It's nearly Mothering Sunday, and as I walked along the streets of Yarmouth and Newport on my recent sabbatical break in the Isle of Wight, in March 2025, I had spent my birthday on the Tuesday the eleventh at the Warners holiday village, Norton Grange in the Isle of Wight.
My wife and I have been to this place before and there are many Warner hotels around the U.K. where we older folks tend to congregate to be fed and watered and treated like royalty for a few days of the year. You have to be over twenty one to go to the hotels or coastal resorts but generally I would say the average age…… is over sixty.
You meet couples with wonderful stories and swap old jokes in a semi non woke environment and recall memories of what we would call a by gone age. As I listened to a lovely couple, sitting at dinner with us Robert ‘Bob’ Taylor and his wife Helen. Bob proudly said ‘my mums 98 this year” I couldn't help but think of my own mum, Sarah. She passed away in 2008, a little too close to Christmas, and that time of year always brings back a flood of memories as I guess it does for all us of boomer age and I now get e-mails spammed across to me reminding me to buy something nice for Mother’s Day And even one from “Moonpig” saying asking me if I didn’t want to celebrate “Mothering Sunday”.
In the small town of Yarmouth, where the Ferry pulls in on the hour to bring hoards of visitors to the Island, I overheard a group of teenage boys debating the perfect gift for their mum in a local shop. Their earnest discussion, their desire to get it just right, was heartwarming. It reminded me of the simple, genuine affection we often take for granted. Then, later that week on Newport's high street, I saw a young lad proudly carrying a potted plant, a small but meaningful gesture.
When we left the Island pulled into the waiting area, the official in the kiosk said - name to which my wife said “Teresa Taylor” - oh he said, “that‘s my mum’s name”. So, I decided that on this recurring theme, I would write my blog article.
Mothering Sunday remains, a day dedicated to appreciating the women who shaped our lives. It’s a tradition with deep roots, dating back to the 16th century in England, when it was a time for people to return to their “mother church.” In those days, it was also a chance for domestic servants to visit their families, a practice known as “going a-mothering.” This day, falling on the fourth Sunday of Lent, is a poignant reminder of the enduring importance of family ties.
I know many of my friends and family are also thinking about their mums right now, wondering what to get them on this special day. It's not about the grand gestures, is it? It's about the thought, the effort, the expression of love. Whether it's a hand-picked plant, a carefully chosen card, or simply a phone call to say "I'm thinking of you," it's the sentiment that matters. In my mum’s day, it might have been a hand picked posy and a hand made card to show appreciation of mum.
A story for Mother’s Day
The Last Vigil - “You should come visit soon, love”
The hum of the Toyota Yaris on the hard road surface of the A303 carried Janet through the English countryside, a blur of early spring green against a grey sky. Janet watched it pass, a knot of guilt tightening in her stomach. Mothering Sunday. It had been too long. Months bled into weeks, work piled up, and her own life had become a self-contained bubble, leaving little room for Teresa, her mum, who had always been its gentle anchor. "You should come visit soon, love," her mother's voice echoed in her memory, a soft, familiar cadence now laced with the sharp edge of regret.
The familiar curve of the lane leading to her childhood home brought a hesitant smile to Janet’s lips. The garden, usually a riot of her step father’s meticulous care, looked a touch subdued, the early daffodils nodding in the breeze but lacking their usual exuberant cheer. Janet reached into her bag, her fingers finding the cool metal of her old house key a little rusty amongst the plethora of key rings she had collected as a hobby. A relic from a time when this house was the whole world.
The click of the lock echoed in the sudden silence as she stepped inside. "Mum?" Her voice felt too loud, swallowed by the stillness. The air hung heavy, different. Not unwelcoming, but… waiting. A prickle of unease danced on the back of her neck.
The lounge was bathed in the soft, diffused light of a cloudy morning. Dust motes, disturbed by her entry, danced in the golden shafts. Janet’s gaze fell instantly on the black leather sofa. There, nestled amongst the cushions, lay a half-finished bottle of wine – a soft, blanket -strewn across the floor. Her mother's favourite when cold. A wave of warmth, so vivid it felt almost tangible, washed over Janet. She remembered countless birthday parties and Christmas joys and wished she had come out of her room more when she was a teenager.
The rhythmic click of the clocks in the conservatory brought a comforting soundtrack to her childhood.
On the mantelpiece, the familiar faces in the silver frame seemed to gaze back at her. Janet , all sketched with her bobbed haircut and missing teeth and boundless energy, held tight in her mother's loving arms, her step father’s navy memorabilia and Tottenham pictures standing proudly beside more photographs of her sister, who she hadn’t spoken too for a while . She vowed that she would make more effort.
A lump the size of a stone lodged in Janet’s throat. She reached out, her fingertips tracing the outline of her mother’s smiling face on the wedding photo above the mantelpiece.
The kitchen still held the ghost of Sunday roasts past, she loved her mum’s cooking. The faint, lingering scent of Sunday cooked lunch and something sweet, perhaps the ice cream or home made brownies that she herself had made in her youth.
Tucked beside Teresa’s air fryer was a recipe card, for lasagne, the ink slightly faded, for her special Italian treat, she guessed that her mum was planning to make it in the week ahead. . Janet’s breath hitched as she read a penned note on the family calendar, a Christmas present mum always wanted, simply said on 30th March “Janet and Catherine ?”
In the hallway, the height chart on the wall was a stark reminder of time’s relentless march. Her growth spurts, meticulously marked in her mother’s neat script, seemed impossibly distant. She could almost hear Teresa and her birth dad’s delighted exclamations at each new line, her hand gently ruffling Janet’s hair.
Upstairs, her old bedroom remained a sanctuary of forgotten childhood. It was still in a state of clearance after she moved out three years ago. She couldn’t take everything with her but she admitted the hoarding of items had been a problem growing up. In the corner was a well-loved teddy bear, (Barnsley Bear); its fur matted with years of cuddles, sat patiently on the floor, there was no bed in place yet. The faint, unmistakable scent of lavender – from the sachets Teresa always tucked into the drawers – hung in the air, a delicate, almost ethereal perfume. Janet closed her eyes, a vivid memory flooding back: a stormy night, the comforting weight of her mother’s hand on her forehead as she read a story, her voice a soothing balm against the childish fears.
Even the bathroom held its small, poignant details. Teresa’s favorite brand of hand soap sat by the sink, and a smudge of her signature rose-tinted lipstick marked the edge of the counter. These were the ordinary, everyday things, now imbued with an extraordinary, heartbreaking significance.
As Janet moved through the silent house, she felt it – a subtle shift in the air, a fleeting warmth in the hallway outside her old room, a faint, almost inaudible hum that sounded like her mother’s favourite song being played “Alexa play Luther”. She dismissed it as her imagination, the power of memory playing tricks in the quiet solitude. A peaceful, nostalgic ache settled within her, tinged with a growing bewilderment at her mother’s continued absence. It was like a melody unfinished, a feeling that echoed in the stillness, making her wonder, "Never too much, never too much..." of her mother's presence would ever truly fade from these walls.
She reached the bottom of the stairs, the worn wooden banister smooth beneath her hand, a familiar comfort. Just then, the front door creaked open.
Ethan stood silhouetted against the muted daylight, his frame slumped, his shoulders shaking. He stumbled into the hallway, his face a mask of raw grief, tears carving tracks through the pale skin of his cheeks. He clutched a crumpled tissue, his breath catching in ragged sobs. He didn't seem to see her.
"Ethan?" Janet’s voice was a mere whisper, her heart slamming against her ribs, a cold dread seizing her.
Ethan looked up, his eyes widening in shock, then flooding with a fresh wave of anguish as he focused on her. He reached out a trembling hand, his lips moving silently.
"Janet… oh, Janet ," he finally choked out, his voice a broken rasp. "I… I was just at the hospital."
Janet rushed to him, her own carefully constructed composure crumbling. "Ethan, what is it? What's happened?"
He struggled for breath, the words tearing from his throat. "Your… your mum… she… she was taken ill suddenly this morning. A heart attack. They… they did everything they could…"
His voice fractured, a sob wracking his body. "She… she died an hour ago, Janet."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The peaceful echoes of the past shattered, replaced by a deafening silence. The lingering warmth Janet had felt, the faint whispers, now took on a chilling, heartbreaking resonance. It wasn't just memory; it was a presence, a final embrace in a house now irrevocably altered.
Janet held her step dad , their shared grief a heavy, suffocating blanket. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with his. She looked around at the familiar hallway – the coat rack where Teresa’s favorite pink jacket still hung, a white woollen baby blanket was strangely hanging on the bottom of the stairs where Janet and Catherine had spent countless hours playing with ‘the babies’– an affectionate term for the many dolls the two girls pushed around the house in their primary school days and the memories crashed down on her, each one a fresh stab of pain. The laughter, the bedtime stories, the spiders mum got rid of when she shouted out in fear, the quiet moments of unconditional love – all now edged with the unbearable sharpness of finality.
The feeling that had compelled her to come, the nagging sense of obligation, “You should come visit soon, love “; now felt like something more profound – a whisper across the veil, a final, unseen connection to the woman whose love still permeated the very walls around them. Her Mothering Sunday. The visit, meant to bridge a gap, had become a silent last vigil, a tearful farewell in a house haunted by the beautiful ghost of a love and the memories that would never truly fade.
Poem
Mother, what’s it like ?
You were there when I crashed my bike
Pulling at your apron strings
Counting our Xmas presents, family things
One day, I want to be like you
You care, I know now, it’s so true
You worked for us, you did your best
We left you in the empty nest
I’m sorry, for the distant touch
But, you know I love you very much
Mum, you gave me life, I can’t pretend
You are my life, my true best friend!
Epilogue
I'll be remembering Sarah, my mum, her strength, her kindness, and the love she gave so freely. I hope you'll take a moment to do the same, to cherish the memories and celebrate the mothers who made us who we are. And to the younger generation: don't judge the oldies for enjoying their past or receiving benefits, someone said to me the other day “why do YOU need a bus pass“ ; I said jokingly, to the thirty or so year old, to “keep us oldies off the road” but deep down, I thought ‘because undoubtedly we oldies earned it’ . I relish and cherish these wonderful people who for some that never got to be in their thirties, forties or fifties and who gave up their tomorrows for us to live in our today!