From the grave yard of a little chapel, built in 1673, that’s tucked away, between the forest and the hills; a beautiful place on a beautiful summer evening: pushing up daisies? to be dead, buried beneath the ground.
This evening at 8:30. Why is it always lighter on the ‘inside’ of the rainbow? the answer may be in here but I’ve yet to read it all; as this is a post it in the moment sort of post, you will have to work it out for yourselves.
One of my favourite painters, Joseph Wright of Derby, I have written about him before, must have been a bit quick with the brush, seeing as he didn’t have a digital camera in 1794
I have spent the morning in an exam, don’t ask what on, I won’t tell you (sorry, it’s half a story, I know)
It’s the first time I have ever sat down at a proper, grown up exam, that starts at the top of the page and goes on and on, until, you either run out of time, things to compare and contrast, apply theory to, or just waffle about.
Readers who have been calling here for a while, will know, that I don’t like writing without the comfort blanket of Microsoft Office and the F7 button, I’ll stand up and talk to and for England; but ask me to put pen to paper, it brings up all sorts of demons. So you can imagine I wasn’t looking forward to the exam; now that my dyslexia has a piece of paper to prove it’s existence (and we could debate that topic ’till the cows come home, but please not now) I have an entitlement to some extra time in exams, to check my work. I must admit I was glad of it and used every second.
I wasn’t alone, another candidate was in the same situation and we placed ourselves at the front of the examination room as far away as possible from the door, so that when everyone else left, it would be less distracting for us. So when the time came and the invigilator said ‘ Everyone, put down your pens, except the two candidates with additional time.’ And everyone else filed quietly out of the room, before bursting into relieved and excited chatter as they dispersed down the corridor, I was transported back to being a child again, its a beautiful summers day, I am still inside the classroom redoing my work, my classmates are out in the sunshine, playing.
I hate my hand writing, its not good at the best of times, but under pressure, like this morning I like it even less, and whilst I’ve got used to writing essays, assignments and reports over the last few years, and goodness, I’ve even been known to enjoy it, but it’s only because I can ‘cut and paste’, edit and generally tidy things up; but no matter how hard I try, I remain convinced my messy writing and poor spelling, will have antagonized the examiner and the outcome will come back to not what I have written but how I’ve written it.
Rereading my work at the end of the exam, I discovered that my writing of the word ‘that’ looked like ‘t*at’ (for * insert ‘w’) and you can see this makes the word takes on an entirely different meaning (overseas readers, on a need to know basis, can read a definition of t*at here.) So it was not just the ‘I’s’ that needed dotting and the ‘T’s’ that need crossing, the ‘W’s needed a bit of remedial work too.
So back home, and not one, but two fried egg butties and two mugs of steaming hot tea later, I am both replete and exhausted, but I am still going out to play.
I came out of the supermarket to find, some one had put a large scratch, in the rear bumper of the car.
I was rather hoping it would be the sort of thing that would ‘T-cut out,’
looking more closely at the mark and trying to see if any of it would rub off with my fingers, it became apparent that it was quite deep scratch and wasn’t going to be easy to deal with, oh bum.
It was then that I noticed the set off golf clubs in the back of the car, and realised, the car wasn’t ours, same make same model, same colour, but not ours. Our car is parked 50 yards further up the car park, blush.
Last nights ‘red at night shepherds delight’ sort of sunset worth waiting for, I walked up to the top of the ridge, visibility was so clear I could even make out the tower blocks of the town best referred to as the ‘hole in the ground town’ a town who’s only redeeming feature is a truly beautiful Victorian railway viaduct, other than that it is best viewed from a distance and bathed in a flattering light of a summer sunset.
As a bonus whilst taking this shot, I watched a badger (it was huge, the largest I have ever seen, dead or alive) trotting along a track and disappearing into the undergrowth. Now I know badgers are not popular with farmers in many areas, because of their part in the spread of TB in cattle, and in parts of the country their numbers are at an all time high;but around here you are more likely to see them as bloated ‘road kill’ than going about their business, so it was a treat.
Badger don’t seem very bright at crossing the road, unfortunately they are creatures of habit, using the same tracks and set’s year after year, they don’t seem to get the concept of ‘not crossing on a bend’ ( I know they were around long before the automobile, they have every right) A few months ago, I came across what at first I thought was a car accident, it was dark and on the road to ‘nowhere’ when I saw a car stopped in the middle of the road and what looked like a body in lying in the road and people crouched down next to the ‘body.’ Brandishing my girl guide first aid certificate, I offered my assistance, fortunately the body, turned out to be a badger (but not fortunately for the badger, obviously) the badger was in my humble opinion about 98% dead, the people with it were, I’m pleased to say 100% alive; I pointed out that to be on a bend on an unlit road on a dark winters night was not a good place to be, unless you wanted to end up like the badger, they said they couldn’t leave it, so I suggested they move it, at this point I could see it was all a bit of a lost cause, I took my leave and left them debating what to do; I don’t know how they got on, I hope the remaining 2% badger wasn’t the biting bit.
On the subject of road kill, whilst in the Lakes the other week I thought I had found the perfect addition to my skull collection when I found a fox skeleton complete with bushy tail, at the side of the road, poking at it with my boot I found that it still had its black nose (that skin must be a bit tougher than the rest) and that the skull was ere, um, how shall we say, a little too ‘active’ and smelly for me to get away with bringing it home in the car, shame, it had a fine set of teeth.
But here is the brief
“Books are scarce in the world. They are illegal in some provinces. They are not easily replaced, if not impossible to replace if lost in many if not most circumstances. If you can replace a book or buy one, it is usually through the black market at astronomical costs that you cannot afford. Yet you have been able to maintain one of the best collections in the world. If your entire library was about to burn up and you could only have one* book to take with you other than the Bible, what would that be and why?”
Simple Rules:
Answer the question.
Offer one quote that resonates with you.
Tag five people whose response is of genuine interest to you and inform him or her that they have been tagged.
*and it cannot be an entire series of something, that’s cheating.
I feel a bit of a charlatan even doing this meme, I just don’t feel qualified I am not by any stretch of the imagination ‘well read’, my reading is eclectic to say the least, I can identify with Noddy’s comments,
Reading books is almost like going on a diet or stopping smoking. You know it’s good for you, but……
I didn’t grow up in bookish household (my mum will contest this by reminding me that I went to the library every Saturday morning, it’s true I did, on the way to junior youth club, but it doesn’t mean I ever read the books, and as likely as not they were of the Blue Peter ‘how to make’ genre.
When Tom was only a few month old I can recollect getting caught up in a conversation at a family celebration, with the ‘extremely well read’ division of my extended family the question went along the lines of ‘So Heather, who are your favourite children’s authors?’ at the time my sleep deprived, addled mind, distracted by issues of breast feeding and nappy rash, I could only manage a reference to enjoying ‘Winnie the Pooh’(and wishing my mums dear friend Laura, a sound, grounded ‘earth mother’ lady who read it to me would come to my rescue.) I’ve rarely felt more out of my depth.
I am envious of any one who can ‘get lost in a book’, my dyslexic brain just finds it a bit of a slog, maybe that’s why I like blogs, they come in bite size pieces.
Any way on with the story, there are three contenders,
Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China is an autobiographical family history by Chinese writer Jung Chang. First published in 1992, it is the story of her grandmother, her mother and herself, and in telling their stories gives a unique perspective on 20th century Chinese history.
Do you think the brief of this meme is a little far fetched? you won’t if you read this book.
Next up is
The curious Incident of the dog in the Night Time by Mark Haddon
It was written for a teenage audience (having got my copy down off the shelf to write this post, Tom pounced upon it and read it cover to cover) but I think anyone who read it would be richer and wiser for doing so
But if there could be a number one it is
‘Letter To Daniel, Dispatches from the Heart’ by Fergal Keane
it’s a collection of his reports, broadcast by BBC Radio 4 program ‘From Our Own Correspondent’, I heard a broadcast of Keane reading ‘Letter to Daniel’ when Tom was a few weeks old; it stopped me in my tracks, I can’t think that any parent would not be struck by the emotion and power of it, nor that of his other reports from some of the most desperate, desolate and war torn areas of the world. For me it is an added bonus that when I read it I can also ‘hear’ it in his honeyed Irish accent, if you want you can listen to it here I recommend you do.
Your coming has turned me upside down and inside out, so much that seemed essential to me has, in the past few days, taken on a different colour. Like many foreign correspondents I know, I have lived a life that, on occasion, has veered close to the edge: war zones, natural disasters, darkness in all its shapes and forms. In a world of insecurity and ambition and ego, it’s easy to be drawn in, to take chances with our lives, to believe that what we do and what people say about us is reason enough to gamble with death. Now, looking at your sleeping face, inches away from me, listening to your occasional sigh and gurgle, I wonder how I could have ever thought glory and prizes and praise were sweeter than life.
I suppose if there is a theme to this selection it is that they give a perspective on other lives and other worlds, that I would other wise find hard to imagine, a bit like blogs.
There has been a lot of tagging going on around the blogs on my feeds, so I think I shall just tag three.
Flighty, because books are more than just the tools of his trade.
Spencer, because he is being far to modest over at ‘Siren Voices’,hiding his light and his superb writing under a bushel, and
Andrea, because I am curious to know what books tempt someone with such diverse interests.
The pressure is on, so much to do, so little time to do it, so only few words, just look and see.
The path ahead, taken from underneath a splendid oak tree, I would have hugged it if I could, but it was way to big, so instead I sat underneath it for a while.
Wild garlic, broadleaf woodland
Wild garlic, detail
Hawthorne blossom, it is exceptional this year,
it looks like snow in may.
The tail end of the primroses
Stepping stones
Bridge
Post box
Back door, multi-purpose boots.
The End
I suppose the more isolated an area the more vernacular the style of buildings, building were built to a specific style because they worked well, the local workforce knew how to build them and the building materials were readily available, its what gives an area its distinctive look.
Apologies to this family, for posting a photograph of their undergarments on the washing line across the ‘tinternet‘, it’s the house we are supposed to be looking at.
Farm buildings
This is Yew Tree Farm, as well as a working farm, it is a guest house and a cafe, it makes my heart sing, it is a business that is run with such finesse and attention to detail it is a joy to behold.
I went in the cafe for a cup of tea and a sit down, the tea is sold in half or pint mugs, you can see why this establishment has a place in my heart; the ladies in the cafe sold me a pasty, ‘just baked, fresh out of the oven’ I could write a whole blog post on this culinary delight, but a synopsis will have to do. The pastry, firm yet melt in the mouth, the filling, stuffed full of veg; potatoes carrot and marrowfat peas, farm reared lamb, with a hint of mint,served with home made chutney, eat one of these and you will never buy a ‘Gregg’s’ pasty ever again.
Fastened to the wall of the porch of Yew tree farm is the original back door of the farm, dating to C1720
I was going to say that it is it’s simplicity of its construction that appealed to me, but closer inspection shows it to have been, what I imagine for it’s period, to be ‘top of the range’, piece of joinery and a bit ‘posh’ for the average Lakeland farmhouse C1720. The face of the door is three planks of oak wide, studded with oak pegs, through to a second layer of smaller oak boards,
it is carved with a diamond pattern, (not easy to see on the photo) and the original hinges are to match.
Once upon a time some one would have been very proud of such a fine door.
Mr Uhdd, has been plane spotting today, so for the aviation buffs amongst you (that’s you flighty) some images; I’ve got to dash out in a moment and I won’t be back on line for a wee while, so if you are not familiar with the historical importance of the ‘Lancaster Bombers’ you had best read this, here’s an excerpt from the Independent Newspaper.
A Lancaster bomber swooped over a Peak District reservoir today to mark the 65th anniversary of the Dambusters raid.
The historic Lancaster - similar to the one used by the RAF’s 617 Squadron to successfully bomb two German dams in 1943 - flew three times along the Derwent valley as the centrepiece of a thrilling flypast.
The Derwent dam was used by the Dambusters to train ahead of their mission to destroy three dams in Germany’s Ruhr valley.
Today Squadron Leader Les Munro, the last surviving pilot from the mission codenamed Operation Chastise, was one of the guests of honour attending the service.
Also taking part in the fly-past were a Spitfire, a Hurricane, two Tornado fighters from the present 617 Squadron, and a Dakota transport plane (there is Lancaster, bottom right in this shot)
I must away, my carriage awaits.
on the Kinder plateau; Joe, Tom and I were joined by a friend and her son ‘the young man’ who is only five.
The forecast was for ‘isolated showers’. I think the showers decided they needed ‘to get out more’ and had found each other on some sort of Internet ‘metrological forum’ and decide to meet up for the day, on Kinder Scout: we were on the hills for five hours, it rained persistently for four of them!
It was my plan to show you lots of arty shots of cotton grass planting, but it was just too wet for anything more than a couple of grab shots, and they are of poor quality, sorry; but on with the story
Kinder Scout, is important both historically and environmentally, in 1932 it was the location for a protest march, that paved the way for the public rights to access to areas of open country; a report from the Manchester Guardian newspaper, dated April 24th 1932
‘Four or five hundred ramblers, mostly from Manchester, trespassed in mass on Kinder Scout to-day. They fought a brief but vigorous hand-to-hand struggle with a number of keepers specially enrolled for the occasion. This they won with ease, and then marched to Ashop Head, where they held a meeting before returning in triumph to Hayfield. Their triumph was short-lived, for there the police met them, halted them, combed their ranks for suspects, and detained five men. Another man had been detained earlier in the day.’
Environmentally, the area has taken a hammering
‘As the environmental pressure on the area has grown over the last 200 years – due to a combination of acid rain, major wildfires and past excessive grazing – the peat soil has become so degraded that, instead of reducing carbon in the air, it is actively releasing it back into the atmosphere.’
It is a wild landscape, deep black peat, that shakes like a jelly if you jump up and down on it
The cotton grass planting is a National Trust project, to stabilise the area, despite the weather more volunteers had turned out than expected; many hands make light work, so when we made it up there they had just planted the last plant not 5 mins before. This could have be akin to telling ‘the young man’ on Christmas eve, that Santa was make believe! It was a long walk for one so young, his mum coaxed the National Trust Wardens in to digging a couple of plants back up again, so that he could plant his all important cotton plant.
(Cotton grass on a sunnier day!)
Tom and Joe just had to take the disappointment on their rain drenched chins.
As made our way home the National Trust wardens, who were no doubt glad to get off the hill and out of the rain earlier than expected, bumped past us down the track.
The weather and the planting didn’t turn out quite how we expected but the day was something of an adventure.
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