Maintaining my fitness

In my last epistle I wrote about how my DelvFire was inspiring me to greater fitness. Averaging 10,000 daily steps over a week was always likely to be a challenge, and even more so in the dark, cold and wet winter months.

One friend suggested that I get myself a dog, but that's a non-starter. Happy I am to pet other folks' pooches but the thought of having to walk one of my own on cold, wet mornings is too ghastly to contemplate. Perhaps I've lived too long with cats. Another 'helpful' (?) suggestion was a daily walk to the newsagent but that didn't impress either. I just know that the Daily Whatsit would lie unread several times every week. A subscription to The Guardian Online suits me fine.

And therein lies the problem. There's very little that I have to do that involves much walking. Shopping might have been a contender if I didn't live at the top of a fairly steep hill. Walking down to the town is a delight, as is walking back up again, so long as I don't have much to carry. For my twice or thrice-weekly top-ups at Co-op I gladly resort to the car.

Oh, and before you're tempted to suggest it, I abhor gymns, even though (for my age) I think I look quite good in leggings and a lycra top. Spending hours walking, running, cycling or rowing and getting nowhere would soon blow my tedium valve.

What I needed was a moderate walk in lovely countryside and not too far from my home... and now I have one. I don't walk exactly the same paths every time but the basic route changes little. Most importantly, having done it several times in the past few weeks I can testify that it's not become the least bit boring. As well as the constantly changing forest scenery, there are people to meet, their dogs to pet, squirrels and deer to spot and even the occasional boar to snarl at.

Here are a few photos, taken recently as I walked.

Coal mining has left its mark throughout most of the Forest of Dean. This old shaft at Moseley Green is simply marked "Independent Coal Pit No.6 (disused)" on the 1904 OS 6 inch map. I bet it didn't look this pretty when it was operational.

This uninteresting spot always raises a smile as I walk past. On holiday here, several years ago, S- and I were caught in an enormous thunder storm. With the flashes and bangs growing ever closer together, we thought it unwise to stay among the trees, so crouched down here on the left with only an umbrella for shelter.  Then I remembered that the umbrella had a metal top!

At this point Blackpool Brook has flowed 2 miles from its source near Speech House. The next time I see it, it will have grown considerably.

 

Central Bridge is so called because it was supposed to carry the Severn & Wye Railway over the Forest of Dean Central Railway, but the latter was never built. On a grey December day it wasn't looking very colourful, so below is a picture of it in July 2014.  As I wrote earlier, the scenery of the forest is constantly changing.

I did say that Blackpool Brook would grow a bit! Malards Pike lake succeeds in looking beautiful at all times of the year. 

11,844 steps.  Mission accomplished.

Tracking my fitness

Back in September, a couple of days before my holiday in Wales, a new watch appeared on my wrist. But this was no ordinary watch –  it was a Delvfire Fitness Tracker.

This was yet another purchase inspired by my good friend Lucy, who had recently bought a FitBit and was singing its praises on her blog.  To start with I was highly sceptical about its usefulness and said as much, but gradually warmed to the idea. The Delvfire is a down-market version (£33, compared with £120) but I guessed that if I bought one, S-- would soon want one too. I was right! Six weeks later we were back on the Amazon website, buying a second.

The incentive has been to 'up' my fitness level. That, coming from a woman who enjoys rambling and hill walking may seem strange but the truth is that, apart from one or two longish walks every week (weather permitting) I've been living a fairly sedentary lifestyle.  That's not good.

My ambition is to average 10,000 steps a day over a one week period – something I've only achieved once, on September's holiday in Wales.

Here's a more typical week's result. Just look at Wednesday - a measly 1791 steps! My excuse is that I spent most of that day programming my Raspberry Pi computer and never set foot outside the door. Before donning my Delvfire, though, there would have been many days like that. It's a privilege of being retired, I suppose, but not always a good one.

The Delvfire lacks the data analysis and smart graphics of the FitBit but it does tell me a few more interesting things, such as (if I wear it through the night) my sleep pattern. Here my target is 7½ hours sleep every night and it's unusual not to achieve this.

One piece of data, however, I choose to ignore – the result for Resting Heart Rate. Take a look at this (click to zoom in for a clearer look)...

The trace shows my heart rate today. Apart from obvious periods of activity, my resting rate hovers around 55-60 and the average over the whole day is 59. But look at the 'resting HR' result – 73!  The Delvfire calculates that figure at midnight but it makes no sense to me. How can my resting heart rate be 14 beats/min higher than my average? Every day is similarly baffling.

At £33 I'm still getting good value for money, though. Perhaps one day I'll upgrade to a FitBit, but not just yet.

Raspberry Pi

For 12 years before retiring to the Forest of Dean I was a secondary school governor. Probably because my full-time work was technical, they made me the governor responsible for ICT - Information and Communications Technology. It was the nearest that the school got to teaching computing.

Many times I regaled the head teacher and anyone else who would listen, pointing out that all they were teaching children was how to use Microsoft Office, and doubtless enhancing that corporation's profits too. "We have to teach the syllabus," I was told. "Then the syllabus is wrong!" I would reply.

Within a couple of years of my leaving, everything changed with the introduction of the palm-sized Raspberry Pi. Here, at last, was a computer on which children, and grown-ups too, could learn real programming; a computer that could be connected to switches, relays, lights, buzzers and more. O how I wish that I could be back at that school to say "I told you so!"

The British-made Rasberry Pi was a runaway success. According to Wikipedia:

More than 5 million Raspberry Pis were sold by February 2015, making it the best-selling British Computer. By November 2016 they had sold 11 million units and 12.5 million by March 2017, making it the third best-selling "general purpose computer". In March 2018, sales reached 19 million.

19 million Raspberry Pi computers... and I didn't have one. The shame of it! So earlier this year I bought a RasPi B+ and set about resurrecting my old programming skills. In truth, this was my second attempt at resurrection, for two years ago I confidently wrote this post, in which I declared my intention to learn a programming language called Visual Basic. I failed. Somewhere around lesson 6 I lost interest because I didn't have any hardware that I could program to actually DO something – turn lights on and off, ring bells, or even control the model railway.

Control the model railway? Now there was an interesting challenge, and one well within the capabilities of the Raspberry Pi. But could I learn to program it?

The favoured language for the Pi is Python so, as in 2016, I bought a book and avidly started reading and programming.  The language lacked the simplicity of the BASIC that I'd used at work, but learning it was a dream and before long I had the confidence to start writing a program for that model railway.

It was just like being back at work in the R&D unit – work that I loved.

Precisely what this program will do, I'll hopefully describe in a future post after it's all working, but here's a little bit of the code that I'm pleased to say is all my own work. It would probably make professional Python programmers weep, but I'm rather proud of it.

def timetable_main_display():
    tt=open('whereto.txt','r') # whereto stores pointer to last train working
    tp=int(tt.readline()) +1   # moves pointer to next train working
    tt.close()
    
    wkg = 0
    trow = 0
    noterow = 0

    import csv    
    with open('StPetrock timetable.csv') as csvfile:
        readCSV = csv.reader(csvfile, delimiter=',')
        for row in readCSV:
            wkg = int(row[0])
                                   
            if wkg > (tp-1) and wkg < (tp+5):
                # calculate timetable time in minutes
                if wkg == tp: 
                    ttime = row[1]  
                    if len(ttime) == 4:
                        tclockhr = ttime[0]
                        tclockmin = ttime[2:4]
                        tclock_in_mins = (int(tclockhr)*60)+ int(tclockmin)
                    if len(ttime) == 5:
                        tclockhr = ttime[0:2]
                        tclockmin = ttime[3:5]
                        tclock_in_mins = (int(tclockhr)*60)+ int(tclockmin)
                        
                trow += 1
                twkg = row[0]
                ttime = row[1]
                tfrom = row[2]
                tto = row[3]
                tclass = row[4]
                tupdown = row[7]
                tstore = row[8]
                if trow == 1:
                    tclass_next_train = tclass
                    tupdown_next_train = tupdown
                    
                display_timetable_line(trow,twkg,ttime,tfrom,tto,tclass,tstore)

Female Railway Modellers

The December edition of the Railway Modeller has gladdened my heart.  In it, a lady called Alison Barker describes her model railway, originally built by Jo Palmer, who turns out to be another lady.  Alison has been busily adding her own touches to the model. She writes: "I could see the potential for adding splashes of colour," and contrived to have herself scanned and 3-D printed in 4mm scale, wearing a bright blue and white 1950's dress.

What amazing talent! My own modelling skills are modest indeed when compared with Alison's or Jo's but reading her article has emboldened me to come clean — our model railway, photos of which I occasionally show to friends, is primarily mine.

There's no doubt about it, though; railway modelling is predominantly a male pursuit. Enter any well-stocked model shop, or approach a popular trade stand at a model railway exhibition, and you'll encounter a clutch of blokes eagerly viewing the latest offerings from Bachmann, Hornby or Peco, discussing the intricacies of Digital Command Control or seeking out model axle boxes for some carriage that hasn't run on a real railway for a century or more. The ladies can usually be found serving tea. I jest not.

My brother loved his Scalextric, but racing cars excite me very little. Rather, it's model railways that have held my fascination since I was a teenager, though I lacked both the time and the inclination to do much about it until I retired in 2012. However, that didn't stop me taking an interest in real railways, especially Cornish ones that had all but disappeared by the time I got married and started raising a family.

The model railway that now fills the 'spare' bedroom in our home has been inspired by the lines to Padstow and Bude, both of which closed in the 1960s. A long time ago Padstow was known as Petrocstow, so my station in the Land of the Saints is named St Petrock.

I like to think that everything running into my little station might have appeared on those Cornish branch lines around 1960, though experts would doubtless spot several mistakes, including a couple of rather pretty (and also rather expensive) coaches that, I'm told, never came further west than Devon.  But I am the Queen of St Petrock and if I want 'em, I 'av 'em!

The aspect of railway modelling that thrills me most is the scenery – creating hills, rivers and buildings.  Here are a few photos...

This is St Petrock Station. Only one gent (beneath the canopy) waiting for the train today. Crumbs, if it stays this quiet then some Beeching-type character may close it!

Giles & Powell were coal merchants in my home town of Newquay. Quite what they're doing here in St Petrock is a mystery, though business seems to be thriving.

St Petrock gasworks is a typical 'small town' design and nothing like the huge one in Bude. If Padstow had one, I've no idea what it looked like.

The bridge over Tredinnick Creek, under construction.  Mostly paper, polystyrene, bits of plastic, two Dapol (ex-Airfix) bridge kits and quite a lot of glue...

... and here almost complete. It was inspired by the bridge over Little Petherick Creek, on what was the Padstow branch line and is now a popular cycle track.

Finally, another model that's based on a real location – Dunmere Halt, near Bodmin. I call it Bourdon Halt as the point here is worked with an old bourdon organ stop, rescued from a Cornish church.

Three score years and ten

The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.   (Psalm 90.10)

According to that heart-warming verse from the Bible, it's downhill all the way from here, as I celebrate my 70th birthday. Not long to go now before I'm cut off and fly away.

"It's only a number," my good friends tell me, and of course they're right. In truth I'm only a day older than I was yesterday but this one does feel significant – perhaps the last one with a '0' at the end at which I will be fully fit. And I do feel fit. I'm not, nor ever will be, into sport or jogging, but I love rambling and climbing mountains, and rarely get exhausted on steep climbs.  I guess that's something of a surprise. When I was in my 30's I was sure that 70 year olds were old; I mean, really old. Now I am one, it doesn't feel like that.

One birthday card made me smile "You may be 70 today," it proclaimed, "but remember... you're still only 21 in Celsius!"  So '21' I shall be!

My family are being secretive about the birthday celebrations, though I do know that they'll mostly take place tomorrow when, I presume, my sons are not working. They all know and love me enough for me to be sure that I won't be embarrassed; I'm not one for boogieing into the night. Good food, I trust, will feature strongly.

Even the DVLA joined in the celebrations, bless 'em, by insisting that I have a new driving licence. However, they seem to have doubts over my longevity as they want me to renew it again in 2021. O ye of little faith.

I was born in 'Royal Week', just two days after Prince Charles. The newspaper article (left) goes on to record that my parents were presented with National Savings certificates (which I remember cashing in just before my wedding day) and enjoyed "a buffet supper, and the social continued with games and dancing to the music supplied by the Elite Players."  O my, they sure knew how to enjoy themselves in Bognor, though my dad wasn't much into dancing. Perhaps he just propped up the bar.

Since those heady days, as you may have noticed, the lives of the prince and I have followed different paths. I reckon that I've worn at least as well as him but I'll let you be the judge with this pair of 'then' and 'now' photos.

Father Forgive

"Wear your poppy with pride," they told me. But all I feel is sorrow and loss.  One hundred years after the guns of the Great War fell silent, my family still bears the scars... and we got off very lightly; very lightly indeed.

My great uncle Dan paid the highest price. Conscripted into the East Yorkshire Regiment, he was killed in France on April 23rd, 1917. His body lies we know not where, but he will be remembered tomorrow, along with 34,816 of his colleagues, at the Arras Memorial. What a tragic waste!

My grandfather Elijah was badly wounded in the Great War but didn't succumb to his injuries until 1926 – too late for my grandmother to claim a widow's pension. Fortunately for her, she must have had some influential friends (my family wasn't dragged up!) and she secured a post with the Cunard Line, sailing in the Mauritania II and later the Caronia. But that left my dad at home, mostly in the care of aunts. Consequently he grew up not knowing the love of a father or mother and was always the poorer for it.

Hindsight is such a wonderful thing. With hindsight, we see that the burning desire for retribution, and the reparations required of the German nation after the Great War, contributed in no small part to hyper-inflation, terrible hardship and a rise in Nationalism that would see the Nazi Party swept into power. Whatever we may think of the European Union, and the Common Market before it, let us at least acknowledge that it was built on the desire that its founding states would never go to war again.

Real peace – lasting peace – only comes when hatred is defeated by forgiveness; when former enemies become friends; when Americans and Europeans can buy Japanese and German cars without a twinge of conscience. It only comes when all concerned realise that there is far more to lose through war than to gain.

A few years ago I stood in the bombed-out ruins of the old Coventry Cathedral. There in the stonework at the east end are engraved two words – Father Forgive. I don't mind admitting that I cried when I saw it. And tomorrow, as the Last Post is sounded in our little parish church, I know I will cry again.

A land between two rivers

There's a land between two rivers

where the Severn meets the sea

and the silver Wye runs laughing

on her journey to be free.

That's an oft-sung song in these parts about the glories of the Forest of Dean, but I have a different land between two rivers in mind – one that lies between the Tamar and Tavy in South Devon.

I readily admit that this 300 mile foray into the glorious Devon countryside for a pub meal, a night in an AirB&B establishment and a 7 mile walk was a bit mad, but I'm a firm advocate for being crazy once in a while. Life is for living! We also took the opportunity to drop in on my poorly sis-in-law, just over the border in Cornwall.

For a leisurely Monday morning ramble I mapped out a route from the railway station in the little riverside village of Bere Ferrers, along the banks of the River Tavy.

Berealston is usually written Bere Alston these days. As for Beretown, no such name appears on the maps. I think it's an old name for Bere Ferrers, which in turn sometimes get written as Beerferris. Clearly it took a long time for folk to agree on place names in these parts. 

It had rained for most of Sunday. Monday promised to be dry but overcast, so my photos were hardly likely to sparkle. Bere Ferrers Quay is home to just a few small craft.

1½ miles into the walk I spotted Maristow House on the opposite side of the Tavy. Once a rural pile of the gentry, for a while after the Second World War it became a retirement home. Any hopes that I might end my days there have been dashed as it's now been converted into 12 luxury homes. The East Wing residence is currently on the market, a snip at £950,000.

This is Lopwell Dam, though I'd have called it a weir.  It was built in the 1950s to boost Plymouth's water supply and marks the point where the fresh water of the Tavy flows into the tidal estuary. The causeway across the river looks a bit scary but is perfectly safe, as this party of school children demonstrated.

My turn now. Safe it may be, but that didn't dissuade me from showing off a bit.  From here we made our way down the river bank to Blaxton Quay, opposite Bere Ferrers, where there's a ruined tidal mill... and a lot of mud.

If you're ever tempted to follow in my footsteps then check the tide times first as the Lopwell crossing floods for a couple of hours either side of high spring tides. Returning from Blaxton Quay, we picnicked at Lopwell and watched the tide gradually rise, then strode across at the last possible moment.  What fun!

Finally we returned to Bere Ferrers railway station – a place with a very sad history.

On September 24th 1917 a troop train was making its way from Plymouth to Salisbury. The New Zealand troops on board had been told that the train would stop in Exeter for rations. Unfortunately, it had to make an unscheduled stop at Bere Ferrers and many of the troops, believing they were in Exeter, left their carriages on the wrong side – the side on which they had boarded. In those days the line was 'double track' and they were struck by a Plymouth-bound express. Ten soldiers were killed.

The station is now home to a small railway museum, hence the signals with their conflicting indications.  The Fat Controller would not approve!  

The New Zealand flag is a nice, respectful touch though. We shall remember them.

Feeling the pressure

A month ago I attended the Health Centre for my annual check-up – a luxury that all of us of a certain age may have. A week before, Nurse Julie had taken some blood samples and this time she was pleased to tell me that all the results were 'normal'. She was particularly pleased with my cholesterol result of 4.2, just over a year after I'd stopped taking statins.  "You must be eating pretty healthily," she remarked.  Yes indeed; Slimming World has dramatically changed my eating habits.

Next Julie checked my weight and that was fine too – a little above my Slimming World target range of 11st:4lb - 11st:10lb – but actually a couple of pounds lighter than last year. Hay ho, I was on a roll!

The final check was my blood pressure. This was going to be interesting. Last time it had been a healthy 120:80, but that was only a few weeks after my doctor declared me free of hypertension (following my weight loss with Slimming World) and told me to stop taking Lisinopril. And the result this time?... 145:84. We both looked glum and Julie tested it again, but there was no mistake. My systolic pressure was definitely high and the diastolic was hardly great.

It might, Julie explained, just be a 'blip' so she loaned me a blood pressure monitor and asked me to check myself every day or so. If the systolic pressure remained above 140 I was to book another appointment. The results were interesting:

date    time   sys dia
Oct 9 1200 145 84   << exactly the same as the Health Centre result
      10 0900  140 75
      11 0845  134 72
      11 1710  132 69
      12 1230  140 79
      13 1400  138 74
      14 1645  138 75
      15 1100  148 73
      16 1130  140 73
      17 1350  142 75
      18 1100  141 73
      19 1100  142 75
      20 1800 124 65
      21 1720 131 69
      22 1650 118 72
      24 0800 129 73

All but 3 results had been 140 or below, so I cancelled my nurse appointment. I was, however, sufficiently concerned that I followed Julie's advice and bought my own blood pressure monitor.

I chose this one for £14.95. Adding a birthday present for one of my granddaughters ensured that I wouldn't have to pay postage – so hardly a vast outlay for some peace of mind.

I am now resolved to check my blood pressure weekly, around mid-morning. Last Friday's was 128:75 which is much better. I'll also try harder to get my weight back into the Slimming World range, as I know that (for me) there is a definite link between weight and blood pressure. Maybe less salt on my chips or rice too.  Yes, that would be sensible.