A Letter form England: October 2019

This time of year sees an annual process that tears families apart: the departure of students to University. I remember tearful and desolate journeys home, having left my own children at their respective temples of Academia. Not only for their first terms, though those were undoubtedly the worst, but through following years as well.

For many young people it is their first substantial period away from home, and without the support of old friends. It is a time of trepidation and excitement, a time for making new friendships and a time of challenge. For parents, too, it is a time of great change and uncertainty. The thought that their children have now fled the family nest, perhaps permanently, is never a comfortable one, and there is always worry about how they will manage in their new surroundings.

Studies apart, the new students have much to prove, if not to learn. Parents hope they have done a good enough job of teaching how to budget and manage money, to cook and feed wisely, to behave and and interact socially in appropriate manner. Students are anxious to prove they can live independently, manage their own affairs, and assert themselves in new peer groups. Mercifully, most succeed surprisingly well, though there is comfort in knowing that support is there for those who find it all less easy.

First-time students are the most likely to find accommodation in Halls of Residence where, it is hoped, someone will keep a caring eye on things. Later, there is generally a move towards less institutional—and cheaper—housing, which can bring its own tribulations. I recall my own experiences of months in a house where one special room was kept eternally spick and span for the sole and exclusive purpose of allowing students to entertain visiting parents. The remainder of the establishment did not bear inspection. The kitchen was was such a disgusting mess that I suspect even the bacteria shied away. Not to worry; we all survived, and I know the place was in no way unique. Of the accommodation enjoyed by my own children, I know what we were shown, and it was better not to enquire too closely.

The purpose of it all though is clear enough, At the end of the day there is great satisfaction when expectations are realised, and parents suddenly realise that their children have grown up whilst they weren’t looking.

Missed Holiday

At this moment I should have been looking back on a splendid holiday in Italy. Instead I am following a regime of regular physiotherapy. I'm sure you will work it out for yourself: our vacation was cancelled at the last minute.
I got out of bed one morning with excruciating pain in the lower back and leg, and unable to stand for more than a couple of minutes. I spent a couple of weeks more or less flat on my back, popping prescription pain killers and being dutifully waited upon be my excellent family, but as our departure date grew near it was clear I wasn't going to be fit to travel, let alone pass a pleasant week walking around in the sunshine of Sorrento. Alas, memories of last year's visit will have to suffice.
That was when I completed two items on my tick list: the Roman sites of Pompeii and Herculaneum.
Mrs did not accompany me to Pompeii. Her mobility is now very poor, and she gets around with a mobility scooter. A little research had told us that the site would not suit her, though in truth I saw that a lot of work is under way to enable wheelchair access to some of the ruins. She might well have managed it, had she not elected to consume indecent quantities of ice cream on the Corso d'Italia instead.
As it was I was able to spend a very pleasant day wandering about (after an excellent guided tour) and enjoying the experience. In a whole day I did not see everything, so I was especially disappointed not to return this year. I have to say that Mrs could not have managed the half-hour train journey from Sorrento to the station outside Pompeii's main entrance. The carriages were packed and there was nowhere to store the scooter, even if she had been able to make it onto the train.
Herculaneum was a different matter. We hired a car and driver and we both went. It is a much easier site for access, and Mrs was able to trundle around the ruins relatively easily—even venturing onto an actual Roman road surface for a little while.
On reflection, that roadway was not much worse than the current ones in the side streets of Sorrento. Mrs was able to get around OK, but it was a bit of a bone shaker.
A planned trip along the Amalfi coast did not take place; we had hoped to rectify that this year. One of the spectacular sights to greet us as we travelled the coast route from Naples Airport to our hotel was a small fleet of Canadair water-bombers landing and taking off in the bay. The reason? A forest fire which caused the closure of the Amalfi coast road for most of our stay.
Getting to Sorrento with a mobility scooter was much easier than you might imagine. We flew with Jet2 whose assistance arrangements were faultless. We were able to drop our luggage the evening before the flight (we overnighted in the Crowne Plaza at Manchester Airport—and left our car there for the week) and presented ourselves at the assistance desk. We were condusted through security and to the aircraft where we were lifted aboard with an ambulift (an elevator mounted on the back of a truck) and the scooter was taken away to the hold. The reverse procedure got us to our taxi at Naples, and the whole programme was repeated on the reverse journey. An excellent experience. It's just a pity we didn't repeat it in 2019.
Well...  perhaps 2020?

Confession

I have to confess it's been a long time since I updated my blog. The thing is, I got a different computer and had enormous difficulty logging-in. After a hundred failed attempts and weeks of my life passing by, I gave it up in frustration.
On a whim, I tried signing on today, and Bingo! Here I am.
Much has happened in the meantime, though to be honest the moment has gone for most of it. On the positive side I now have a greater fund of experience to fall back on in times of little interest. I'll try not to bore you.