Dear Readers, things went from bad to worse with Mum and Dad over the next few years, with frequent visits to Milborne St Andrew in Dorset where they lived. Looking back now, I see I hadn’t realised how bad things had gotten.  It was another two years before Dad was diagnosed with dementia, but clearly the signs were already there. 

Dear Readers, last week I was on my montly visit to Milborne St Andrew to see my 81 year-old parents. It felt like the beginning of summer: for the first time this year, I didn’t bring a raincoat and felt very daring. Dad took me for a walk around the garden, and I treated myself to thirty minutes taking photos of the plants and insect life. I adore the ceanothus, with its heavy honey-scented flowers. For three months it thrums with the sound of bumblebees, as if it was singing quietly to itself.

We had already removed three queen wasps from the house: Mum and Dad had previously had a wasps’ nest just outside the bathroom, so this was quite concerning. Although they have such a vicious reputation, I have always found wasps to be relatively mild-mannered and tolerant. I think that they are somewhat attracted to the cotoneaster outside the front door, not so much for the flowers at this time of year as for the possibility of caterpillars or other small creatures.

Teeny jumping spider on the cotoneaster

And there were many bees on the geraniums and the centaurea, and a fine long-legged spider as well.

I had such a feeling of well-being that afternoon. We had chosen, personalised and ordered the invitations for the 60^th Wedding Anniversary party in September. I had spoken to the venue and found details of photographers and bakers and florists. Mum had even started looking for her outfit for the party.

Mum; ‘Maybe I could wear what I wore for my Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary Party’.

Me: ‘Blimey, Mum, if you can’t get a new outfit when you’ve been married for sixty years I’d like to know when you can’.

Mum: ‘You’re probably right’.

And then, just after dinner, Dad announced that he was cold, stood up and nearly fell over. It was 75 degrees outside, but I closed the door and Mum wrapped him up in her shawl while he sat there, shivering. After half an hour of this, he decided that he wanted to go to bed. Mum put the electric blanket on and he shuffled off.

Now, Dad has COPD, or emphysema as we used to call it. He had been a bit chesty, but not more than usual. He’d been admitted to hospital while I was in Canada with early signs of sepsis, but had been sent home, to all intents well, after 24 hours.

‘Shall we call a paramedic?’ I asked Mum.

‘No hospital!’ came a feeble little voice from the bedroom.

The night wore on. Dad became increasingly confused. This is never a good sign. Normally he is as sharp as a tack. When Dad (or Mum) are admitted to hospital, I have to keep repeating the mantra that they aren’t usually confused, and don’t have dementia, otherwise it’s assumed that they’re always this way.

At 11 o’clock, Dad announced that he was getting up and going to work. He’s been retired for 25 years. He actually had his shirt on when Mum went through and persuaded him back to bed. I could hear her telling him off from the living room in spite of Hercule Poirot being on at significant volume.

There is something deeply distressing about seeing someone you love in a state of delirium. It’s as if the person themselves has disappeared under a welter of strange beliefs and impressions, as if you’re no longer living in the same world. And, in some ways, you aren’t. It’s very hard for Mum, but with a mixture of exasperation and humour she normally manages to get Dad to do what she wants.

At this point, we really should have rung for an ambulance, and Mum and I both recognise this now. But no one wants to panic, or to be a burden on the already over-burdened health service. Dad dozed off, and sometimes he’s better in the morning. Come the morning, he was no longer confused, but he did say that he felt terrible, and believe me, that’s not something Dad normally says.

We rang for an ambulance. A bearded paramedic called Ian arrived, checked up Dad’s vital signs and pronounced that he didn’t have sepsis, but he did have a chest infection on his left lung. He reassured Mum that she’d done the right thing in calling him, and said that she should always ring 111 if she was a bit worried, and 999 if she was very worried. The paramedic also got Mum and Dad’s GP to come home for a visit. He prescribed some antibiotics, and within a few hours Dad was looking a bit less pale, and was talking sense again.

It is always such a relief when someone that you love is on the mend. For me, there’s the sense that things can start to get back to normal. I try not to catastrophise, but I can’t stop myself imagining stays in hospital, deteriorating conditions, and worse. Over the past five or ten years I’ve become hypervigilant – if the phone rings and it’s Mum and Dad’s number, my heart starts to thump. It’s much worse for them, of course.

The following morning I was packing to leave when there was a heart-stopping thud from the living room, a sound that had me running down the passage. Dad was sprawled out on the floor, having tripped over his slippers (they are alarmingly carpet-coloured and difficult to see). He peered up.

‘I’ve dropped me antibiotics’, he said.

And indeed, tablets were scattered like so much confetti all over the floor. Of course, that was the least of our worries.

Fortunately, Dad wasn’t hurt, but he was horizontal, and getting up from that position can be tricky, especially when one of you is 81 with a bad back and the other is 57 with a bad back. We managed to get Dad propped up against the chair, but there was no way that, even between us, we could get him any further. Plus, we were worried in case his fall had been because he had deteriorated further, and that he might have hit his head. Mum sighed and rang 111.

20 minutes later, two handsome, burly ambulance guys came in, checked that Dad hadn’t broken anything and got him into his chair. They made sure that the sepsis wasn’t coming back and one of them reassured Mum that she’d done the right thing – it was always as well to check when someone elderly had had a fall, he said. Not that Dad was really elderly, of course, he interjected when Mum gave him what I would describe as ‘an old-fashioned look’.

And so, what have I learned from my latest visit to Dorset? Firstly that when you are getting on a bit (not elderly, obviously) and have multiple health problems, an infection that a younger, healthier person might shrug off can come on like a tornado, and always needs to be taken seriously. Secondly, that dialling 111 is a good thing to do, because they will make the decision about whether or not to call out the paramedics, and then the paramedics make the call about an ambulance. But thirdly, what a remarkable institution the NHS is, and how much we all have to be grateful for. Everyone that we dealt with was kind, patient, competent and good-humoured. Everyone treated Mum and Dad with respect and helped them to maintain their dignity (even when Dad was stranded on the floor).

The NHS is the envy of the world. We are so lucky to have it. It will be one of the major factors influencing my voting next week on June 8th. If you would like to see what the main parties are promising in their manifestos, there’s a link here. Let’s not take the NHS for granted.

The path to the Arolla Forest

Dear Readers, every year (except 2024, when I broke my leg) I go to Obergurgl in Austria for a few weeks walking in the mountains. What a joy it is, and I love to share it with everybody…

Dear Readers, I am on holiday in Obergurgl, Austria for two weeks, so, as usual, I thought I would share a couple of my walks with you all. On Monday we went for a hike through the Arolla pine forest, a nature reserve that I can see from my balcony window.This is what I would describe as our first ‘proper’ walk, which means one where we actually break into a sweat, and where I notice that my heart rate, measured on my little Fitbit watch, has gone over 140 beats per minute. I should mention that once it goes that fast, I often demand a breathing break, or find something to look at that means that we stop. Like ‘ooh, an ant!’ or ‘Look at that tree!’ or even, once, ‘that’s a pretty cloud’. However, I think that my daily walks to the cemetery to feed the foxes have helped – the climb today, though tiring, required far fewer ‘ant stops’ than usual.

Meadow flowers

The trip starts easily enough as we skip through the meadow, and pass over a bridge. The bridge has a little shrine to St John Nepomuk, the local saint and a protector against floods and drowning. I notice that folk have started to attach padlocks to the metalwork to signify their undying love for one another.

I hope that this doesn’t become too much of a trend, as it can weaken the bridge, but at the moment, it’s just rather sweet.

Alpenrose (Rhododendron ferrugineum)

The Alpenroses are gorgeous this year – they are actually azaleas, not roses. Normally by the time we’ve arrived in Obergurgl , they are already past their best. This year they are perfect. We stop on the edge of the forest for some water and some Toblerone (actually Swiss, but it feels like enough of an Alpine treat to indulge in in Austria). A woman in a white beanie hat is sitting on the seat, and we get chatting, like you do. She is watching her husband, who is doing some mountaineering on the rocks opposite. This little area has become very popular with daredevils who like edging around precipitous drops and crossing ravines via terrifying wire bridges, and I am impressed that her husband, who must be sixty if he’s a day, is giving the youngsters a run for their money. It suddenly occurs to me, writing this, that I shall be sixty in a few years. Funny how your impressions of age change as you get older. I have an Auntie who is 88 years old, and refers to a friend in her seventies as ‘a nice girl’.

We all agree that this mountaineering lark is  ‘not our kind of thing’, however. The husband takes his hand off the rocks to give his wife a cheery wave, and she heads off to meet him at the bottom of the climb. John and I head on up the path.

It’s so cool under the trees. There’s a chiff-chaff singing his heart out way up in the branches. I always wonder why some birds cross from Africa to Austria and stay, while others come all the way to the UK. It also occurs to me that most of the plants that I see here I could also see in Britain, though not in such splendid abundance. Our plants, animals and geology are inextricably linked with those in Europe, and until rising sea levels severed our connection to the continent as recently as 6500 years ago, we were physically joined to the mainland. What a difference that hop, skip and a jump’s worth of water has made to our national attitude.

We carry on up the zig-zag path, hearing the nutcrackers’ calls all around us, but seeing nary a one.Spotted Nutcracker (Nucifraga caryocatactes) (Photo One – see credit below)

For such big birds, the nutcrackers are very shy, although the evidence of their work is everywhere, in the tiny baby trees that are sprouting randomly at the edge of the wood. Nutcrackers plant the seeds from the pine cones all over the place, and don’t always get around to digging them up, which means that they spread the trees far and wide.  In this particular wood, all the trees are either very old, or very young, which the local naturalists think indicates that there was a forest fire in the 1880’s that took out all but a few of the ancient pines (some of the trees are over 300 years old).

A baby Arolla pine tree, probably planted by a Nutcracker Jay.

At the top of the wood, we stop for yet more Toblerone and a look around. There is a tiny bog here, full of cotton grass, and dragonflies zip across it, making triangles and quadrilaterals in the sky. There are berry bushes here, growing close to the ground to avoid the worst of the winter weather. You get a wonderful view of Hangerer as well – this is the highest local peak, a fine pyramid against the sky. It’s possible to walk up it (allegedly) but this involves crossing snow fields and, as one of the mountain guides said ‘a degree of exposure’, so we will be admiring it from the ground for the moment.

A tough last climb brings us to the road, and our first view of the new Schonweisse hut. It used to be a classic Alpine hut, with a big sun terrace, the usual pitched roof and a tiny indoor area, where we would huddle if the weather was particularly inclement. Now, it appears to be a strange glass and shingle box. However, we are glad to see it, whatever it looks like. Inside, it has huge tinted glass windows which frame the incredible view of the Rotmoos valley beyond, but there is less outdoor seating than there used to be. We take a seat inside and, after a bowl of tomato soup with basil pesto, I realise, with some regret, that the berry pancakes that used to be on the menu are gone forever. Still, the food is good, the atmosphere a bit more ‘upmarket’ than it used to be, and the toilets are a lot less basic. Everything changes, I suppose, and there is much to like about this new incarnation. Except for the loss of the pancakes. Maybe I should start a petition.

As we walk back down the hill, we pass a herd of Haflinger horses, mares and some foals. These have to be among the most beautiful horses in the world, with their golden skin and flaxen manes and tails. I love the life that they have in the summer, out here in the mountains, free to wander and eat and behave like horses. They ignore the tourists who want to have their photographs taken with the horses in the background, and I am pleased to see that no one feeds them. Which is just as well, as nothing spoils the relationship between man and horse as much as getting the equines addicted to sugar.

So, after this hike I feel as if I’ve got my ‘mountain legs’ back. It takes a walk or two to regain confidence in my ability to get up and down tricky paths, but after all the years we’ve been coming to Obergurgl, we’ve finally worked out a way of making each day’s walk a little more difficult than the one before, so that we reduce the risk of injury or of just knackering ourselves out. It’s very lucky that we can come for two weeks – after a week, I’m just getting into the swing of it all! And there is so much to see and do here, if you like walking. It really is a small slice of heaven.

View down the Rotmoos valley

Photo Credits

Photo One : By Original author and uploader was MurrayBHenson at en.wikipedia – Transferred from en.wikipedia, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3708573

All other photos copyright Vivienne Palmer. Free to use and share, but please attribute to me, and link back to the blog. Thank you!