The Great Sheffield Duck Race

On Easter Monday after the dark looming clouds that started the day cleared off to welcome the cheerful sun, around 2,500 rubber ducks raced along the River Porter for the annual Great Sheffield Duck Race at Endcliffe Park. This charity event is organised by Friends of Porter Valley to raise money for the restoration of the Forge Dam and on its 6th year has attracted a record number of 4,000 spectators cheering on the floating ducks by the riverside while children paddled in the water in their shirts and slippers, helping racers who were lagging behind. 

We arrived late, the event started at 2pm and it was already halfway through when we arrived but we still had plenty of fun following the course of the race towards the rocky end where the eventful winner was joyfully proclaimed. When the crowd turned towards the stalls surrounding the fields, so did we, passing by a long queue forming at the sole ice cream van strategically positioned in front of the playgrounds. 

Everything was packed, including the grounds but we were still lucky to find a space to gobble our sandwiches and watch other families who are sat around their barbecues cheering on little Olivers playing football, tiny Eleanors pushing their mini prams and lively terriers chasing after their treasured twigs. It was certainly the epitome of a British public gathering in the city's middle class heartland. But with a charitable cause and cultural preservation at the centre of this event, it was worth taking part in!

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Of Autumn, Science and Religion

Autumn is always a magical time of the year, when the lush green landscape is transformed into a cornucopia of colours, like an artist's palette, splashed randomly in joyful grace. It is mesmerising to watch the wilting leaves wait for the whistling wind that would slowly blow them away, like swirling dervishes on their last dance, as they fall softly to the brightly carpeted ground. This enchanting handiwork of a loving God has been studied and explained by Science but that liberating discovery has not made it any less magical and soul-enriching. 

Much like the creation of the tiny bundle of joy that I now hold in my arms - once a tiny little seed in my womb transformed into a beautiful new life which holds so much promise for the future. This little child would be encouraged to develop the curiosity that would lead him to follow the footsteps of his most famous namesake. And yet he will also be guided so that one day he will be able to make his own decision to get to know and embrace his Creator. His will be a home where science and religion need not collide.

Captured by the Daffodils

My path to work used to take me across Weston Park, a daily exercise that has allowed me to witness first-hand the changing of the seasons through the periodic metamorphosis of the park’s botanical inhabitants. The few minutes I spend each day in that earthly paradise always leave me in a hypnotic trance, in awe of the Creator who made all things bright and beautiful.

In winter when most life forms are allowed to hibernate, the slope of the hill where the Sheffield University Firth Park Building is perched up looks like a solitary place. On the path by the manmade lake, two lone benches, memorials to departed loved ones, offer a refuge underneath the towering trees. But come early April and a flock of golden daffodils spring back to life, stretched in a never-ending line by the side of that hill, tossing their heads in a spirited dance. They are a sight to behold that as I cross the wooden bridge and watch their reflection on the manmade lake, I would utter a short prayer that would start my day right.

Link to Wordsworth's most famous poem: Daffodils

We Can Share the World

For my husband's 32nd birthday, we headed off to Chester Zoo, Britain's biggest and most successful animal sanctuary. We have been inspired by the David Attenborough's latest series on Africa, a six-episode documentary following the lives of the smallest to the largest animals that inhabit the sweeping savannahs and the dense rain forests of the world's second largest continent, and fascinated by their impressive survival skills in a planet that is increasingly dominated by the growing population that now threatens their natural habitat. 

I have been to Manila Zoo as a child when I first visited the Philippine capital before giant malls sprung up and became the local 'tourist attractions'. My memories from this experience were not particularly pleasant: endless rows of metal wire cages where animals were squeezed in like prisoners without a trial and large animals in open spaces taunted by some crazy visitor with no respect for other forms of life. I never asked why the animals were there or if they would have been better off where they came from. I reacted as how I would have for most of my life, with passive acceptance that people (or animals) have to suffer and we can't do anything about it. I readily assumed that the zoo would have been a better place for them, there at least they would have been fed regularly.

This was John's first trip to the zoo. His closest encounter with the elephants had been in the wilderness of Zimbabwe on a family visit to relatives when he was 14 before Mugabe made the South African country a dangerous place for white people. He remembers how sitting in his uncle's veranda, surrounded by a deafening silence while watching the setting sun turn the sky bright orange, he suddenly heard the lions roar from a distance. "In Africa", he says, "you do not own the land; the land owns you. Most people have forgotten this." Perhaps this life-forming experience has fuelled his passion for the conservation of the natural world and becoming an avid supporter of WWF.

The trip to the zoo had been more educational than I have anticipated. I have seen most of these animals before but I never really looked at them, at what fascinating creatures they are, forced to live in an environment that looked like their natural habitat but not quite. Perhaps they are happy in the zoo, fed regularly and cared for by competent professionals but perhaps they would rather have stayed where they came from. Yet it was apparent that most of them didn't really have a choice because their natural environment has been swallowed by human 'progress'. 

It wasn't a surprise that in some sections of the zoo, I have found animals that are native only to where I came from, most of them endangered and some largely extinct. The Philippines has once been a land covered almost entirely (95%) by rain forests and the seas inhabited by the most diverse marine communities on earth. But a growing population over years of mismanagement and greed has taken its toll and today only 7% of this forest cover has remained and continues to be 'threatened by booming rural populations living in severe poverty who are clearing forests for agriculture' [see The World's Top Ten Most Threatened Forests ]. 

If the government is not doing anything, I was comforted at least by the fact that conservation groups like Chester Zoo is trying to rehabilitate some of these forests and save the lives of these fascinating species that remain. Their conservation efforts have been highlighted on this trip and I hope that by sharing this experience, I could make my fellow countrymen take notice of the environmental issues that concern our land. 

Another BBC documentary, Wonders of Life by Professor Brian Cox concluded on the third episode: 

"When you go outside tomorrow, just take a look at a little piece of your world, to that corner of your garden or a park or even the grass that is growing in a crack in the pavement. Because there will be life there and it will be unique and there will be nowhere like that anywhere else in the Universe and that makes Earth's Tree of Life from the sturdiest branch to the most fragile twig indescribably valuable."

It is every human being's responsibility to look after our planet because a world that has lost its ecological balance would naturally die off. At least this part of the world where I am now has acknowledged this and is passionately doing something about it.

 

New Year's Day Walk

There is little joy in England during winter. 

Perhaps, if there had been a blanket of snow to cover the bleak and dreary landscape outside our window, I would have felt a little cheered up. But as expected, we had to make do with a sky who loves playing hide and seek with the sun and occasionally splashing out drizzling rain to those amongst us who cannot escape to warmer places. 

During the last day of the year, I finally cried out to John to take me out of the cold and somber walls of the old Victorian terrace that was my prison for the last two weeks, thanks to my job letting us 'work from home'. So on New Year's Day, with a weather forecast of sunny spells and a double digit temperature, we headed off to the Peak District. 

There are countless walking paths in the national park but we decided to conquer Stanage Edge, a rather impressive gritstone escarpment situated on the moors north of Hathersage. I have previously begged my husband to take me there (with no success) so that I can stand on the rock where Keira Knightley stood during a sweeping panoramic scene in the 2005 film adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. Of course, I'm rather embarrassed to admit that now. 

We started off from the car park right at the bottom of the stone edges and it was a short climb to the top. On a bright summer day it would have been an easy ascent but with the strong winds trying to knock us off, it wasn't a pleasant one. 

This has not deterred a lot of people from doing the walk, in fact, there were already walking groups and families ahead of us with children as young as three jumping from one rock to the other as they marched towards the end of the 6-kilometer long plateau. 

We loitered behind, taking on the views and snapping photos using a less sophisticated point-and-shoot camera, our Christmas present to ourselves, which did not have disappointing results. This frequent stopping meant that we had to turn around halfway through as the weather condition started deteriorating. 

The trek down was easier and halfway through, we captured a rainbow as it began to fade. Moments later when we were already in the car, rain poured like there was no tomorrow. 

The British weather is not the best in the world but at least it teaches us to be grateful for the little joys in life ~ a bit of sunshine, a glimpse of a rainbow, a 10-degree temperature ~ because they don't come often, not at the same time. 

Our Christmas Tree is Up

When I announced that we will be doing our tree during the weekend, my friend Andreea shared that in Romania, their Christmas tree does not get decorated until the eve of December 24 which kickstarts their yuletide celebration. As children, they were made to believe that if the tree does not get ready by midnight, Santa Claus will not have anywhere to put his presents. 

This fascinating piece of information has led me to look at the colourful history of this important Christmas tradition and discovered its pagan roots from early modern Germany which has survived their conversion to Christianity. With the endorsement of European royal families in the 19th Century, this expression of German culture amongst emigrants overseas has been adopted all over the world. 

This tradition is also being practiced in my homeland and the most beautiful Christmas trees I have ever seen remains to be those of my childhood’s, before our family could afford the big plastic evergreens we have adopted later on. We don't have a lot of pine trees in my country but with a wealth of local materials and my mother’s creativity, we have always had a Christmas tree. My favourite amongst them was a large piece of dried twig from the forest at the back of our house. It was placed on a tub held up by giant stones and decorated with soap bubbles amidst all the laughter as we pretended that snowflakes were falling on its branches.

So whilst feeling nostalgic about the Christmases of my youth, John and I embarked on the joyful tradition of putting up our tree during the weekend. It stared off with the most important task of choosing the tree, a Nordman Fir we buy from the Tree Amigos, an independent retailer who grows affordable and sustainably farmed trees. Of course the plastic tree is the greener and cheaper option as they can be put up every year but there is something almost magical about a real tree inside the house and it’s an experience that I look forward to every year.

The choosing of the tree itself requires a lot of careful consideration. It has to be the right height and must have just enough thickness to fit in the home. We were confronted with two difficult choices this year, one that is grand and would reach the ceiling of our lounge and another that is small and cosy. In another year perhaps when we have become a grown family we would have taken home the taller one but we settled for the smaller tree which we decorated rather tastefully if I’m allowed to say so.

So yes our tree is up, ready for us to snuggle under the blankets in front of the warm fire as we brace ourselves for yet another cold December.

So This is Christmas

A Filipino, wherever they are in the world, would always long to be home at Christmas time. It's been five years since I have last spent this merry season with my family and the yearning only grows with time. I have walked along the street markets of great European cities, sang carols with my church family in Gibraltar and shared roasted goose with my English family over Christmas dinner and yet none of them has ever come close to capturing the Christmas spirit that we have in my old country. 

In the Philippines, the advent begins as early as September when carols start playing on radio. Elaborate and grand decorations are slowly being put up on the streets and inside the houses. Competitions to light the parks are sponsored by private enterprises and the malls put up the biggest and brightest Christmas trees, some major advertising ploys if one must say but it sure draws the crowds. But of course it wasn't just the commercial machinations of big businesses or music executives cashing in on the biggest Christian celebration in my homeland. 

The message of Christmas - hope, love, charity - is still very much embraced where I come from. It is a time of mass homecoming where families separated by distance and time, would once again be together in prayer and thanksgiving. And within these families and amongst friends, old wounds are healed and peace is restored. 

I suppose then that it is the meaning of Christmas to its inhabitants that differentiates the spirit of my country's celebration from the Western one. But none is better than the other, for even if perhaps the celebration in this 'politically correct' part of the globe has less to do with the birth of Christ, it shows that Christmas can be celebrated by Christians and non-Christians alike. It is a perfect example of how people of different cultures and traditions can co-exist with acceptance and respect for each other. 

And because I am a Filipino, from a culture known to be able to see the best in everything, I have also been able to make my cold Christmases away from home special and spiritual (as much as I can!).  In the next posts, I'll try to bring them back to life: 

2008 ~ My first Christmas in Gibraltar
2008 ~ Soup Kitchen in Gibraltar
2009 ~ Christmas markets in Barcelona  
2009 ~ A rainy evening walk in Granada
2009 ~ My second Christmas in Gibraltar
2010 ~ Winter Wonderland in Wetherby
2010 ~ Christmas markets in Sheffield
2010 ~ My first snowfall
2010 ~ Christmas markets in Manchester
2010 ~ Russian Christmas in Chatsworth House
2011 ~ Christmas whizzed past
2011 ~ December in Paris and the Great British escape at Christmas
2012 ~ Christmas markets in Bath
2012 ~ Christmas traditions of my friends from different countries
2012 ~ New Year's Day walk
2012 ~ Our Special Christmas Eve Tradition
2012 ~ Christmas Blues, S-A-D! and the Winter Solstice

The Moon Smiled That Night

The last days of summer brings with it an air of disquiet, as any change in life often does. With the days slowly getting shorter and the gusty winds starting to accrue, it is tempting to stay indoors. And that was what I had intended to do on that afternoon in September after the chores have been done. 

But John had a different idea: the sky was clear and the sun was out that so why waste a perfectly good opportunity to enjoy the great outdoors, he reasoned.  

Last minute whims like these are somewhat made easier by the fact that we live in one of the greenest cities in Europe, surrounded by 2million trees which equate to four mature trees for every person living here. Within five minutes from our house is an open countryside called the Loxley Common, a beautiful patch of green in the fringe of Sheffield popular for bird-watchers, dog-walkers and students of geology.

So at six o’clock that day with still a few hours before sunset, we walked hand in hand along the path made by generations of walkers. The ground along the tracks is strewn by wild flowers that have grown to almost human proportions. We followed the path that led us along the slope of the hill where the heathers have fully bloomed into its beautiful shade of purple. At a lover’s seat we sat down to take on the beauty that nature so abundantly displays. Across the horizon, the top of the houses from the northern side of the city looked like pieces from a board game. But the urban flurry is lost in this piece of heaven where the only sounds you can hear the occasional barking of dogs and the random singing of birds.

We stayed there for a while and I uttered a silent prayer for the many little things that make our cup overflow and most of all, for the ability to see these blessings as they are thrown our way. 

We went straight to the local public house for dinner, a treat we seldom indulge in. It was already dark when we came out and the moon followed us to the car. I remembered reading about a lover who declared: 

"I will give you all the flowers of the mountain."

The author noted that poets in love seem to have very little notion of reality. But at that moment I knew exactly what the poet's muse would have felt , for my own beloved could just as well have said: 

"I will make the moon smile for you."

Because that night the moon did. And I smiled back. 

The Olympic Legacy Lives On

Hillsborough Bowling Green

On Monday morning, I jumped out of bed with wobbly legs and struggled my way through the staircase. When Derek, the pensioner at the bowling green who showed us the ropes said on Sunday that we might be getting muscle pains the next day, I didn’t take him seriously (“It’s just a game that involves rolling a ball on the flat grass isn’t it?”). But someone who has played the game with John’s great grandfather would know better.

One of the familiar features of English communities, especially in the countryside, is the bowling green. And although we live only 15 minutes from the city centre on the tram, we have one right at the bottom of our road. It is a very lively place: on a weekday it is filled with pensioners whiling their time away in tournament games and on Saturdays, there are families of all generations engaged in a friendly sport.

Up until last weekend, we have only ever been on the other side of the fence looking in always promising to ourselves that we will be trying it ‘next week’ which turned into months and seasons that never came. But at last we walked in to try it out and discovered a snippet of family history too. Great Granddad John Boardman was a champion green bowler for two tournaments in a row in Hillsborough. It’s little wonder his namesake bowled his way to victory in a very competitive and tactical contest despite his first attempts looking like bowling in cricket. I didn’t do badly either scoring three in a game of 15, thanks to natural talent (?).

So no, it’s not just about rolling a ball on the flat grass. It is can be very tactical and in fact, a sport that is still played in the Commonwealth Games.

It was an hour of fun and we will definitely be coming back more often. For us, this will be the 2012 Olympic legacy in action.

Vintage in the Attic

My English mum's attic is a vintage treasure trove. 

I have only just recently taken on the vintage craze and I suspect it would only cover anything that relates to books, photography and travel. Our clean-up project of our Mum's attic has delivered all of that. 

The best find will be the Brownie Box No. 2, a Kodak film camera that was first introduced in 1902 but was discontinued in 1935. The camera has introduced the concept of snapshot, being accessible at an original cost of $2. They wouldn't sell much as antiques because they have been very popular when they came out but to have one in the family seemed rather romantic. 

I have also found hardbound books with colourful covers that were published more than a century ago; an old Atlas printed when half the world was still under the British empire and a King James Bible (which I found was rather inspiring to read because of the larger text) the sort that you will find in church altars. 

As family treasures, we couldn't take any of them of course. But I managed to bring home an old suitcase I will be filling with stickers of all the places we have been to!