Old age | Now I'm 64

The Old Man of Calke – still hanging on after 1,200 years

Posted on March 17, 2021 by Platypus Man

At my age birthdays are a mixed blessing. On the one hand they’re a cause for celebration (Yes, I’ve made it through another 12 months!). But they’re also a time for reflection on how your body has fared over the last year, which bits of it have started hurting, begun to misfire or even stopped working altogether. Spare a thought, then, for the Old Man of Calke, who’s still hanging on after 1,200 years.

The Old Man is one of many magnificent trees to be found in parkland at the Calke Abbey estate in the south of Derbyshire. Calke Park extends to around 600 acres (240 hectares), and is managed for the nation by the National Trust. Around one third is designated as a National Nature Reserve and Site of Special Scientific Interest.

After the Covid restrictions earlier in the year, our visit to Calke Park in October 2020 provided a welcome opportunity to get close to nature again, strolling past picturesque ponds and along shaded woodland paths. There’s lots to see during a walk around the park, but without doubt the ancient and veteran trees are the stars of the show.

**Ancient and veteran trees are common at Calke Park**

Calke is home to over 650 veteran trees, of which 350 are regarded as ancient trees. What’s the difference? I hear you asking. The Woodland Trust explains that “an ancient tree is one that has passed beyond maturity and is old, or aged, in comparison with other trees of the same species…A veteran tree is a survivor that has developed some of the features found on an ancient tree, not necessarily as a consequence of time, but of its life or environment. Ancient veterans are ancient trees, not all veterans are old enough to be ancient.” Clear as mud? Baffled? Absolutely!

The technical definitions may be more confusing than enlightening, but at an estimated age of around 1,200 years the Old Man of Calke must surely qualify as an ancient veteran. To put it into context, the Old Man was a sapling when the Vikings were rampaging across the country, and already had some 250 years under his belt when King Harold took one in the eye during the Norman invasion of England in 1066.

The Old Man is an English Oak, and although not very tall, it boasts a girth of over 10 metres. The trunk is gnarled, split and holed in places, giving the tree a somewhat battered and time-worn appearance. Despite this it is a massively imposing presence in the Calke parkland and seems to wear its great age lightly.

Thanks to the National Trust’s careful management, the Old Man of Calke will hopefully survive long enough to give several more generations of visitors to the Park the thrill of getting up close and personal with a tree that was in its prime when William the Conqueror first set foot on these shores.

Farewell Lady Kaka

Posted on January 22, 2020 by Platypus Man

Last Friday I said goodbye to a dear friend, my constant companion for the last few months. My life feels empty without her. She’d been with me day in and day out, and in the darkness of the night I’d lie awake thinking about her. We shared so many stories, through the good times and the bad. Together we laughed a lot, and even cried a little when the news came through about White Island. But now we’re finished, and I need to move on.

She wasn’t my first, of course. There were three others before her, and today – as you must know, because you are reading this – I’m with someone else. But for a few brief months we were inseparable.

She was a harsh mistress, always wanting more. Every day she expected me to perform, even when I didn’t feel up to it. I totted it up, and in total we got it together 89 times. Sometimes she let me have a day off, but the next day I had to make amends, to come up with the goods twice in just a few hours.

There were moments when I hated her for her insatiable demands, but mostly I loved her for believing in me and for driving me on to do things I didn’t know I could do. She got under my skin, seduced me, cajoled me and always encouraged me to be the best I could be.

I’m sure most of my friends wondered why I bothered with her at all. I could see it in their eyes, sense the unasked question in their emails, what’s the bloody point, why waste your time locked up with her, glued to your laptop when you could be outside soaking up the rays, or maybe getting rat-arsed in a pub?

And my answer is simple. I wrote a blow-by-blow blog of our visit to New Zealand to prove that I could, to show that there’s still life in this old dog, to demonstrate that intellectual and creative atrophy is not an inevitable consequence of retirement.

Writing a travel blog also allows me – forces me, in fact – to experience things differently. Regardless of the blog I would still have seen the parrots on our porch. But without the imperative to write something that family, friends and followers could relate to it would have been just a fleeting, casual acquaintance, soon to be forgotten. Without my blog I would never have met Lady Kaka. Here’s part of what I wrote about her in early December 2019:

She’s perched on the railing that guards the edge of our veranda, or porch as they call it in North America, staring into our room through the full length glass sliding door. I’m looking back out at her, captivated by her audacity. We’re separated by no more than a couple of metres and a sheet of glass. The kaka can see me but is totally un-phased.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is img_1607.jpg

Even when I slide the door open and step closer she’s untroubled, and simply watches me calmly. She doesn’t need reassurance but I offer it anyway, whispering to her, telling her that I find her beautiful and won’t ever harm her. She tips her head to one side quizzically, weighing me up.

I can read her mind. Are you for real? she’s asking. Why do you people always act so weird around me? She’s plainly in charge of this encounter, which is like a thousand other meetings she’s had before with guests occupying our room.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is img_1521.jpg

I, however, haven’t read the script. I’m lost for words, unsure what to do next. Wild birds aren’t meant to be like this. Is she ill? Or mad? Or am I the crazy one, standing here in awe of this kaka, this big parrot with olive grey plumage, yellow sideburns and a bloody enormous bill?

I watch her intently, and she watches me back. It’s a Mexican standoff, and neither of us wants to make the first move. Finally she gets bored – I’ve obviously buggered up the audition – and utters a piercing, eardrum-exploding squawk as she flies off into a nearby tree. Lady Kaka has left the building

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is img_1620.jpg

The Platypus Man in New Zealand was my fourth and most ambitious road-trip travel blog. It runs to over 61,000 words spread across 89 posts. Designing it, researching it, writing it, editing it and responding to comments about it has dominated my life for several months. It’s been a deep and meaningful relationship that has changed and developed me in all sorts of ways. But in the manner of most relationships it’s run its course, and now I have someone new in my life.

Now I’m 64 is my new Best Friend Forever, a fresh challenge to keep the brain active and the pulse racing.

So, farewell Lady Kaka, my dear old friend, and thank you for the good times. I promise I won’t ever forget you.

Getting older: An unwelcome milestone

Posted on October 2, 2019 by Platypus Man

Our last day in Cambridge has not gone according to plan. Although the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, built around the year 1130 and generally known as The Round Church lives up to expectations, the Fitzwilliam Museum does not. The museum’s neo-classical exterior is magnificent, but isn’t the real point of a museum to go inside, wander around a bit to take in a few of the exhibits in a cursory sort of way, and then have a large mocha and a slab of cake in the café?

***Church of the Holy Sepulchre, also known as the Round Church***

Who in their right mind would close one of the country’s great museums on a Monday at the height of the summer tourist season? Ah, silly me, that would be the management of the Fitzwilliam Museum, I suppose. Disappointed, we decide to leave Cambridge and return to Platypus Towers on an earlier train.

We’re standing on the platform at Cambridge station. The train is due in about 20 minutes, and we’re both a bit knackered. The weather’s hot and humid, and we’ve spent a good part of the last three days trudging the streets, doing the tourist thing.

Inevitably there are very few seats on the platform, and all but one is taken. I encourage Mrs P to grab it – I’m a proper gentleman, don’t you know – and I’m left standing next to her, looking tired and miserable.

Time passes. Eventually the guy seated next to Mrs P tears himself away from his mobile phone and looks around him. He’s in early twenties and, unlike me, is appropriately dressed for the weather in sandals, shorts and a lightweight shirt. He spots me and a caring expression crosses his lightly bearded face. He stands, looks me straight in the eye, then smiles encouragingly and politely asks, “Would you like a seat, mate?”

Would I like a seat? I ask myself. WOULD I? Of course I would, pal, only I don’t want you to offer me one, thank you very much! You think I’m old and past it, don’t you? Well I’m not! I’m not old at all, I’ve just got a lived-in kind of face, like Mick Jagger but with regular lips. I’ve had one hell of a life and if you’d done half of what I’ve done you’d look a damned sight older than me!

I don’t say any of this, of course. I just smile sweetly at my new-found knight in shining armour, and say “Thank you, I think I would.”

***PHOTO CREDIT:*** “Cambridge railway station” *by hugh llewelyn is licensed under* CC BY-SA 2.0

My saviour returns to his phone, probably fixing a hot hook-up on Tinder, the fit young bastard that he is, leaving me seated next to Mrs P to ponder what has just happened. I’m in my 64^th year, having worked over 40 years and travelled the world, and this is the first time anyone has ever stood up to offer me a seat.

What an unwelcome milestone this is, another waymarker on the inevitable journey to decrepitude. God, I feel old.

At last the train arrives. Even though half the population of Cambridge appears to be travelling west today it’s only three carriages long, so I don’t get a seat.

I end up standing in the area where cyclists stow their bikes, next to the disabled persons’ toilet. There are just two seats in this part of the carriage. On one of them sits another young, bearded, shorts-wearing man, but this one won’t meet my eye.

***PHOTO CREDIT:*** “Cambridge (Mainline)” *by Sparkyscrum is licensed under* CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

In the last 20 minutes I’ve grown accustomed to the good manners of the younger generation towards their elders, and am therefore incensed by the brazen effrontery of this new guy. He knows I’m standing here and badly need a seat, but he just keeps playing with his phone, swiping right furiously. I hope when you get a date she doesn’t turn up, you ignorant slob, I think to myself.

The other seat is occupied by an older woman, elegant, grey-haired and immaculately dressed, library book on her lap. She glances up and sees me leaning uncomfortably against the side of the carriage. A look of genuine concern crosses her face.

“Would you like this seat?” she asks, oh-so-kindly.

I look at her carefully. In her left hand she’s clutching a Senior Citizen’s Railcard. For god’s sake, she’s as old as me, possibly older, and here she is offering me a seat. Just when you think life can’t get any worse, it bloody well does.

I quickly regain my composure and politely decline her offer. You see, I still have my pride, and in any case as I mentioned earlier I’m a proper gentleman.

But we reach an agreement, that kind lady and me. She’s getting off at Ely, and when she does she’ll make sure I’m able to slide on to her seat before anyone else grabs it, so I can do the rest of the journey sitting down. It’s a good arrangement, and satisfies both parties.

After all, when the going gets tough us old fogeys need to stick together.