Cancer 38

Well, there’s another achievement. Since I was sitting in the hospital ward I have wanted to get out and start running my life again. I am managing to write a bit and, as I said last time, work on my submitted manuscript, and we have been getting out for a drive and a bit of a walk. A couple of days ago I walked down by Cromford Canal – alone – just down by High Peak Junction, the aqueduct and Lea Woods. Yesterday we headed off for our first night away since all this began. We went to the Devonshire Fell Hotel in Burnsall. It was just for one night, to see how I got on. We need not have worried. I remembered the stoma kit, my heart drugs, the dressings for my wound (yes, it has not entirely cleared up), my spare drugs in case something hurts. All this alongside my books – I only took two, but came back with four, oh yes, and a change of clothes.

For those who haven’t been, the Devonshire Fell Hotel is one of the Duke of Devonshire’s hotels. While I object in principle to providing him with yet more money – it is akin to supporting Charles Windsor and his various moneymaking activities – principles sometimes need to go by the wayside when a nice hotel with good food is involved. Sorry. It is good for my recovery.

I had eaten a full bought meal before this trip, but not had a full breakfast. The meal was excellent. A starter of shepherd’s pies with home made brown sauce, followed by a main course of a duo of lamb (including lamb breast, the cheaper the cut the tastier the meat), with potatoes and vegetables. The only criticism was the gravy was too salty. I didn’t have a pudding. I am on a one man campaign against modern puddings. Can I say I find them too girly? Probably not, but I find them too girly. I want a proper sponge and custard, apple pie and custard, spotted dick and custard. You know the kind of thing, not lemon tart with curly bits of cream or Eton mess and such like. Puddings should have custard, and lots of it. I blame sticky toffee pudding for the decline in standards. It has stopped restaurants from producing any other sponge, and though I may be the only person in the country to feel this way I do not like sticky toffee pudding. It is too sticky, too toffee-ey and it doesn’t have enough (any) custard.

Anyway, all went well. I then managed to sleep pretty well, not properly waking up until 0300. I read for an hour, then found my stoma bag was full. I emptied it sitting on the toilet (ah, I remember those days), and then had a bath for another hour, reading my book, The Singapore Grip by J.G. Farrell, an excellent account – so far – of Singapore in the 1930s and 40s from the perspective of a rich merchant. I haven’t got to the point where Singapore falls to the Japanese but I expect it will be interesting. I have known people who were captured at Singapore in 1942 and they had a terrible time. The Japanese (can I say they were a cruel race? Probably not, but they certainly were then, and that was the view of many people for years after the war) treated the people terribly, murdering people irrespective of their nationality, treating everyone, whether they were Asians or Europeans, very badly indeed. The Chinese had been suffering under occupation for years by this time. They still haven’t forgiven them.

We went down for breakfast at 0800. I had cornflakes and milk, yoghurt, toast and marmalade and a full breakfast of egg, bacon, sausage, black pudding, beans, and hash brown, with additional sausage and black pudding from the other plate. It was almost like old times stealing from the other plate. I managed it perfectly well.

We then went to Bolton Abbey – I do like to see a ruined church, it signifies what I think of religion generally, though the reasons for the ruined monasteries are not the best – ‘I want a divorce.’ Really? We wandered around and I ate chocolate cake and ice cream at a cafe overlooking the Wharfe valley. Still no stoma problem. It wasn’t until we left that I learned Freddie Truman is buried at the abbey. I would have liked to see his grave.

On the way back we stopped at Salt Mill, Saltaire, Bradford. This very large 1853 mill, which closed decades ago has been done up and now hosts art galleries, shops, and cafes. The injection of cash into the area has helped regenerate the model village of Saltaire. The reopening of the railway station meaning that people can quickly commute to Leeds also helped. It does indicate that the injection of a bit of cash into a run down area can help with jobs, etc. Come on Government, why didn’t you think of that? For the arty people among you, the Mill is well worth a visit. It has a book shop with well chosen books. I had difficulty in the history section because it was so good, trying to choose between two 2022 books, one on The New Model Army and one on Stalin’s War. I chose the former, which will again sadden me when I think of the great opportunity we had in the 1650s to create the first modern republic. While at the mill I ate sausage and mash.

On the way home I had chocolate cake. When we reached home it was ham and cheese on toast. I await the stoma outcome. I assume it will be as normal and I will be awake and up sometime around 3-4am, but I will be prepared just in case.

This trip really felt like a bit of normality between having the operation and dealing with chemo, perhaps a short window of opportunity before I enter the next stage of this cancer experience.

The other book I bought was Workers in the Dawn by George Gissing.