New boots

I've had mixed luck with boots, or at least that used to be the case. In search of elegance, I seemed always to buy boots that looked good but didn't really fit me properly. In other words, I needed more wriggle-room for my toes, and a wider fit to accommodate the way my feet had spread out over the years. Boot makers didn't have my feet in mind when designing their winter offerings. So I tended to discard any boots I bought, and revert to ordinary shoes. In snow and ice, it had to be wellies.

That changed a bit when I bought my tan-and-brown Dubarry boots back in October 2011. Here they are, just unpacked and yet to be put through their paces:

And here I am, wearing them in deepest West Sussex for what might well have been the first time. They wouldn't look much different now, in 2023.

They were substantial, really in the nature of posh wellies, and like wellies only suitable for shortish walks in the cooler months. I once did several miles in them on a warm day in June 2013, in hilly country just inside the Scottish Border, starting at Saughtree and walking to the site of Riccarton Junction and back. Certainly there was rough ground to cover, but the muscles of my legs were protesting by the time I returned to Fiona, and my ankles developed a heat rash that lasted a couple of days. A few months earlier, in October 2012, in more suitable weather, I'd walked the Tarka Trail in them from Fremington to Instow in North Devon. And yes, they let me wade cheerfully through deep puddles (it had been raining), but I was footsore by the time I got to the bus stop for the ride back to Fremington. These occasions taught me that my Dubarry boots were best kept for short rambles in the New Forest and suchlike. 

And in that limited role they have proved durable and very useful. They are still my go-to knee-length boots for any kind of wet (and likely muddy) conditions, when boots more suitable for town streets might get spoiled. If the terrain is especially rugged or demanding, then of course the Alt-Bergs always carried in Fiona (and now in Sophie) will be donned, along with special socks. 

As regards 'town' boots, my last three purchases have in fact been successes. I finally learned my lesson, and ensured that they fitted very comfortably in the shop, and did not kid myself that they would 'give' and become roomier to wear in due course. In my experience, well-made footwear keeps its shape and never 'eases'. Tight-fitting boots and shoes are simply a waste of money. 

So here's a shot of the black calf-length boots which have now had their day and are kaput. I bought them in November 2018 from Hotter, and this next-day shot has them lined them against the short boots by Clarks that I'd been wearing for several years beforehand:

The only thing wrong with the short Clarks boots was that the soles had worn thin and were letting in water - a fatal defect, of course. They were binned as soon as I bought a replacement. The calf-length Hotter boots were not only leak-free, but kept my lower legs warm. I also loved the crinkly soft leather look. Definitely nicer! Here are some 2018 shots which show how pleased I was.

And for the last five years those calf-length Hotter boots have given me outstanding service as smart and comfortable winter footwear. I have looked after them. There's not much in the way of obvious deterioration showing in these very recent 2023 shots:

But inevitably the soles have become thinner, and have now cracked, letting in moisture. 

Time for another replacement. Despite my current cold, I decided to drive down to Eastbourne. That was where the nearest Hotter shop was. I was after another pair of calf-length black boots. Well, Hotter did have boots in the style I wanted, but were now using a different last and I wasn't quite happy with the wriggle-room for my toes. I mean it was all right; but it needed to be very good, or I'd not buy. But they had several likely-looking short boots. I decided to try those. After all, short boots in one style or another were currently 'in', and there was no harm in following the prevailing fashion if it suited me. In the end I decided to buy a pair of lace-ups. I very much liked the look of them, and they fitted very well. Here are some back-at-home shots:

These were £95. The calf-length boots I first tried on would have cost £139. So quite a bit saved. And I can still look for calf-length boots in the New Year sales, if I want to. I'm guessing that one thing behind the current popularity of shorter boots is the lesser cost - important when people are reluctant to spend too much. Not that longer boots have lost their appeal - they are naturally more 'special', and add something important to a woman's allure - but, sadly, their price now makes them something of a luxury item.

I was sad to see my calf-length Hotter boots bite the dust. But there was no point in keeping them if they leaked. Still, that soft and supple leather in the crinkly upper parts might be salvaged for other uses! So I have carefully cut it off for future use. Perhaps to make another, larger, slip-on cover for my next phone?

Will this cold never go?

As soon as I returned from South Wales, the usual cold symptoms began. And it was 'just a cold' - I didn't have a high temperature, for instance (and that has remained the case). But the symptoms - a runny nose, nasal congestion, formation of catarrh, endless coughing to expel the same, and a general feeling of unwellness - have persisted longer than I would expect. It's as if my bodily defences were not battle-ready and have let me down. 

And perhaps that was exactly the case, that my anti-cold defences were slack. After all, I haven't had a cold like this since 2019. The enforced social distancing and lockdowns that were our lot while Covid was rampant ensured that lesser infections simply did not occur. So I think that the white blood cells detailed to attack ordinary cold viruses as soon as they might appear got lazy and were caught napping. No doubt my body has been working overtime ever since to remedy this, and I dare say some progress has been made, but it has come too late to avert more-than-normal discomfort and inconvenience. 

It's the lack of sleep that really bothers me. The pattern night after night has been to go to bed hoping that despite the catarrh I will get a good night's rest. But it fails to happen. Horizontal slumber is impossible. I have ended up sleeping on the recliner in the lounge, dressing gown on and a quilt spread over me, half-sitting up just to breathe. I manage to snatch a couple of hours' sleep that way, and a bit of kipping during the day tops up my total to about five hours daily. But it's hardly quality slumber.

Meanwhile my pre-Christmas social life has had to be binned. The past week would have been quite crowded with people to see or meet up with. All cancelled, one event after the other. I hate turning down invitations, or in any way letting people down when they can usually rely on my saying yes. But it has to be. Take tonight, for instance. An invitation to enjoy a meal with local friends, followed by cards. But as I type this, I am coughing and my nose is running again. It's almost evening, and that's when my cold will thicken up and I will gradually fade. And it's cold and damp outside. However much I'd prefer not to be a party poop, it's obvious what I ought to do. Stay indoors; not go out; edge my recovery forwards, not backwards. And if I'm still infectious, which I probably am, not pass it on.

Daytimes are much more bearable. Even if I awake bug-eyed and bunged up, I've generally felt much better by mid-morning. In fact, I've managed to fire up Sophie and go out for some fresh air every other day. But by mid-afternoon it all starts to unravel a bit. Still, I'm definitely improved from a few days ago, so a get-better trend seems to have set in, and I'll be all right for Christmas. Unless I'm all wrong. You can't tell with this particular cold.  

I hear that half the people in the country are suffering the same thing. So I shouldn't make too much of a fuss.

South Wales in December: rain, rain, and that 20 mph speed limit in every built-up area

I suppose you could call my six-night visit to Newport a 'holiday' - it would have been, back in late October, when the weather was much nicer. But a few weeks' delay make a big difference. This has been one of the wettest holidays I can remember, and to begin with one of the coldest, although it's now thankfully turned milder again. As much as I like my little seventeen-year-old caravan, I'd appreciate better insulation against cold nights, and I'm rather glad that I've taken the decision to buy an up-to-date model by the end of 2026. Getting older, I need to feel cosy and comfortable all the time, not just when the electric heater is full on, or when the gas cooker is doing its stuff.

The main objective of coming here was in fact to visit my niece and family, and two friends, with personal sightseeing only a secondary consideration. It's mission well accomplished as regards niece and friends; but the sightseeing (and the photography that usually goes with it) has suffered. My rainy-day shots of Cowbridge, Porthcawl and Abergavenny produced very little that I'd upload to Flickr. Well, today it's a nostalgic trip to Barry Island, the scene of my junior schooldays and many visits to Auntie Betty's. The sun is supposed to be making an appearance: if it does, I'll want to explore the Island thoroughly. It's a tatty place nowadays, or at least was when I last saw it in 2014. It's time I took another look. I've been concentrating too much on Barry itself. And yet the Island was just as much the scene of my youngest years as the town.

To get there I'll have to endure the slow-motion agony of the new 20 mph speed limit that the Senedd has imposed on all urban areas in Wales. To my great surprise, considering her powerful engine, Sophie is happy to amble along at this snail's pace - happier in fact than Fiona would have been. Which is good. But I'm not happy. 20 mph is appropriate when passing places like schools, or when driving through the very centre of towns and villages - anywhere busy, in fact, where lots of people pushed for time or preoccupied with shopping might want to cross the road. And I've no argument against a 20 mph speed limit in purely residential back-streets. 

But elsewhere, on the main roads in and out, 20 mph is a drag. This speed limit seems to have been applied indiscriminately across the board. I can certainly see why studies might conclude that the traffic flow becomes even and more efficient, and allows vehicles to join or leave that flow smoothly and easily. That does in fact happen. But it's psychologically bad for anyone used to doing things at a brisk pace. I get bored and frustrated, even if my brain is telling me this is a sensible measure that must lead to greater safety for all. 

Yesterday, with traffic on the M4 going around Newport at a near-standstill, I decided to 'cut through' the town centre instead. In times past, this has often been a good way to get through Newport and onto the old A48 towards Chepstow. Not now. It was nearly all subject to that 20 mph limit. I had to endure three miles of it on a road that once carried traffic moving at twice the speed. After a mile, life lost its zest. After two miles, I began to feel that crawling along a near-empty road was a refined and exquisite form of punishment. After three miles, I was longing for an easy death. Thankfully a 30 mph section saved me from self-harm.

Of course I exaggerate. But I do think this 20 mph business has the air of a social experiment in the name of Health and Safety. Or more sinisterly, is an example of the Senedd showing that it can assume sweeping powers, and do whatever it likes. I haven't yet spoken with anyone who is unreservedly in favour of it. An obvious view is that the money spent on erecting 20 mph signs everywhere could have been much better spent on improving the Welsh NHS and similar urgent things, like fixing potholes in the roads. There are sections of dual carriageway and motorway in Wales - such as on the A449 and the M48 - where you mustn't go faster than 50 mph. Why? Because the safety barriers, hitherto considered fine, 'need replacement'. There is an assurance that the normal speed limit will be restored once the work is done; but how soon, if the road money has instead been spent on 20 mph signs?

If ever I thought of moving to Wales in my final years, this kind of thing puts me off. Once on their territory, and subject to their laws, rules and regulations, the Senedd might force me to do all kinds of unpalatable things. No thanks. 

One more post on this before moving on

Although it might seem a topic of very limited interest, my posts on number plates have generated some positive reactions. So one more. Then I want to write about something else.

I've just written an email to my friend Coline in Scotland, explaining that the SHE in my personal registration refers as much to my new car as to me. If passing drivers could somehow guess the name of my car, they'd surely agree that SHE was a reasonable contraction of SOPHIE. As it is, they will probably think it refers to the withered old crone at the wheel. Hey ho. 

To round this topic off, some readers may have wondered why I haven't simply gone for a plate that spells out either my name (so some variation on LUCY) or my initials (so a plate that includes LM). The simple answer is that nowadays 'Lucy' is quite a popular name, and the best takes on it have either already gone, or are on sale at ridiculously inflated prices. This one, for instance, which I spotted a short while back:

In common with all plates that were used before the current style was introduced in 2001, this example carries a 'vintage premium' and would therefore be a bit more costly than anything more modern. Still, the LUCY element is clear. Even the string of 3s is pleasantly eye-catching. 

But even so. Almost £6,000? I'll pass. £6,000 would buy me many other things. I'd prefer to have those instead. Or just save the money for the inevitable repairs and replacements that will crop up if you're a homeowner. 

Besides, SHE flies the flag for lady drivers in general. It's not egotistical, and doesn't give my name away. I'm inclined to some caution here. I've got a feeling that in the wrong time and place it might be unwise to name oneself too clearly. I don't want to park my car in some unfamiliar town, and return to find it damaged by some vandal who had a grudge against all females named Lucy.