Monday 12th October 2026

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Living with dementia, routine can be really important to me. It gives my brain something familiar to hold on to and helps me know what I’m doing and where I’m supposed to be. So when that routine is broken for a few days, it can take me a while to pick it back up again.

Coming home from our three days in Switzerland, I found myself feeling quite strange. I was tired, both physically and mentally, but I was also still on a high from such an exciting and positive experience. My head was full of everything that had happened, the people I had met, the conversations I had had and the opportunity to share my story. It had been amazing, but it was also a lot for my brain to process.

And then I came home to a very busy week.

There was visiting my dad, which is always emotional at the moment, especially with everything that has happened around his care. Then came two days of back-to-back meetings, a radio interview and, in between all of that, I was still chasing complaints and trying to get answers about the lack of care my dad received in the care home.

It felt like my brain barely had time to catch up with one thing before something else was happening.

I found myself feeling lost and unable to function properly. Simple things seemed harder than they normally would. I knew what I wanted to do, but somehow getting my brain to organise it all felt like a completely different matter.

I think I have been chasing myself coming backwards this week, if that’s even the right saying!

There is also something strange about coming down from such a big experience. Switzerland was exciting, exhausting and emotional, and I came home feeling proud and happy about what I had achieved. Then suddenly I was back in everyday life, with appointments, responsibilities, my dad and all the things that still need sorting.

Sometimes I think people see the exciting things I get involved in and perhaps imagine that because I manage to do them, everything is easy for me.

Well I can tell you It isn’t.

I can do amazing things. I can travel, speak about dementia, sit in meetings, do radio interviews and share my story. But that doesn’t mean my brain doesn’t pay the price afterwards.

Sometimes I need time to recover.

Sometimes I need quiet.

And sometimes I simply need to get back to the things that make my world feel familiar again.

So, if I’m honest, I’m rather glad that week is over.

This week is going to be a quieter one. I need to slow everything down, get back to my usual routine, spend some time outdoors, walk with the dogs and give my brain a chance to settle. Hopefully, little by little, I’ll start feeling a bit more like myself again.

Because at the moment, I feel like I’ve been stuck on a constant spin cycle, round and round, trying to keep up with everything, while my brain is desperately looking for the stop button!

Living with dementia means I’ve had to learn to listen to my brain more. I’m still learning, actually.

I’m learning that after the highs, there can be a bit of a wobble. I’m learning that needing time to reset isn’t failure. And I’m learning that sometimes the best thing I can do is stop trying to do everything and simply give myself permission to breathe.

So this week, I’m pressing pause.

Back to routine.

Back to familiar things.

Back to a slower pace.

And hopefully, back to feeling a little more human again.

Friday 9th October 2026

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Art has become so much more than a hobby for me, it’s an outlet, a place of calm, and a way of making sense of life while living with dementia.

When my head is whizzing with confusion, picking up a paintbrush changes everything. Collecting a little paint and placing it onto a blank sheet of paper takes me somewhere quieter. In that moment, I’m not worrying about what’s for lunch, why I forgot to put the washing on, or whether I’ve missed a 10am meeting. I can simply be me.

So when I came across the Winsor & Newton Postcard Project, inviting artists from around the world to create a postcard using watercolours, I jumped at the chance.

Then my confidence disappeared.

When the pack arrived, I put it to one side. I kept wondering, Am I good enough? For days I picked it up, read the rules, and put it back down again.

Eventually I thought, why not?

Does it really matter if my painting isn’t perfect? At least I’ll have been brave enough to try.

So I painted my postcard, registered it, and posted it off. If I’m honest, I expected it to get lost in the post or disappear without a trace.

A few days later, an email arrived. They had received my artwork, and it was now being displayed in the online gallery alongside artists from across the globe.

It brought smile to my face.

I’m so glad I didn’t let self-doubt win, because sometimes the most important thing isn’t creating something perfect, it’s having the courage to create at all.

I have just learned that there will be a showcase featuring thousands of postcards from the global Art Mail community hung on the walls of the Saatch Gallery in London from

1st – 11th October, 2026

After the exhibitions postcards will be auctioned in support of Hospital Rooms, a charity Windsor & Newton proudly support.

Wednesday 7th October 2026

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After returning to the hotel late Thursday afternoon, I was on a real high after delivering my story and having it so warmly received. I was also absolutely exhausted, both physically and mentally, so it was time to chill for a while before heading out for something to eat.

We found a lovely bar right at the water’s edge that served food, and decided it would be the perfect place to spend our last evening in Lucerne.

And it really was perfect.

The food was lovely, the view was beautiful, and being beside the water always seems to bring me a feeling of calm. After such a busy few days, it was just what I needed.

Once we had finished eating, it was time to retreat back to the hotel. Hubby managed to get good old Coronation Street on his iPad for me to watch, which felt like a little bit of home while we were so far away.

Then it was time to retire to bed.

I had something else planned for tomorrow.

Friday was our last day, and we were up early. We decided I needed to get out for a walk before breakfast because my head really wasn’t functioning properly. I’d already managed to put my dress on back to front, which probably says everything!

I was feeling emotional too. I was tired, and I think the enormity of everything we had experienced over the last few days was finally catching up with me.

Hubby made sure I was okay before we stepped out of the hotel.

The morning air was cool as the sun was just beginning to rise over the mountains, reflecting the buildings and sunlight onto the still waters.

Lucerne really is a stunning place.

We have definitely fallen in love with Switzerland. There is something about it that feels so calm and peaceful, and I think I will always remember that feeling.

A few photographs later, it was time to head back to the hotel for breakfast.

I wasn’t feeling as nervous this morning, so I managed some toast, bacon and a hash brown.

Now that’s a good breakfast for me! 😊

After breakfast, we headed back to our room to finish packing before meeting Sandra from Roche at 9.30am.

Sandra greeted us and took one look at me.

“Are you okay, Gail?”

“Yes, I’m just tired. I’ll be fine.”

“Only if you’re sure. We can cancel today if you need to.”

“No, no, I’ll be fine. One last push and it will all be done.”

We chatted in the car about Roche, Switzerland and just how grateful we have been for this incredible opportunity.

Before we knew it, we were back at Roche.

Today we were escorted to a recording room, where I would be asked questions and answer them while the media team recorded everything.

They have such a professional set-up. In fact, everything we have experienced and seen at Roche has been so incredibly professional, and we have felt so welcomed throughout our time there.

The whole interview took around an hour, and then it was time for lunch.

We had lunch at Roche with Sandra and the recording team, which was lovely. Then came the part I knew was coming…

Time to say our goodbyes.

There were hugs, handshakes and lots of thank yous before we climbed into our taxi to take us back to Zurich airport.

I was exhausted.

I was happy.

I was sad to be leaving.

But at the same time, I couldn’t wait to get home.

As we boarded the plane, I looked back one last time at Switzerland.

What an incredible few days it had been.

So many very special memories made.

I still can’t quite believe it has happened.

From worrying about getting on that plane in the first place, to standing in Switzerland and sharing my story alongside some incredibly knowledgeable and inspiring people, it has been an experience I will never forget.

I went to Switzerland with my worries, my anxiety and my little coping strategies packed into my suitcase.

I came home with memories, new experiences, new friendships and a huge sense of pride.

Sometimes, you just have to take that one last push.

And I’m so glad I did.

Monday 5th October 2026

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A good few months ago, I was approached by Roche Diagnostics and invited to attend their Alzheimer’s Awareness Week in Switzerland, where I would be speaking alongside some incredibly knowledgeable people in the world of Alzheimer’s research and diagnosis.

It was one of those pinch me moments.

I honestly couldn’t quite understand why they wanted “little old me”

After careful thought, and with a very helpful neighbour kindly offering to look after Toby and Sooty, hubby and I accepted their very kind invitation.

Roche believe that an early and accurate diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease remains a significant global challenge. Many people experiencing symptoms are still not diagnosed, and for those who do receive a diagnosis, the process can sometimes take years.

I know only too well how important diagnosis is.

But getting that diagnosis is only part of the story.

At the moment, clinicians can use cognitive assessments alongside MRI and PET scans, and sometimes a lumbar puncture to collect cerebrospinal fluid, to look for the biological changes associated with Alzheimer’s, including amyloid and tau.

These methods can be expensive, difficult to access and, in some cases, invasive. For many people, they can create another barrier at a time when they are already anxious and searching for answers.

This is where blood-based testing could potentially make a real difference.

Roche researchers are working on diagnostic innovations designed to help identify the biological signs of Alzheimer’s disease through a blood test. The Elecsys® pTau217 Plasma assay is a blood-based test designed to help identify Alzheimer’s-associated amyloid pathology.

For me, the really exciting part is the possibility of making diagnosis simpler, more accessible and less invasive.

Blood tests like this have the potential to remove some of the barriers people currently face and, hopefully, help more people receive a timely and accurate diagnosis.

That could mean less waiting, less uncertainty and less stress for individuals and their families.

And I think that can only be a good thing.

But there is something else I kept thinking about.

If we get better at diagnosing people earlier, are we ready to support them afterwards?

Because a diagnosis isn’t the end of the story. It is the beginning of a very different chapter.

I really hope our health service in the UK will be ready to support the people who receive those diagnoses, because finding people earlier only truly makes a difference if the right support is there for them afterwards.

Switzerland… here we go!

Thursday 24th September arrived.

I was due to speak at Roche alongside Martin Traber, Global Alzheimer’s Disease Area Head, and Kristian S. Frederiksen from the Danish Dementia Research Centre.

My morning started with butterflies in my stomach.

And I couldn’t eat very much at breakfast

Luckily, we had time to have a lovely walk to the lake, which helped calm my nerves for a while.

At 10.30am, our car would be arriving to take us to Roche.

Excitement… and nerves!

As we arrived back at the hotel after our walk we bumped into Sandra in reception. I looked at her face and thought, I know you… but do I?

It was quite surreal.

We had spoken so many times online, yet I didn’t immediately recognise her in person.

Sandra instantly gave me a big hug, which was lovely.

She drove us to Roche, about 20 minutes from our hotel.

As we pulled into the car park, I was amazed.

It was huge, with buildings of all different shapes and sizes spread across the site. Some were modern, some covered in glass. It almost felt like a little complex of its own.

We entered a very clinical-looking reception, where friendly receptionists gave us water and our passes.

Then came the security doors…

And then…

The conference room.

It was huge, bright and open.

Gulp.

This was real.

There were advertisements for the event on large screens on the walls, leaflets laid out on tables and chairs, with photographs of the speakers.

And there was my photograph.

My photograph!

I picked up the leaflet and there I was, staring back at me.

Then I looked at the huge screen on the stage.

There I was again.

My face.

At Roche.

Speaking about living with Alzheimer’s.

What on earth was happening?

People came over to talk to me, explain the logistics and run through what would happen.

Then came the microphone.

I was wired up with a headset and microphone as people began arriving.

The seats started filling.

Time for one last visit to the bathroom before everyone took their seats

I walked into the toilets and thought…

Where is the toilet?

Everything was white!

The toilet, the sink, the walls… it all seemed to mingle together.

Good job I could spot the handles and taps!

Back in the conference room, I took my seat and waited.

Ten minutes into the conference, I was called onto the stage.

It was time.

Questions were asked.

I answered.

I told my story.

And as I looked around the room, I noticed people wiping their eyes.

That moment will stay with me.

I finished speaking and the whole room applauded.

I looked out at the audience and could see the emotion on people’s faces.

It touched me incredibly deeply.

I walked off the stage feeling quite emotional myself, trying desperately to keep it together.

Then hubby and Sandra took my hands.

“You were brilliant.”

I smiled.

What had just happened?

It all felt so surreal.

Then came the food…

After the conference finished, we mingled and chatted before being taken to the restaurant to eat with everyone involved in the conference.

Food started arriving at the table.

And this is where I’m not quite so comfortable.

I’m not good with unfamiliar foods.

I picked up a piece of bread as it was the only thing I recognised.

Sandra was watching me, worried that I wasn’t eating, even though I kept telling her, “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

Then…

Something I recognised!

A pizza appeared in front of me, Sandra had ordered the pizza specially for me. Nothing was too much trouble.

Throughout the whole visit, everyone involved in the conference and everyone who had helped get hubby and me to Switzerland was absolutely amazing.

They were kind, patient and understanding, and always made sure we were looked after.

After the meal, we were taken back to the hotel.

What an unbelievable day.

Something that had started with me wondering why Roche would want “little old me” had ended with me standing on a stage in Switzerland, sharing my experience of living with Alzheimer’s alongside people working at the forefront of research and diagnosis.

And somehow…

It still wasn’t over.

This was something extra special.

And there was more to come…

Friday 2nd October 2026

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After a very early start, we set off for Manchester Airport to catch our 9am flight to Zurich. On Wednesday 23rd September 2026, after a 1 hour 50 minute flight, we arrived in Switzerland ready for our unexpected adventure.

Everything had gone to plan… until passport control!

That was a nightmare. It took almost as long to leave Zurich Airport as it did to fly there from the UK. The long, winding queues began to fray my patience. I’m not very good at queuing anymore; I become impatient and agitated. Then again, everyone around us seemed impatient too, so perhaps it was rubbing off.

Our taxi was waiting outside, and the driver kept ringing my phone. He must have thought we’d disappeared! Thankfully, he was incredibly understanding and even helped us with our cases.

This was the moment it really hit me… I was in a different country.

The landscape took my breath away. Green open fields stretched into the distance, while towering rocky mountains reached high into the sky.

Roads of endless tunnels. Some lasted only seconds, others seemed to go on forever before daylight appeared again.

I found some of the tunnels quite unsettling. The roar of the traffic, flashing lights rushing past at speed, and that enclosed feeling of what if… became overwhelming at times. Closing my eyes helped calm the strange sensation. What I loved most was emerging at the other end to another spectacular view. Every tunnel revealed a completely different postcard.

Forty-five minutes later, we arrived at our hotel in Lucerne. Tucked away just off the main street, it was beautiful, luxurious, yet welcoming. The staff were friendly and accommodating, and before long we were handed our room key card.

Our room was on the first floor, reached by polished wooden stairs that looked more like a steep slope to me. Right at the beginning of the corridor was a doorway that completely confused me. I genuinely thought it was a mirror because of the shiny architrave.

People don’t always realise that a dementia brain can interpret everyday things differently.

The room itself was spacious, comfortable, and had everything we needed. By then I was shattered. My head felt heavy, and I knew exactly what I needed, a walk and some fresh air.

So we unpacked quickly and stepped outside into a different world.

I still can’t quite believe I’m here. I still can’t believe I’ve been given this opportunity. It feels like a real pinch me moment, wonderful and slightly surreal.

We followed a sign pointing towards the lake, and as we reached the water’s edge it quite literally took my breath away. The beauty surrounding us was incredible. Although I was exhausted, there was such a calmness about the place. We sat quietly, watching the wildlife and boats glide across the lake, simply soaking it all in.

After our walk, it was time to head back for a short rest before finding something to eat.

Eating out can be surprisingly difficult since Alzheimer’s. My eating habits have become much fussier. I need to know exactly what I’m eating, and preferably it has to be something I’ve eaten before. If I don’t recognise it or I’m unsure, I simply won’t eat.

After wandering through the narrow streets lined with beautiful old Swiss buildings, we stumbled across a little place called Disco Pizza. The pizzas were excellent, although I couldn’t work out why it was called Disco Pizza… until the music got louder and louder and the restaurant filled with students from the nearby university! Time to leave!

I wouldn’t have minded so much if I’d understood a single word of the songs they were singing.

The perfect end to a very long day was to take in the sights as the sun disappeared behind the mountains leaving stunning reflections on the calm waters

Time to make our way back to the hotel, get some much-needed sleep, and prepare for tomorrow morning, when I’ll be collected to go somewhere very special to speak.

All will be revealed soon… 🇨🇭

Wednesday 30th September 2026

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Preparing for a trip to Switzerland was never on my agenda. It’s funny how life works sometimes, just when you think you know what’s ahead, an unexpected opportunity appears. Switzerland was one of those opportunities.

I haven’t been in an airport or on a plane since the year I was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s. I found it overwhelming then, so I honestly have no idea how I’ll cope seven years on.

Strangely, the packing has been much easier than when we go away in the UK. We are not self catering, this trip we are staying in a hotel, we don’t have Toby and Sooty with us, and all the walking gear. So that has taken away quite a few jobs from my list.

The part I’m quietly worrying about is eating out. Cafés and restaurants are well outside my comfort zone because I like familiar places and familiar food. I’ve become quite a fussy eater since my diagnosis. I tend to eat what I know, what I’m used to, and although some people might think my meals are boring, they’re comforting to me. Left to my own devices, I’d probably eat the same two meals every day!

This trip has been planned for us, which is both reassuring and unsettling. On one hand, it’s lovely not having to organise every little detail. On the other, hubby and I are usually in control of every aspect of our holidays…choosing the flights, the seats, the hotel, and knowing exactly what’s happening. This isn’t really a holiday though; I’m travelling to speak at an Alzheimer’s event, which makes it feel even more important.

It’s funny the little things that have caused me the most anxiety. Choosing a seat on a plane, knowing where we’re staying, or waiting for an itinerary might sound trivial to some people, but for me they’re the details that help my brain feel safe. When the itinerary finally arrived, I felt an enormous sense of relief. My flight seats were good ones… I think!

On Sunday, with three days to go, I had a complete wardrobe panic. The wardrobe doors flew open and clothes were strewn all over the bed while I tried outfit after outfit.

“How am I supposed to know what I want to wear on Thursday… when it’s only Sunday?”

I struggle enough choosing what to wear on the day, never mind planning days ahead. It really does mess with my head. Eventually, after far too many changes, everything was chosen and neatly put to one side, ready for packing on Tuesday evening.

Then there were the dogs. Our lovely neighbour has kindly offered to look after Toby and Sooty, so I’ve been measuring out all their meals into Tupperware containers. It sounds like such a simple job, but it took my brain a surprising amount of effort. Still, I got there in the end.

All this planning, thinking and organising leaves my head feeling as though it’s spinning, wrapped in a little layer of fog. The nerves are definitely beginning to kick in. To top it all off, I’ve done something to my back—an unwanted distraction I could have done without!

So now it’s simply a case of waiting.

Roll on Wednesday morning at 5am… airport, here we come.

Eeek! 🇨🇭

Monday 28th September 2026

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Complaints procedures… ugh! What an eye-opener.

It’s exhausting. You make one complaint, only for it to be passed to somebody else, then somebody else again. It feels like playing pass the parcel, except I’m the one left standing in the middle.

My head feels constantly heavy from writing letters, filling in forms, and replying to endless emails. It’s no wonder so many people never complain. The whole system is so complicated that many simply give up. Pages and pages of nonsensical questions, many with little relevance, make an already distressing situation even harder to navigate.

I keep thinking about people in their later years. How on earth are they expected to cope with this level of complexity? So much of the process is online, yet many older people either don’t have a computer or aren’t confident using one. That becomes another obstacle placed in front of families who are already overwhelmed.

When a complaint involves care, a lack of care, and a safeguarding issue, you would imagine it would be treated as a matter of urgency. We’re talking about someone’s life… yes, a life.

I’ve said many times that once the word dementia is mentioned, it can feel as though that person slips to the bottom of the pile. It’s as if their voice matters less. That should never happen. A diagnosis of dementia does not make someone less worthy of dignity, protection, or justice!

I am absolutely exhausted trying to get my dad’s case heard. But what worries me even more is knowing that our family is not alone. There are countless families fighting the same battles, filling in the same forms, and desperately trying to make someone listen.

Things have to change. Families need clear, accessible complaints procedures. People need to be listened to. And dementia education and training should be mandatory in every care setting, because understanding dementia isn’t an optional extra…It’s essential to providing compassionate, safe care.

For my dad, and for every family still waiting to be heard, I will keep speaking up!

Friday 25th September 2026

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After two or three’s weeks of worrying about Dad and how he has been treated since going into full-time care, my own dementia finally said, “Enough!”

The endless complaints, phone calls, emails, and filling in safeguarding and complaint forms had taken their toll. I wanted to be strong for Dad and support Mum, but somewhere along the way my own brain became overwhelmed. Without warning, the familiar heavy fog descended. It’s hard to describe unless you’ve experienced it. My head feels full of grey fuzz, thoughts become slow, and even the simplest task takes far more effort than it should.

On Sunday evening I retreated to bed early, cocooning myself beneath my soft duvet with a pile of pillows around me. That feeling of being wrapped up brings a sense of safety and comfort when the world inside my head feels anything but.

I woke a couple of times during the night needing the bathroom. My balance was a little wonky, and as I walked the hallway the walls became my guide. There was no 6:30 am walk by the sea with Toby and Sooty. Instead, I stayed tucked up in bed listening to the morning begin outside. It was nearly 8 o’clock before I finally threw back the covers to see what the day would bring.

The dogs still needed their walk, so we compromised with a gentle stroll around the block. I couldn’t face venturing too far from home, and that’s something I’ve learned to accept. Some days you don’t push through, you simply work with what your brain will allow.

At 9:30, Julie, the Assistant Admiral Nurse, arrived. I quickly grabbed the first dress I could find in the wardrobe and made myself look vaguely respectable! It was lovely to chat. I was able to get everything off my chest, the worry about Dad, the stress of the past fortnight, and then, quite naturally, our conversation drifted onto ordinary things like holidays, painting, and what I’m planning next. Sometimes the greatest gift someone can give you is simply listening before reminding you that life still contains normal moments.

After Julie left, I wandered around our little bungalow looking at the jobs written on my notice board:

• Finish painting the bird table.
• Top up the gravel in the fairy garden.
• Order the food shop for Friday.
• Tend to front lawn
• Tidy back lawn from leaves

Having a list helps me enormously. I may not complete everything, but it gently guides me when my memory and concentration decide to take the day off.

Before starting anything, I glanced through my emails and one message caught my eye.

Hi Gail, I hope you had a lovely weekend! Last summer you submitted a design for one of our partner’s mug competition… We’re delighted to tell you that your design was selected as one of the winners!

I just stared at it for a moment.

I honestly couldn’t even remember designing a piece of art work to go around a mug!

Dementia steals memories in the strangest ways, so receiving an email celebrating something I’d completely forgotten doing was such a wonderful surprise. It made me smile and reminded me that even when I can’t remember creating something, it doesn’t mean I’ve stopped being creative.

As the afternoon wore on, the fog returned and my head grew heavier. Rather than fighting it, I listened to my body. The jobs could wait. Sometimes resting isn’t giving up, it’s just being kind to ourselves.

Living with dementia has taught me that there will always be foggy days, but they often arrive alongside unexpected moments of sunshine too. Today, that little mug reminded me that even on the heaviest days, life still has a wonderful way of surprising us.

Wednesday 23rd September 2026

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After Dad’s fall at the care home where he was living, everything that followed has left our family heartbroken.

He wasn’t properly checked over after his fall. For four days he was moved using a hoist because he couldn’t walk. A doctor was called and said it was behavioural that Dad was “putting it on.” A physiotherapist also saw him, yet Dad told them his leg was sore and it was ignored.

When I rang the care home, I was simply told, “He’s okay, just very grumpy.”

But what people don’t always do is ask why someone has suddenly become grumpy, withdrawn or angry. Behaviour is communication. A change in someone’s mood often has a reason, and pain can be one of the biggest reasons of all. Did anyone stop to find out what Dad was trying to tell them? Sadly, no.

When a loved one moves into a care home or is admitted to hospital, we place enormous trust in the people caring for them. We expect them to show compassion, respect and dignity, whether that person is living with dementia or not. Everyone deserves equal care. Everyone still has worth.

After seeing Dad in Urgent Care on Saturday 5th September, I knew I couldn’t sit back and do nothing. I’ve heard too many stories about people living with dementia being treated differently, and I can’t bear the thought that my own dad may have experienced that first-hand while being unable to explain what was wrong.

Before setting off on our short break, I made it my mission to seek answers. I contacted the care home, Lancashire County Council, the safeguarding team and our local MP, requesting a full investigation into the circumstances surrounding Dad’s fall. I asked for answers to some very important questions:

• Why was no immediate physical assessment carried out despite Dad repeatedly complaining of leg pain?
• Were the correct falls and safeguarding procedures followed?
• Was the communication and decision-making between care staff and the GP appropriate?
• Why was Dad’s fractured hip not identified for four days?
• And was it appropriate to continue moving him with a hoist before the fracture was diagnosed?

This has not been an easy process to navigate while living with dementia myself. Forms, phone calls and trying to keep everything in order have been overwhelming at times. But I couldn’t stay silent, because this isn’t only about my dad. It’s about every family who has gone through, or may one day go through, something similar.

People living with dementia are not behaviours to be managed…they are people. They deserve to be listened to, believed, and treated with the dignity every human being deserves.

Monday 21st September 2026

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Thursday 10th September was the last day of our short break. Dad was constantly on my mind, and I woke up hoping today would be the day he had finally turned a corner. All I could do was wait and hope.

We decided to visit the little shopping village in Hornsea. The weather had been incredibly kind to us all week, with beautiful sunshine making our break feel that little bit brighter. Today was no exception, in fact, I think it was the warmest day of them all.

We wandered around the shopping village, but if I’m honest, it was a little disappointing. So many of the shops were empty and boarded up. I remembered visiting this very place as a child with Mum and Dad, although back then the main attraction was always Hornsea Pottery. Mum and Dad loved it, and I can still picture them happily browsing the pottery before it sadly stopped trading in 2000. Funny how childhood memories stay with you. I even remembered Dad buying a coat from the TOG24 outlet there, that had gone too.

After our nostalgic but slightly sad visit, we headed to Hornsea Mere, one of the largest freshwater lakes in Yorkshire. During the First World War it was used as a base for the Royal Naval Air Service and later the Royal Air Force. Today it’s a peaceful haven for wildlife, with vast open water, countless birds and a lovely walking trail. There’s even a little café where you can sit with a cup of tea and watch the world go by.

After taking a few photographs, I walked back to the car and messaged Mum, asking if there had been any improvement with Dad.

Her reply simply said:

“Just got back home. He seems a lot better…Back to his normal, ha ha xxx.”

I cannot describe the relief I felt. Even better, he’d managed to eat some food, which felt like such a positive sign.

Back at the lodge it was time to start packing for home. It had been a strange break. We’d enjoyed our time on the East Coast, and I’m sure we’ll return next year, perhaps just to a different site, as this one was a little too far from some of our favourite birdwatching spots.

The following day, Friday 11th September, Mum rang to make sure we’d arrived home safely. Then her voice changed. She told me Dad wasn’t looking well. He was sleeping most of the time and becoming increasingly confused.

The moment I put the phone down, I knew I had to see him.

I rang Mum back later that day, and we arranged to meet at Blackburn Hospital on Saturday morning. Hubby would drive the 35 miles.

Hospitals give me terrible anxiety. Even thinking about walking through those doors makes my stomach churn. But it’s my Dad, and sometimes you simply have to go with the anxiety and be brave anyway.

Saturday 12th September arrived.

We reached Blackburn at around 10:30 and met Mum in the hospital foyer. Together we took the lift to the second floor. As we turned the corner onto the ward, there was Dad.

His head was bowed, his eyes closed, his body looking so incredibly frail, cocooned beneath pillows and a blanket.

Mum gently touched his hand. Slowly, he lifted his head and opened his eyes. For just a moment, a little spark of brightness appeared. He looked towards me with the faintest smile. I don’t know whether he truly recognised me, but I’d like to believe he did before drifting back to sleep.

He reminded me of someone desperately fighting tiredness, his head falling forward, then suddenly jerking awake, only for sleep to win again.

Mum and I sat quietly beside him, speaking only occasionally. She noticed the menu for Sunday’s meals and tried to ask him what he’d like. The choices seemed to confuse him, but between us we worked out that he wanted mashed potatoes and sponge pudding…just not on the same plate!

A nurse came to check his observations, smiled reassuringly and told us everything looked okay before leaving.

It was nearly lunchtime, so we knew it was time to go. We each gave Dad a long hug and a kiss.

And once again, I was reminded that sometimes the hardest part of loving someone is turning around and walking away.