Ableism and Ageism Be Gone

Happier times

This is a going to be a rant, so feel free to stop reading now!

My husband, as you'll know if you've read much of this blog, is a professional sailor with a lifetime of experience, an artist and a fine woodcarver. He still does the occasional bit of woodcarving: small pieces, because a nasty combination of psoriatic and osteo arthritis means that his mobility is extremely challenged and in spite of serious medication he is in pain a lot of the time. 

He began years ago by skippering a trawler, but then moved on to the charter yacht world. Some of his experiences inspired my writing - including a very successful play about the state of the fishing industry, called The Price of a Fish Supper. Among other things, he did the Fastnet Race - the one after the disastrous year when people drowned, after which good sailing experience was compulsory. He did the Scottish Islands Peaks race, several times over, aboard a friend's yacht. He skippered a 50 foot charter catamaran, Simba, in the Canaries where I joined him for one extremely happy winter. We went back the following year with our new baby son, while Alan was involved on and off with working on another friend's charter yacht. 

After that, he taught at the Inverclyde National Water Sports Centre in Largs, and did more charter skippering, but eventually came ashore when he felt he was missing our little son too much. This was when he turned to his other skill of woodcarving, making and restoring traditional rocking horses as well as undertaking other commissions. The picture at the top of this post is of a delivery (by sea) of a large ape to Kelburn Country Park in Largs, where you can still see some of his carvings. Have a look at his website for more images. These days, he paints extraordinary pictures, often with sea themes.

All those years, he sailed whenever he could. But these days, most (but not all!) of the friends he sailed with refuse to take him out, even for a long weekend on Arran.

For the avoidance of doubt, he can still manage to get on board a yacht if it is moored at a pontoon (of which there are many, here in the West of Scotland.) And once in the cockpit, he has lost none of his sailing, helming and navigation skills, He can haul on ropes, from a sitting position, because he still has upper body strength. He can also manage to negotiate the interior of a yacht because it's infinitely smaller than a house, with lots of handholds and seats. He doesn't have to walk more than a few feet or stand for any length of time. He has a lifetime of knowledge. What he can't do is walk long distances or scramble about a deck, but then most sailing trips have somebody younger and fitter to do that. 

We live in a lovely, supportive rural community, but sadly, it's some distance from the sea. He misses sailing and he misses the sea acutely. But he is 'not wanted on voyage'. Eventually, tired of all the evasion, he asked outright. The answer was a flat 'no'. They obviously see him as a liability. Earlier this year, we contacted a disabled sailing group, but that too has been lukewarm in its response. I suspect the problem there is that he is overqualified. They are happy to provide day trips for beginners. Not so happy with elderly disabled professionals. 

But then, anyone with a disability, or even anyone who has been in a wheelchair for a short time will know that feeling of being patronised, excluded and treated as being entirely without agency. It's not nice, is it?

Since I wrote this, close friends who live many miles away, the ones who we know are happy to take Alan sailing, have contacted him to invite him to sail with them in the next few weeks. They're lovely, confident people who who enjoy his company and they are heading our way! 

Disability, Accessibility and Odd Attitudes.

 

Alan in his element

I don't often stray into such personal territory in my blog which tends to be about writing and publishing as well as the antique textiles and teddies that I 'rehome' and, of course, Alan's artworks. And gardening. That should be enough to be going on with, shouldn't it? But sometimes, you just have to make an exception.

Ever since I've known him - and that's a long, long time - Alan has been a seafarer. He was a trawler skipper for a while. I tapped into his knowledge when I wrote my play The Price of a Fish Supper which you can listen to in its best version with Ken O'Hara, directed by Isi Nimmo, here. Later, he became a charter yacht skipper, travelling to destinations such as the Canaries, the Azores, Norway and - on one memorable occasion - Russia. He's a well qualified and massively experienced ocean-going yacht skipper. He even taught sailing for the Scottish Watersports Centre in Largs

In the Canaries, we lived and worked aboard a big Catamaran called Simba. You can read about it on this blog, in several previous episodes, titled 'A Tale of Two Canary Island Winters.'

Unfortunately, a number of years ago, Alan's mobility gradually became worse, a condition which was eventually diagnosed as serious psoriatic arthritis coupled with osteo - i.e. wear and tear - arthritis. He has a good rheumatologist, and these days excellent treatments are available but some of them came too late to prevent damage. So, his upper body strength is fine, but his mobility is very challenged. And painful. He soldiers on. In fact last year, he managed a fundraiser for our local hospice, going round the village in his wheelchair and washing windscreens. 

There has been plenty written elsewhere about accessibility problems. The realisation of just how badly served people with disabilities are in this country only dawns on you when you're struggling with the shortcomings. 

For example, Booking.com seems disinclined to ask hotels and guest houses to clarify whether rooms have walk-in or over-bath showers. Many disabled people don't need a fully wheelchair accessible room, but they do need small adjustments. Disabled parking spaces are often (and inexplicably) situated a long way from entrances for people who struggle to walk. Hospitals are some of the worst culprits but hotels are bad too. Accessible rooms are sometimes lightless dug-outs situated down long corridors. Disability friendly rooms are usually dog friendly rooms as well, so we're faced with choosing between accessibility for my husband or asthma for me. Crossing places in the UK don't give you nearly enough time to cross.Anyone with a serious mobility problem could add to the list. People with disabilities don't expect the whole world to change to suit them, but a modicum of imagination and consideration might help.

However, that's not the point of this blog. Those were anticipated problems. What we didn't expect was a different kind of problem altogether - and that was wholly unanticipated.

Since my husband was diagnosed all those years ago, I've watched the changing attitudes of some  relatives and friends. 

Not everyone of course. Not by any means. We have some good friends and among them are a couple  who are happy to invite Alan onto their boat. With a little help, he can manage to get aboard. He sits at the helm and they let him get on with it. That's their beautiful yacht in the picture above. He hasn't lost any of those skills and he hasn't lost his mind. Just his agility. And he's instantly in his element, using all his considerable experience, because there is more to sailing than leaping about with ropes. Sadly, these willing friends live a long way away, so sailing with them is a rare treat. 

But gradually, there came the realisation that other invitations had dried up. There were friends with whom Alan had sailed for years. Friends who wanted crew. What they clearly didn't want was to accommodate somebody with a disability. Not even for a short trip now and then.

It took me quite a while to acknowledge this, and I expect it's the same for other partners of people with disabilities. You don't want to believe it. But it creeps up on you, until it becomes so obvious that you can't ignore it any longer. I'm pretty certain people will have similar stories from other areas of life and disability. People deciding for you what you can and can't do. Because they don't want the responsibility, not just of accommodating you, but of what they perceive to be the responsibility of you. Not even for a day or two, very occasionally. Just pause for a moment and think about that. Think about how infantilising and hurtful that is. Right up there with 'does he take sugar' isn't it?

Back on the water at last thanks to a local coastal rowing club!.

Disability Pride Month - In search of comfortable and accessible hotel rooms in rural Scotland? You'll have to look long and hard.

 

On our way back from visiting friends who live on the Isle of Skye, we spent a night at Drimsynie House Hotel. Above is the view from the restaurant - which gives you some idea of the beautiful setting. But what I really want to talk about here is disabled access. Because this hotel is a star where this is concerned, unlike a whole tranche of Scottish Highland hotels with little to no consideration for anyone with mobility problems. 

My husband has serious arthritis. He isn't in a wheelchair - or not permanently - although he occasionally uses one to get about. But what he can't do is climb up and down stairs, and what he certainly can't do is climb into a bath with one of those over-bath showers. 

He's not alone, yet if you go to any booking site, and try to find a reasonably priced, comfortable hotel with disabled access, in the Scottish highlands or on the islands - you're going to struggle. 

Drimsynie was a serendipitous find. 

It is a combination of a holiday park with a hotel as part of it. There are (good looking) lodges and some caravans with bedrooms in the main building. It is a very well kept place. There is masses of space, and the setting is absolutely stunning and well off the beaten track - a long, single track road, in fact.  It has a curiously old fashioned and comfortable feel to it, and I mean that in a very good way. I kept thinking about Kellerman's in Dirty Dancing. Whenever I watch that movie, I wonder if such a place could still exist. Well maybe it does. Somebody somewhere may even have been carrying a watermelon, although I didn't see any candidates for Johnnie. The holiday park seemed to be full of young families, or grandparents spending time with grandkids, or small groups of older women - with a few couples like us, mostly passing through. 

We had booked a room with disabled access, something we always do with trepidation since they tend to be relegated to the bowels of the hotel. There was good disabled parking. There was a lift. (Yay!) The room was light and spacious, and had a wonderful view. The bathroom was sparkling clean and wheelchair friendly, if that was what you needed. The vast bed was a marvel of comfort. We were both tired after a long drive, and we had the best night's sleep we had had in years. There was a coffee machine, drinks, a kettle, free mineral water and toiletries too. 

All in all, they deserve praise for supplying a service that is, it is worth pointing out in this Disability Pride Month, rarer than the proverbial hen's teeth, especially in this part of the world. 

The excuse other hotels give is generally that the building is 'too old' for disabled access. But there is no reason why more old buildings shouldn't be able to install a small lift. Our village hall - a listed building with the main hall on the first floor - has one. Drumlanrig Castle along the road has one. Failing that, a stair lift would help. But most old Highland hotels reply to all enquiries with the casual brush-off that all their rooms are on the first and second floors. Then, even if a customer struggles to climb to a first floor, the over bath shower, with no helpful handles, is commonplace. Hard cheese to any customer with mobility problems. Which given the demographic of many of their guests, seems remiss at best. And it's not just oldies. Plenty of younger people have problems too. 

We stayed in another highland hotel on our way north and although the room was nominally accessible, i.e. on the ground floor, it was a long walk from the car park and it was tiny. 'Cat swinging not possible' remarked my husband. There was a walk-in shower in a bathroom so minuscule that it was physically impossible to sit on the loo without knocking the loo roll off its holder, and a washbasin so tiny that you couldn't fill the kettle without decanting water into a cup first. Worse than all this, however, the window looked out directly onto a tall fence beyond which was the beer garden. You literally couldn't see what the weather was like by looking out of the window. There was virtually no natural daylight in the room at all. Fortunately we were there for only one night - the staff were obliging and cheerful, the bar was comfortable and the food was good - but I was glad we weren't staying longer. Because the staff were so nice, we might even book it again in similar circumstances, but Alan would have to attempt to crawl upstairs and - worse - down again. 

As a writer, I've encountered a few appalling single rooms in my time. The very worst was in Edinburgh, up a precipitous flight of stairs, a tiny, madly expensive, crazily hot room with no view, right beside a flat roof, housing some piece of machinery from a nearby restaurant that made a deafening noise all night long, so you couldn't possibly keep the window open. No breakfast. Just a room. I fell out of there at about 7am and made straight for the nearest coffee shop. It's why cheapish and cheerful chain hotels with decent levels of comfort are popular with writers doing events. But the problems facing single travellers are as nothing compared to the problems facing anyone with a disability. You waste hours trying to figure out what's actually on offer when booking, only to have them respond to your enquiries with the news that all their rooms are on the second floor.  Or there is no parking, let alone disabled parking. Or the disabled parking is half a mile away. Or there is no walk-in shower. Or no lift. 

This means that the occasional gem like Drimsynie is a rarity. Surely, we need more consideration. In fact, it should be the rule, rather than the exception.