The Pheasants Revolt

Things are getting out of control here. We went to the pub quiz at the Brook Inn, and one misspelling later we have become self-elected leaders of the Pheasants Revolt. Rachel in charge of strategy, I’m delivering the pre-battle William Wallace style motivational speech, and Fiona (as the only non-vegetarian) is responsible for the clean-up operation, aka dinner. It’s unlikely that this mass feathered uprising will actually take place in our lifetime, though. We don’t seem to have progressed much further than this initial planning phase. Our time is occupied elsewhere, especially Fiona, who let out a little cry one evening and declared that there is just too much Tupperware in her life. That did not stop her helping me bake a cake for my mum’s birthday, though – even with the added constraint of sieving icing sugar through a tea strainer (which was Mick’s idea of lending us a sieve). My mum came to visit for a few days, and the weather held to get out for some local walks, and take a trip on the Ravenglass steam railway. She loved life at the hostel, and was soon making a nuisance of herself by getting a couple of seventy year old guests quite tipsy. I had to draw the line though when she wanted to use a bit of picnic-bench seat as a pooh stick.

Benji has started calling me Kate, and one evening brought a chocolate pudding to my room. I’m not particularly bothered by either of these developments, but while the change of name seems to be permanent, the pudding thing appears to have been a one off. Sadly. He makes me laugh, and I’ll miss him when he leaves at the end of April. I’ve never met anyone so awed by a visit to Whitehaven, and he only went to Tesco and the train station. Heaven knows what he would make of Barrow; Rachel said it’s not worth going unless you like TK Max, Asda, or nuclear submarines.

There are of course the odd serious moments at work. Rachel nearly choked on a flake of Alpen on morning. We had been talking about the furry ferry fairy (a hairy lady who transports tourists between all the Scottish islands), and the floppy fairy (who has no bones). And, another time, I nearly cried because a guest with the surname ‘Christmas’ never arrived. But most of the time it is total madness. There was the most beautiful sunset a few nights ago, with Harter Fell lit up something magic. Benji and I ran outside and called out ‘cooooooeee’ and ‘yahooooo’ like a pair of loons. I was certain that madness was the only possible way to make any sense of the world.

During fine days I’ll often sit down by the stream and play my recorder. On Sunday, a rather eccentric lady delivering the Yellow Pages wandered over and said that she would remember this moment, the music, and the scenery, forever. I sometimes wonder if that when describing this place it comes across as being perfect. Or at least, that I think it’s perfect. It’s not. But perfect doesn’t work in this world. And even if something is nearing perfection, it has reached that point through both struggles and setbacks. I received a letter last week from a good friend who is currently in Australia (it took four days, Chloe!). She mentioned having (or not having) that eureka moment, when you suddenly realise what is you’re supposed to be doing with your life. I don’t think there is such a thing, though. I don’t think there is ever just one thing we are supposed to do; I don’t think that we are ever just one person. The world is far too complex for that. For a long time I thought that there were no answers, but now I’ve come to realise that there are many answers, and that they are not always the same. Truth is found in our everyday existence; wherever we are, whatever we are doing, that is how, that is the only way we are able to experience life. There are no degrees of being alive, there is only being aware of it, or not.