A FRIEND of a friend celebrated a big birthday by travelling somewhere in every month of that special year.
She went to Florence and Poland and lots of exciting foreign climes but there were months that featured a rainy night in Portrush… perhaps a bistro in Buckna... still 'n all, she was living the dream.
I am in awe of this friend of a friend. I have resolved to get out there and live my best life.
Cue much rolling of eyes about here at that last phrase. “Live my best life” is not a phrase that butters any parsnips in this house.
“We never say ‘butter any parsnips’. Who says that?” asks my other half.
“I’m kind of fond of it,” I tell him.
My mother used to come out with phrases like that and my father used to accuse her of “talking like a tuppenny book”.
What does a tuppenny book talk like?
It must be part of the genetic code.
When she bought a new outfit and he was a bit unsure, he’d ask: “Do you like it yourself?”
Our son says I’ve got that “having to express my opinion” gene.
“Well, if it were me…” I start telling him in several discussions about his new abode, the colour of his new walls and my extensive saucepan expertise that really needs to be shared.
“If it were me..." I begin.
“But it is not you,” he replies with just a hint of his father about him.
So I try to sit on my tongue. That’s a fine art I can never master.
“Say nothing, close the conversation,” says my other half who has a PhD in keeping the peace.
I was never one for keeping my opinions to myself.
Saying nothing, buttoning my lip, staying stumm, does not come naturally.
I’m my mother’s daughter and she’d be inclined to say the exact same thing: “If it were me…”
There’s a card that I bought that I keep in my drawer and it always makes me smile.
“Sometimes I open my mouth and my mother jumps out,” it says.
My travelling friend – she of a different destination every month – reminds me of my mum’s friend Rose who moved house so often that our pet name for her was “Rambling Rose”.
In the spirit of adventure and in honour of all those who like getting out somewhere, we’ve booked a night in Ballybofey next month. It’s kind of like going home to the hills of Donegal and we’re looking forward to a night with dear friends.
After that, it’s Spain and the Alhambra Palace… what dreams of turquoise and white Moroccan tiles await. (I’m looking for new bathroom inspiration, uncouth and uncultured fellow that I am).
And that brings me to another adventure for later this year.
Whisper, I’ve signed up for the camino.
At Christmas, my friend that got me into the baths at Lourdes – no mean feat as I’d escaped that dunking a number of times – said she was keen too.
Then by chance, I found out that my cousin is organising a week walking the camino, staying in hotels and getting your bags transported... it felt just right.
All the trouble is somebody else’s. And yes, I take on board that I so owe him big time.
I have heard of people doing a whole six weeks, lugging their bags and sleeping in dormitories up close and personal with hairy feet and sweaty oxters.
I have heard horror stories about bed bugs and snorers.
The stuff of nightmares is waking in the night-time, desperately needing the toilet and having to climb over hordes of sleeping bodies.
So let’s say I’m doing the camino with an ensuite… maybe it’s a cushy camino, but life’s hard enough. Just getting out there is proof of commitment.
The new walking shoes are waiting to be broken in and I’m committed to 10,000 steps and 20,000 steps at the weekend.
My bunions are not sure. My hips creek like rusty hinges. The spirit is willing but oh, the flesh is weak.
Say the word “camino” in any company, and the stories tumble out.
I’m already hating the alpha walkers – up and out at 6am.
Feet seem to be the main bug – but as someone blessed with a set of hairy hobbit’s feet, this is not a problem.
"Hup! Hup! Hup” I text my camino mate.
This is the year of grand adventures… I’m, ahem, living my best life.
