Beryl lives up our road.  Beryl is all sorts of amazing.

She walks her dog – at a fair pace –  every day, whatever the weather, sometimes with her friend Derrick and his dog who both live a few doors down, and sometimes alone.  It’s Beryl and Derrick that have convinced Mr R and I that we will always, always have a dog, because they are both all sorts of amazing – Derrick is in his 80’s and today is Beryl’s 95th birthday.

Ninety-five, and not only does this woman walk her dog further than some of the locals half her age manage, but she also plays ball with him, bending down to grab the ball and throw it.  At the end of Beryl’s front path there is a washing up bowl that she fills with fresh water each day for the local puppers to grab a drink on their way past.  A full washing up bowl that she carries from the water butt, up the path and up some steps.  Ninety-five.

And her front garden is beautiful.  It’s also not insubstantial in size.  I always assumed she had a relative or maybe even a gardener to help maintain it, but a couple of months back we were chatting about the weather as we passed each other with the dogs and I asked if she’d been making the most of it in the garden.  ‘Ooh yes, she said; I’ve got a lot of weeding done today out the back.  And hour this morning, a rest over lunch and another hour this afternoon…’  And she confirmed that she does all the gardening, front and back alone, but ‘doesn’t grow as many vegetables as she used to’.

But aside from Beryls amazing agility levels, my favourite thing to know about her is something I learned a few years ago.  Beryl had been in hospital, and was discharged only if someone offered to care for her.  I don’t know her family situation, but it was Derrick that kindly stepped up and had her move into his spare room while she got stronger.  I saw Derrick walking both their dogs part way through this arrangement and asked how things were.  It was clear they were a little fraught (I think ‘bloody awful’ was his actual response 😬) .  Later that day, in an attempt to give them a smile (and because I am a bit of a feeder) I made an apple pie and custard for their Sunday lunch pudding and popped it up, intending to leave it with Derrick.  But Derrick had escaped (or possibly not returned from the dog walk…) and Beryl answered the door and invited me in.  We had a lovely long chat that included asking how long she’d lived in the road (about 60 years) and where she’d lived before.

‘Oooh, a small town in Kent you probably wouldn’t have heard of.’

‘Oooh, I’m from Kent…what was it called?’

And you’ll never guess what.  Beryl grew up in Bumpkinsville.  She worked in shops in the town I grew up in.  And – after a bit of conferring with my Mum (this was before Mum’s stroke) – it turned out that Beryl knew Cousin George.  I have no idea how Cousin George fits in the family tree, but my Mum and her sister were ticked pink that Beryl up my road knew Cousin George down their road, many, may years ago.

And that is my snapshot of Beryl.  I’m hoping I’m still writing this when she is 100 and by then I’ll have learned more of her life.  And had the balls to ask for a proper photo.  But for now, this is her and Derrick on their morning constitutional.

Happy birthday, Beryl!🎈🎈🎈