that the islanders ate a diet rich in fish and that they knew how to sustainably manage their environment, even though the soil was poor. The study’s authors suggest that it was the island’s visitors who were to blame for the lack of trees, as rats could have wiped out the remaining slow-growing palm trees. They had to import them from Tahiti in the 1960s.

As the islanders could no longer transport their impressive monoliths, they started a new “Bird Man” cult. There is a cave on the island that is faintly painted with bands of colour, honouring their new belief system. They would have competitions to get bird eggs, often laid in precarious places on the cliffs. This shows that they were using initiative to survive.

Legend has it that deforestation led to starvation and even resorted to cannibalism in the late 1700s. This myth has also been debunked with evidence that the population used innovative techniques to ensure that they could continue growing crops in the dryer soil.

In 1862 outsiders once again brought death and despair. A ship from Peru took half the island there as slaves, some 1 500 men. Disease was rife, and eventually 100 were allowed to return, after pressure from the English and French. However, smallpox spread during the return voyage, and the 15 survivors spread this disease to the remaining islanders, most of whom died.

Those who survived were then forced to give up their indigenous beliefs and convert to Catholicism, which was completed in 1866. In 1870, a French explorer arrived, Dutroux Bornier. He was detested by the inhabitants and most left with a missionary for a nearby island, Mangareva. It was only after he was killed that some returned.

After these waves of foreign interference, just over 100 of the original islanders remained in 1877.

In 1888 the Rapa Nui King was given a deed to sign, giving the Chilean government control of the island. The document was translated for the indigenous people to mean “protection” and “friendship”. Sensing deceit, the King Atamu Tekena bent to the ground and took a handful of dirt in one hand and a handful of grass in the other. He gave the Chilean representative grass and kept the dirt. The land would always belong to his people.

Almost 80 years passed before the Chilean government recognised the indigenous population as Chilean citizens, following a rebellion. In 2014 they submitted a petition for independence which they continue to pursue. Tensions between Chileans and Polynesians was evident in an eco hotel development on the coast, which had graffiti on its fence and black flags obstructing the view.

Polynesian descendants look after the moai statue sites, ensuring that their spiritual past is respected. They now have a flag which was first flown in 2006, a red “Reimiro” ornament that was worn by chiefs and others of high status.

Now the population is back to its original size of around 7,000, almost all concentrated in the small settlement of Hanga Roa.

Sadly, locals appear to be making the myth of self-sabotage a reality. It takes three hours to walk to the other side of the island, yet everyone goes everywhere in battered Nissan pick ups and Jeeps. With these excessive and unnecessary emissions, they are contributing to climate change which could eventually submerge the whole island. It has already resulted in coastal erosion which threatens the existence of the mighty Moai statues.

To this day, outsiders continue to damage the island. Seas of selfie-sticks, star jumps and shouting ruin the quiet reflective impact of the moai and some even risk damaging them in their vain pursuit of the “perfect” picture. 

Hundreds of years ago, Easter Island needed protection from visitors bringing death and disease, leading to the creation of the only set of Moai to face the sea.

Now the island is under threat once more.

 

The Picturesque Pyrenees

There is something sublime about walking in the mountains.

Once you get up there, that is.

It was a long, hot ascent to the summit. The summer heat made our clothes stick to us as we stumbled up the winding fir tree forest path. The unforgiving ascent seemed endless.

At one point, the path disappeared and we were launched into ferns.

Another path had eroded partly off the mountain, and we had to lean into it to avoid sliding off.

But it was all worth it when we spotted a Griffin vulture soar out of the clouds, low above us. It flew serenely on the thermals, surveying us scrambling about on the peak.

A brightly coloured patchwork of alpine flowers decorated the ground and the mountains in the distance were blue and green. You felt like all the city stress was slipping away down the slopes as you inhaled the fresh air and became absorbed in sounds of nature.

One day we had a wild swim. The water was not particularly cold. The lake was encircled by pine trees and reflected the blue sky like a mirror. When we stood on the bottom, little fish came and nibbled at the dead skin on our feet. A complimentary pedicure.

We walked away from the heat of the valley and up into the Pyrenees over two days, each route lasting around 7 hours. We walked slowly on GR tracks – French for big walk, taking plenty of photographs of the breathtaking scenery. We were staying near the picturesque French village of Seix, where we saw an impressive firework and kayak flare display for their festival.

When we got down, hot, sticky and weary, we enjoyed tasty French food, full of flavour. Even their tinned beans were perfectly edible.

Our Air B’n’B host had friends round one night. They shared pineapple-infused rum with us from La Reunion, an island that is a French colony, and invited us to go on a traditional morning walk up a mountain with them. They were meeting the Spanish at 9am at the summit border. The French were bringing cheese and the Spanish were bringing wine!

 

Kos, Pserimos and Bodrum

It is five years since I went to Greece and Turkey and I have been enjoying the photos and memories recently.

We had a lovely girls holiday. apart from the night when I half carried, half dragged my friend to the hotel. We went when it was cheap and the holiday season had wound down, so there were no taxis to be found.

I stopped at the third shot of absinthe and told her to. She stopped after five. I danced around the room, giddy.

She was fine until we left the hotel to party in the centre of Kos.

She gradually got more intoxicated. By the time we arrived 20 minutes later, she was falling asleep.

The bar staff were worried and I didn’t want her to pass out, so I woke her up after I’d enjoyed my cocktail and we set off.

She said she wanted to sit on a wall and stay there and I reasoned with her. After a while she let me help her. It was a long walk back. She threw up the next afternoon.

We always say I’m never drinking again but how often is that true? The last time I was sick from alcohol was as a student. I liked to test how much I could drink. I could stomach 8-10 shots. I was usually sick after 10. I didn’t like the lack of control, so it didn’t happen often.

One time I got escorted home by some chivalrous students. They didn’t realise how long the walk was but they were men of their word. It’s dangerous getting drunk as a woman unless you have friends that are sober enough to look after you. Students think that getting drunk is a game but it can have lasting consequences.

These days I hardly drink at all. I’ve never liked alcohol unless it is a quality spirit or doesn’t taste of it. I used to make the odd pina colada. I used to have cocktail parties until a friend told my parents how amazing they were. They have been around every birthday since.

Anyway, back to Kos, Pserimos and Bodrum. Popular tourist destinations. There are castles at the ports of Kos and Bodrum and there is a lot of history between the two countries. We didn’t absorb much of that as we didn’t have time for the audio guide. However, the internet informs me that the Byzantines ruled after the Greeks until their empire crumbled. Istanbul fell to the Ottoman Turks in 1453 followed by Greece, as that was part of the same Byzantine kingdom. The sultans ruled Greece for 400 years, until the Greek War of Independence lasting from 1822-1831.

 

Pserimos

Bodrum

Kos

Bodrum

balalaika

All the world’s a stage