Trains

 

Mum’s fascination with trains in Sri Lanka started when she came with my brother for Christmas in 1989. This was when we hired the Viceroy Special, a steam train, to go up to the hill country for Christmas. A colleague had suggested getting a group of people together to hire the steam train to take us all up to the hills for the holidays. Despite my natural inclination to run a mile from large group events, this one seemed like too good an idea to miss. So he set it up and we all boarded the train in Colombo. There must have been about 20 of us and it seemed a bargain. Mind you, there were not a lot of tourists around in those days; too many people intent on killing each other. The journey was from Colombo to Nanuoya which is the closest you can get to Nuwera Eliya by train.  It did take a long time or so it seemed. The track stems from the planters' desire to avoid a 12 day bullock cart journey to take their goods to Colombo for shipment. The section we were on was completed in 1885 and took the best part of a day.   

Mum loved the majesty of it all. I'm sure she felt like the Queen! Kids ran after the train waving at everyone. Villagers stopped what they were doing to wave at us as we went past.  Crowds gathered every time we stopped to fill up on water (which happened too many times to mention). We could stop the train anywhere. You just needed to tell the driver you wanted to take a picture. We travelled through lots of different landscapes, climates and geographical elevations, stopping to enjoy the valleys, mountains and waterfalls on route.  The railway viaducts, bridges and tunnels  are still  impressive engineering feats today. It was one of those experiences that stay with you,  and mum always talked about the time we hired a train.   At the end of it mum got a commemorative plate with a picture of the train on it and this hung on her wall in her house in Bothwell right up to the day she moved here.  We stayed in the Hill Club that Christmas.  My brother had to borrow a tie before he was allowed in the dining room.  It was cold but we were well provided for with fires in the rooms and a hot water bottle each.

Like boats, mum seems drawn to trains. And they do seem to be part of our landscape now. The Swimming Club in Colombo where we often go for lunch or dinner has got the main railway track south running between the pool and the sea. Mum can sit and count the trains that go past at frequent intervals. She does try to count how many go up and how many go down but totals elude her. Despite the fact that there are some new trains around the majority are still very open and certainly the commuter trains are typically jam packed making mum worry about casualties. She is always happy to go to the Swimming Club; she never remembers its name but the minute you mention the trains, something clicks and she readily gets her shoes on.  

The track south follows us as we drive up and down at the weekends. There is a stretch at Moratuwa  that runs along the coast parallel to the road. Considering the usual state of mum’s memory  it never ceases to surprise me that  the minute we hit this stretch she will ask “Where are the trains?” and even more surprisingly  9 times out of ten, one will appear. This is even wierder when you discover she thinks she is in Motherwell at the time.  Trains running along the same track (but much further south) can also be heard from the poolside at the Fortress as the track runs parallel to the coast but just a little inland.  She can be watching for the ships passing when all of a sudden you can hear the train horns in the background  warning people and cars not to cross at the railway crossings behind the hotel. “Train,” she will say.

Even in the flat in Colombo trains intrude. Again the same rail track is only a block or so away. And amidst all the other noise of colombo on a busy day, the train sound can be heard distinctly. Unawatuna is no different. The Galle-Matara track runs a fair distance away behind the house. Nevertheless when  there's a train (and it's a popular commuter and tourist route) mum spots it. She even imagines trains when there is none to hear. The noise of the fan on the porch in Unawatuna she always claims is a passing train. This would be a bit of a feat if it was the case because it is always on. But I've given out pointing out the noise is from the fan. If she wants it to be a train, then so be it!

Small feet, processed food, VIPs and bras

 

Mum always had a sense of humour . A stock phrase of my mum’s when I was growing up was, “Oh you’re very funny!” said in a very sarcastic tone of voice.  This was her response to numerous incidents in my childhood.  I  often wondered about her interpretation of reality even before the onslaught of Alzheimer’s. One of my earliest memories of her is her explanation of the ancient Chinese habit of foot binding.  The Chinese (and apologies in advance to the Chinese for her rather politically incorrect statement), according to her,  had to have small feet so that you could fit so many of them into the country.  I still don’t know if she was serious. It was said with such a straight face.

The fact that she was a primary teacher for years is a bit worrying. Goodness knows what she was teaching. I grew up surrounded by bits of projects that she happened to be doing at school. That year must have had something to do with China. One year it was the Mexican Olympics therefore me and the boys had to learn all about Mexico.  Another year it was the Kon-tiki expedition  therefore we had various raft building attempts scattered round the house.

 Alzheimers doesn’t tend to be the funniest of things. But occasionally her sense of humour still surfaces. “Well that’s one problem I’ll never have,” she declares sitting next to me on the sofa. I’ve been engrossed in some mundane office work on the laptop so am completely oblivious to what she could possibly be referring to. "What?" I ask.  “That,” she responds, pointing to the TV. “That” turns out to be the BBC news which is doing a piece on processed food making people die young.  “I’ll never die young!” she says.  “Neither will I!” I respond and for some reason we both found this hysterically funny.  

Another giggle resulted from my unusual dress one morning.  I was en route to the president’s having been invited to the launch of a new educational product of the Presidential Office.  Not a very formal person, a jacket is not usually part of my work clothes.  When I donned one on my out to work that morning, she asked why. I responded, ”Got to go to the President’s house this morning, mum.” To which she replied, “Why? What have you done?”

Last weekend we were driving along the highway in broad daylight when coming in the other direction was a procession of military vehicles guarding some fancy black cars with some no doubt equally fancy VIPs ensconced inside definitely not respecting the speed limit.  All of them were sporting headlights -  beams full on. “Look at that”, says she, ”Can’t they see where they are going ? Oh maybe they have all been drinking!”

The most recent giggle revolves round bras.  Bras have been an issue for a while now.  It  started when she broke her shoulder shortly after I broke my leg and ankle whilst in the UK a couple of years ago.  We were a fine pair. In the kitchen she could reach cupboards with one arm and I could just cook while balancing on crutches – transporting meals or cups from A to B was an issue – she could do it with one hand; I could do it with neither.  Bras were another issue. With her broken shoulder she just could not put on a bra. The problem was solved temporarily by buying her front fastening bras. 

When she came to stay it became my problem again. It’s not very easy to put a front fastening bra on someone else. It’s a bit of stretch in more ways than one. She does not like taking off her bra at night and there’s no point arguing.  (Anyway she’s in good company;  Marilyn Monroe also slept in her bra.)  I usually give her a cup of tea while I have my shower in the morning. By the time I get back to her she has magically managed to remove the bra without removing her nightie and it lies folded beautifully on her bedside table. 

I decided to ease the bra situation by buying some regular back fastening ones. I reasoned that although she would not be able to fasten them,  it would make my life easier.   So I took advantage of a friend going to the UK to order some new bras from Marks and Spencers  (M and S don’t deliver to Sri Lanka) and got her some back fastening bras. They arrived and are a dream to put on. What I hadn’t anticipated was getting them off.  The first morning she had one on I went in to give her a cup of tea.  She was looking incredibly worried and I wondered what was wrong. “I can’t get it off!” she said in a completely perplexed tone.   It took me a minute (it was first thing in the morning) but the penny dropped and I realized what she was taking about.  She couldn’t remove the bra.  I had to laugh and soon so was she. I had to remind her about the new bra and that it was back fastening.  

Unfortunately Alzheimer’s being Alzheimer’s she often fails to remember this.

This little piggy went to market

 

One of my early memories is me and the boys climbing onto my mum’s bed before she got up and coaxing her to endlessly dramatise  the classic nursery rhyme  “This little piggy went to market” accompanied by the obligatory tweaking of the toes. This resulted in hysterics all round after the classic line “and this little piggy went wee wee wee wee all the way home,” which prompted her to abandon the toes and tickle us all over.  I had to ‘Google’ the rhyme. It turns out it was first heard in 1728 but not published till 1760. I always thought she had made it up.

Apart from that early memory I have never really given toes a lot of thought. In fact, can’t say I’ve ever seriously considered them.   I can see why fingers and fingernails are necessary but toes and toenails – that’s  a bit of a mystery. In the last 6 months though toes have been on my mind a lot. My mum has two rather problematic big toe nails. They have completely different issues. Both of which probably stem from her previous long term and long distance walking habit. She used to go walking round the village, walking to Tesco and back (quite a walk), walking round Strathclyde Park (I could barely keep up), walking into the next town and back, walking anywhere and everywhere.  She couldn’t stop either – she has a condition where if she stands still she wobbles and falls over so it you met her while walking you had to walk with her if you wanted a chat. She had a thing about walking and I seem to remember her going to a chiropodist on a regular basis. Now that may have been for her strange toe nails. I have no clue and she can’t remember.

Both toe nails were a bit dicey when she arrived over a year ago.  Both very much thicker in places than they should have been. One was growing at a slant and looked completely askew. The other was prone to infections and was beginning to curl inwards.  After looking for a chiropodist and being told that they didn’t exist in Sri Lanka by my local hospital, I reluctantly succumbed to cutting her toe nails fairly often in order to combat the peculiarities that were the 2 big toenails. Despite my attempts the big toe nail became ingrown and infected  which was very painful and therefore had to be faced up to and acted on.

I dreaded the whole doctor thing. I reckoned the nail would have to be removed.  Visions of torture scenes in the movies loomed large in my brain. I typically imagine the worst possible scenarios. (I’m very good at risk assessment).  I imagined my mum screaming  while the doctor struggled to pull her nail out  while she was held down by numerous nurses;  this was followed by a heart attack because it was all too much for someone her age. If I could get beyond the actual pulling out of the nail, then I had the resultant wound being infected, going all horrible, then getting gangrenous and the whole foot having to be removed. Like I say, I seem to be a pessimist.  I think I ended up being closer to a heart attack than she did. And this was even before it was confirmed that it had to be removed.

The pain continued and we did end up at the hospital. Strangely enough we ended up at the same doctor who supervised the healing of my ankle and leg after my op in Scotland. This was good as he had proved sound on my healing so I reckoned he could probably deal with a toenail.  Just as I had imagined it, he confirmed that the toenail would have to be removed;  but he said that he might be able to just cut the sides of it and not have to take the whole thing out. And this could be done under a local anaesthetic. This hadn’t been part of my horror scenario – either the part removal or the anaesthetic!   Mum was put on two very large tablets which became known as the toe tablets  the week before the op. 

I worried about it all week. Mum forgot about it completely. She was only reminded about her toe when she accidentally touched it with something and it was sore.  I wasn’t sure how much she was understanding exactly what was going to happen but we had had a rather coherent conversation at the beginning of all this because of the pain. We turned up and she had to get a test to make sure she wouldn’t react to the anaesthetic. This involved the nurse taking some blood and then writing on her arm round the needle site. This intrigued mum and we spent a good while trying to figure out what it said. Her writing wasn’t very clear.  Then she was taken away into an inner room.  All I could hear was laughter which turned out to be at her attempt at climbing onto the rather high bed. She couldn’t do it so she came back out to where I was and I was kicked out of that place.  I tried to focus on Facebook on my iphone while waiting for the screaming. There was none. The doctor came out and said ‘come and see’.  My immediate reaction was that I really didn’t want to see a bloody toe and could happily live without that particular experience.  Of course you can’t really say that to a doctor so I followed him and looked. No blood – there must have been some earlier but not when I looked.  He’d managed to just cut the edges down the sides off. It actually looked like a normal nail for the first time in over a year.

She got a huge bandage on her toe which continually surprised her whenever she noticed it. She didn’t remember the small op or the whole hospital experience. Sometimes Alzheimers comes in handy.  The toe nail has now healed beautifully.  We visited a beauty salon today for her to have a pedicure. She loved it.  Hopefully regular pedicures will keep the other big toe nail under control and we won’t have to go back to the hospital.  I doubt though that I will be tweaking her toes anytime soon to the accompaniment of “This little piggy went to market.”

 

 

 

Going to the seaside

I have fond memories of going to the seaside when I was a kid. These were day trips at the weekend. Mum’d prepare a picnic and steaming hot flasks of tea, pack spades and pails, blow up rings, travel blankets and large towels, and we'd all pile into a car and head for the coast. Prestwick or Ayr were the usual destinations involving a drive through the countryside over the Eaglesham Road. These days there’s a motorway all the way there if you go via Glasgow. But in those days the only way to go was over the moors to the coast. There was always great excitement in the car on route. Who would see the sea first? There is a long straight road and you come over a hill and there is the sea in all its glory. “There’s the sea,” we’d all scream from the back of the car. We only actually lived about an hour away from the sea but in those days it seemed to be an expedition to go on these trips. Now,  I do not remember the cold. But it must have been freezing.  I do remember running around in a swimsuit in and out of the sea (in Scotland??) with my brothers. And racing over the dunes, building sandcastles with moats, watching the holes fill up with water and then disappear and then refill with another wave. And when it must have been too cold even for us hardened Scots, we just ran about in the sand fully clothed,  collecting shells, getting our shoes wet when we didn’t run away from the waves fast enough and poking about in the rock pools to see what we could find.  

Food and drink always tasted so much better by the sea. We would have ham sandwiches (before I became vegetarian),  juicy salmon sandwiches with lots of mayonnaise, and lots of tea to warm us up. We’d even have hot Heinz tomato soup sometimes. In fact I can remember fighting with the windbreak to keep it upright as we all huddled behind it protected from the cold gales drinking tomato soup out of mugs. This was summer in Scotland.

These days though in Sri Lanka I am far away from the west coast of Scotland. We still go to the seaside.  I’m fortunate enough to have ‘a seaside’ at the bottom of the road from the house in Unawatuna. The beach there is one of the best in the world. We don’t though spend a lot of time on it because of the difficulty of walking on the sand. We do though spend time at the beach restaurants and will sometimes walk down the road and sit on the beach at sunset, then phone for Chaminda to come  and pick us up in the tuk tuk as the hill back up is a bit of a challenge.  

Where we do go most weekends is the Fortress. This is a lovely hotel in Koggala about a ten minute drive from my house in Unawatuna. It is right on the coast. Turtles come in to the shallow waters caused by the reef in front of the hotel.  It has large grounds and even when it is full it nearly feels that full. There is always plenty of space for everyone. There is a 50 metre pool which must be one of the best in the country for swimming.  And you often have it all to yourself. The pool boys can organise a shady space for me and mum either poolside or under the trees. I can swim and read and mum can watch the ships out at sea, the squirrels racing around,  and the people and their antics or she can doze on the lounger. Lunches are good. We share margarita pizza cooked in their pizza oven which is great. Or if we are just there for the afternoon then she has pots of tea and I have ginger beer.  She gets looked after. The pool boys and the waiters spoil her. She is probably the oldest person in the place and the only one to keep her clothes on.  We do tours of the grounds to keep up her walking.  When I am swimming they check on her periodically.  When I have visitors I always ask permission to bring them to the hotel. We are members and it’s not a hotel where you can sign people in or buy pool tickets.  They have always let me bring people in. We spend days there and have lunch and she can feel part of a larger family. The pre-dementia her would have loved the place and been really impressed by its grandeur.  As it is, she just likes the peace and quiet by the waves and the tankers in the distance. It’s not picnics at Prestwick but it suits the pair of us at the moment.

A Way with Words

 

Mum was a master crossword solver. The books tell you that crossword puzzles and other word and number games help stave off alzheimers.  Perhaps if mum hadn’t been such an avid crossword addict she would have succumbed to alzheimers earlier than she did. When she retired  her day would start with the crossword. She might finish it quickly in which case there were other word games and Sudoku in the same newspaper; or you might find her at midday still puzzling over one of the clues surrounded by thesaurus, dictionary and encyclopaedia.  She always got there in the end .

And even when she first arrived in Sri Lanka  and I was doing crossword puzzles by the beach, she could still have a go and get the odd one or two. These days though she doesn’t try.   Working in the field of English language teaching I am on one level professionally interested in what is happening to her language. On a personal level it is very sad. She always had a range and depth of vocabulary to be envied. These days though there are a lot of signs that her language ability is not just diminishing but disappearing.

Every three months she has an appointment with the neurologist,  a calm Indian gentleman with a lovely friendly manner. We visited him last week. He tests her memory .  Her visual ability is fine. She can still copy diagrams quite successfully.  Reality is a puzzle though. She has no clue as to day,  month or time.  Thankfully he didn’t ask her where she was as I’m sure she would have said Wishaw or Edinburgh.  She scored really badly on two areas: naming things in a group and remembering  4 simple words 5 minutes after being given them. Asked to name as many animals as she could in a minute, with serious prompting she managed cat and dog.  Remembering  4 words even when she had said them a few times with the neurologist was almost impossible. Even with serious prompting she only got 1 out of 4.

She loves language; but increasingly she has issues.  She forgets the names of things; so squirrels become wriggly things; the BBC news on tv becomes the newspaper;  sky and sea become blue stuff. Things that have specific names become  generic, collective or more high frequency things. For example, lorries become cars, glasses , cups.  Pool and pond become confused. “Were you in that pond?” She says of the Fortress pool.  She is losing pronoun use. This manifests itself in gender confusion where kids are concerned. Himashi down south who is a little three year old girl, is invariably talked about as “he”. Arran, the baby in Colombo, is mostly referred to as “she”.  I suppose it’s not a surprise as neither of them really wear gender specific clothes. Himashi prefers to run about in as little as possible – although when going out visiting with the family can be clearly seen in a dress. Arran is usually in a one piece. So perhaps the pronoun confusion is understandable.

She is though almost desperately hanging on to language and she still gets enjoyment out of it. She names things all the time.  “’Flying fish,” she declares at the start of the drive south last Friday. I’m not sure how I am meant to reply to that. She had seen it on a shop. “Cow” she’ll exclaim as one crosses the road in front of us. “Dog,” as one is spotted in the middle of the highway. This usually produces a conversation of “Dead dog?”, (referring to a time when there were lots of dead dogs on the highway), “No, I think it’s sleeping.”  “Don’t drive down the hole,” she says quite a lot. This refers to the drainage ditches alongside most roads in Sri Lanka.  “Caravan – that’s not a caravan,” she says, referring to the brand name of the van in front of us. She reads everything, the ticker tape across  the BBC news, TV programme names at the bottom of the tv screen (though she has no hope of following the actual programme) , the Ceylinco Insurance sign on top of a building outside the apartment window in Colombo, any and all shops signs, license numbers of vehicles in front of us she takes particular delight in reciting especially if they have double numbers, the places on the buses (that can be tricky – Ambalangoda, Karapitiya -  but she’ll have a go). Her ability to read certainly is not deteriorating. Her ability to remember and use language accurately certainly is.

Shoes or Slippers

At this late stage in my life finding myself in charge of clothing another person is to be honest a bit of a burden. I’ve never been fussed about clothes. As long as they were comfortable that was fine.  And I’ve never been responsible for another person’s clothes. Now I am.

When mum was a teenager her Aunt Ann made her clothes and she was always immaculate in lovely dresses for her tennis match teas and her Scottish country dancing. I’ve seen the photos.   She refused for years to throw away gowns and other untouched clothes until me and my friend Anne took her in hand one day and went through her wardrobe (cos you couldn’t find anything in it and couldn’t get anything else in it) and threw out anything that she hadn’t worn in the last 10 years and wasn’t likely to wear.  By that stage in the Alzheimer’s she was ok with it.

Clothes have a special significance for mum. When she was sectioned in hospital they took away all her clothes and only brought out for her what she had to wear that day. All her clothes were locked away in a walk-in-cupboard in another part of the hospital. The reason for this was to prevent her from walking out of the hospital.  The rationale being that if she didn’t have outside shoes and a coat she wouldn’t walk out of the main door. Needless to say it didn’t work. The main door was meant to be locked; but if you waited long enough someone would open it and it didn’t close very quickly. Also the nurses would sneak out to have a smoke leaving another door open.  With nothing else to do all day mum must have just watched the doors.  She could frequently be found wandering in the grounds or the car park or trying to get into other wards. Her piece de resistance was when she had got out, walked all the way in her slippers and jumper over to a friend’s house on the other side of the town -a good one hour walk. Her friend was most perturbed to see her and phoned my friend who used to take her up to the hospital to visit her and asked her why Chris was there. Had she been let out? My friend told her to keep her there, phoned the hospital (nobody had noticed she had gone missing) and rushed over in her car to pick her up and return her to the hospital.

So the point is she doesn’t like being separated from her clothes. She has to know where they are and where they are going. This makes washing them a bit tricky and means she likes to keep them on if she can.  She is also always saying that she has no clothes. A quick pull out of the drawers in Colombo or a pointing to the clothes rack down south alleviates this concern.  She packs constantly. (In fact she has to be watched when out at restaurants as the napkins frequently end up neatly packed and shoved into her bag.) She only has a small Barefoot cloth bag but she manages to squeeze into it her nightie, a t shirt, her hankies, her comb, cards from her friends and family, and her purse containing lots of Sri Lankan coins. ‘The bag’ itself must never be lost. It goes everywhere with her. Since she continually puts it places and then forgets where she’s put it, hours are spent searching for ‘the bag’. On one level this attention to her clothes is a reaction against the hospital experience; on another level they are one of the few things that are actually hers here. She has some photographs but her house has been rented and her furniture now is in my flat. So clothes are precious.

Getting dressed is a challenge for both of us.  I wash and dress her.  Her trousers have to be turned down just so. I presume this was because at one point in the not so distant past a pair of trousers were too long and so she just turned them over at the top rather than turned up a hem on them.  Now all  of them have to be turned down regardless of their length. Trousers must have pockets for her innumerable bits of tissues. If they don’t, tissues will be found secreted about her person. And when going to bed, she calls nighties “ridiculous things!” and exclaims “Is that another one from Robert?” My brother brought over quite a few the last time he came. Socks must be whipped off quickly before she realizes they have gone.  Finding trousers for her to wear is a definite challenge. She has worn out the seat in a few because getting the right ones is difficult. They must be beige, brown or grey, elastic waisted (no buttons or clasps) and have pockets.  Also because we are in Sri Lanka they must be light weight.

 “Slippers” and “shoes” cause endless confusion.  She never understands why she has to wear one to go outside and one to stay inside.  Or why she has to keep changing them. I do try to remember to check before we go anywhere.  But it doesn’t always work.  At one point I only noticed that she still had her slippers on when we arrived at the restaurant on the beach – too late to do anything about it. Luckily it was dark and nobody noticed. Once though when we left the house in the car to go to the Fortress, we had to turn back because she had on her slippers, not her shoes.  It was broad daylight and someone would have noticed.  They are most definitely slipper looking – Marks and Spencer style.

I have tried to simplify the whole clothes scenario by keeping some clothes in Colombo and some in Unawatuna. And this works to an extent. However her habit of stuffing her bag with clothes has meant that tops that should be down south end up in Colombo and vice versa.  It continues to be a challenge.

 

 

Walking and Canoodling Couples

 

Mum used to walk for miles. I’m told that Alzheimer’s patients love walking which is part of the problem as they will head off knowing where they are going, forget on route and get lost.  Even before she got Alzheimer’s though mum loved walking. One of her favourite walks was round Strathclyde Park, a manmade lake and park just outside of our village – a good 90 minute walk.  She would try and get other people to go with her but if they wouldn’t she would just head off on her own. I would often worry about her especially as she got older as some of the paths could be very secluded and I could just see her getting attacked. However she was always fine.  Strathclyde Park was (and still is presumably) a haven for all sorts: there were the campers cycling or walking round the park; there were the sailing enthusiasts on their boats on the lake; there were the rowers, practicing on the water; there were the dog walkers, striding along with dogs everywhere; there were the families having picnics; there were the people feeding the birds usually surrounded by huge menacing looking swans. And there was a lot to look at:-  funfair with roller coaster and big wheel; waterskiers, rowing boats, sailing dinghies; swans, cygnets and ducks; football games at one side, a small beach in the middle, and the Water Sports Centre which boasted a rather good cafe overlooking the lake at the other side.

When she was sectioned in hospital I used to take her there just to get her out in the fresh air. Then she had been in hospital for a while without any exercise and really could not walk very far. That was the first indication that physically she was deteriorating. She would ask to sit down on one of the many seats, then resume the walk but we never made it the full way round. Suited me, because after having broken my leg and ankle not that long before, I wasn’t so much up to it either.  So we escaped to the cafe as often as not both for something to do and to escape the cold . And we would partake of the very typically Scottish fare: Tunnocks snowballs; plates of chips with lashings of salt vinegar and brown sauce, bridies and pies, bags of crisps, toasted sandwiches, steaming hot broth of one kind or another and endless cups of tea.

When she arrived in Sri Lanka, it was quickly obvious that I needed to get her out and about walking as she was slowing down and was incredibly wobbly – probably both as a result of 5 months in hospital with no exercise and also from generally getting older. Not the easiest of things to find in Sri Lanka – a place where you can safely and comfortably walk.  I thought it would be easy – lovely weather; long stretches of beach – what could possibly be difficult about it? However it was. Beach walks were attempted and quickly discarded. Sinking into the sand made her even wobblier. My ankle is also not that great on anything graded. Steps are fine. Slopes are not. So beach walks we don’t do.  

Galle, post tsunami, now has a long ‘promenade’ running along the sea front.  Ideal I thought. However with no shade, traffic belching smoke, menacing dogs and passed out people often strewn around to be walked over, not really. We did stick to it for a while in the early evening when it was cooler. Galle Fort you would think would be good. Again, tried it for a while. The walls make the roads cooler ; but there isn’t a view and the roads are cobbled. If you do manage to get mum onto the ramparts, a feat in itself, you quickly get sunstroke. Even with a huge umbrella, you sit looking out to sea wondering if it was all worth it. Another deterrent in Galle Fort are the rather large ladies who block your path insisting on trying to sell you lace tablecloths when they can clearly see that mum is about to fall over (if she stands for more than 10 seconds she keels over – not connected to Alzheimer’s; she has had this balance problem for a while.) Lace tablecloths I have never had any need for; and my mother certainly doesn’t need one now.   

So where is good? Here's the criteria:-

•  a flat walking surface that you can’t trip over
• some shade or times of the day that are cooler
• a view
• somewhere to sit quickly if need be - does not need to be an actual seat
• easy to drive to and easy to park at (ie no parallel parking)
• no people hassling you to buy things, visit temples, go on river cruises, visit craft shops, buy gems, and pledge money to various dubious charities (or any of the other million and one things that could potentially be on offer).

There are a few.  Down south there is a very picturesque and shaded walk just past the Fortress next to a children’s play park. It skirts the coast and there are stilt fishermen and regular fishermen with their boats. It’s also the place for the canoodling couples under their umbrellas.  Lots of motorbikes give them away. Nobody in sight until you see the umbrellas further in. Any time we turn up they have beaten us to it.  Luckily there are a lot of seats; they are stone and hot but we (like the couples) can live with that. The Fortress also has lovely grounds for walking and the staff greet us cheerfully as we do the rounds of the lawns and the corridors.

 In Colombo we also join the canoodling couples. Galle Face Green is the ideal place for walking. At one end is the Galle Face Hotel, colonial grandeur at its best; at the other is the Fort, the commercial centre of Sri Lanka. The Green has now been returfed, boasts lots of little stalls along the front, and looks out onto the Indian Ocean before it becomes the harbour. We go after I finish work when it’s cooler. A breeze invariably comes of the sea. Parking is easy though these days you have to pay for it. You can walk for as long as you want. And we don’t get hassled. Maybe the touts in Colombo can see how wobbly mum is. There are plenty of seats of different kinds. The seats that the couples prefer are tucked into the wall. The seats comprising a brick wall round the trees are road height. And there is always something happening there. Around 5pm groups of about 40 or so of the army or police doing their exercises on the green; they walk and run endlessly in circles; they do press ups and leg exercises.  Never very politically correct, “Those black men are at it again,” mum’ll say (to give her her due though they are all dressed identically in dark navy tracksuits).  We can watch the schoolkids running around; the kites flying high; the joggers belting along; the more sedate exercisers working out on the grass. Out to sea mum can count the number of her favourite tankers waiting to go into port.  It really is ideal. No lace tablecloths in sight! It’s a hive of activity but never so crowded that you don’t feel you have your own space.  So if you ever want to find me and mum on a late cool afternoon, look for the canoodling couples, and probably we will be somewhere nearby.