BLOSSOMCOTTAGE

A Hippo in the Camp

2011-02-21T07:01:00.018Z

I don't have a brave bone in my body, I wish I had but for some reason it just is not there.

John Lennon said

"It's fear of the unknown. The unknown is what it is. And to be frightened of it is what sends everybody scurrying around chasing dreams, illusions, wars, peace, love, hate, all that--it's

all illusion. Unknown is what it is. Accept that it's unknown and it's plain sailing. Everything is unknown--then you're ahead of the game.

That's what it is.

Right?"

Well John whatever it is I was surprised to find myself in Doris and ageing white Landrover Discovery doing 40 miles an hour down roads which had craters in it big enough to bury the entire British Government, on my way to spend two nights in a tent, in open ground, next to a watering hole in the Masi Mara, and I hope John you are right, I will be ahead of the game!

My adventure started when we arrived in Nairobi to spend some time with some dear friends who have been living in East Africa for the past three years and are due back in the UK in August.

An itinerary had been planned and the highlight was the Safari experience at Little Governors Camp in the Masi Mara, and here we were two hours into our journey disappearing down another crater only to reappear seconds later with several hundred goats crossing the track.

Perhaps after all John was right, it is the fear of the unknown rather than a lack of bravery, I was already beginning to enjoy the every changing landscape, I already knew that if I disappeared from sight down a crater the chances were I would reappear, I have travelled through busy towns where dark faces grinned back at you if you waved and said Jambo Habari

( Hello whats the news)

The amazing sight of the Rift Valley as we came to the highest point and dropped down into its stunning landscape, had taken my breath away, my first Grey Crowned Cranes making love movements to each other; by now I had no doubt in my mind that my breath was something that would be taken away from me many times in the next few day.

We arrived at Little Governors in time for a late lunch, on the way we passed a variety of birds and mammals giving us a small taster of what was to come.

We had to cross the Mara river in a small boat, which for safety was attached to a rope slung from bank to bank, it was in this river a little later on we would see our first Crocodiles and Hippopotamus but for the moment all was quiet and I was still ahead of the Game!

Lunch was set out under the trees, a Hornbill sat above us and Warthogs grazed the grass almost beneath our feet, only rushing off with their tails high in the air like antenna when someone came a little too near.

To say we were camping would be a little extreme, yes were were in a tent, but it had its own shower and loo, we had a proper bed in which each evening a hot water bottle was put, we dined on wonderful food and enjoyed the company of others in the bar in the evening.

That said it was still and open space where Elephant and Hippo roamed freely, particularly at night and we were on strict instructions not to go out at night unless we had signalled to a guard with a torch, he would then escort us wherever we wanted to go, armed with a large torch and a rifle.

I think the official local term for this kind of camping is GAMPING!

Anyway for me it was extending my Fear of the Unknown to its limits but it was becoming more and more fun

We finished lunch, unpacked and were soon on our way back over the crocodile infested river and into a 4 x 4 with Lionel our knowledgeable game guide for the first of our 5 drives.

Lionel proved to be an exceptional guide he held a silver award in his knowledge of the African wildlife and each time we asked us to find an animal he did his very best to find it.

Claire and Stephen our host and travelling companions had been to the Mara several times before but they had yet to see a Leopard.

Claire jumped into the 4 x 4 and said " Leopard please Lionel"

Lionel grinned and drove off, within moments we had seen Elephant, Giraffe, Tommies

( Thompson Gazelles) Baboons, Topi and any number of birds.

Our first big sighting were 4 Lions from what is known as the Marsh Pride, those of you familiar with the Big Cat Diaries may well have seen some of them.

They were all young males and they were sleeping off a vast lunch of Hippo which they had killed the day before.

We watched for a while as they rolled about like any other feline that has had more than enough to eat and was now enjoying the remaining sunshine and the company of friends, the smell of the rotting Hippo became a little overwhelming so we moved on.

"Good stuff Lionel " said Claire with mischievous look on her face but what about the Leopard!

Lionel once again smiled and drove on, the sky was becoming increasingly black and forks of lightening could be seen in the distance.

An other 4 x 4 could be seen in the distance parked under a tree, we headed for the same spot, and parked Lionel pointed high into the lone tree that we had stopped under, there it was the elusive Leopard washing its face after a nice meal of something now hanging in shreds.

It truly was an fantastic sight, we watched until we could see no more and headed back to camp for a shower, some supper and a early night, tomorrow we had to be up at 5.30 and ready for a pre breakfast drive.

I was glad to see my bed, with it's warm hot water bottle and quickly drifted off to sleep. I was woken about 3 am by the sound of a grazing animal but it was no ordinary grazing it was amplified, 5 times louder than that of a large horse, it was of course a waterhorse the great Hippo was outside my tent in the campsite.

I must say for a moment I was paralysed to the bed, there was only 1 cm of tent between me and the most dangerous animal on the Mara, I listened intently as is made its way past the tent and back towards the waterhole.

Once it was gone I reflected on my first day of an adventure that had bought me to terms with my fear of the unknown.

Having experienced a Hippo in the camp I now needed to come to terms with the Fear of the Known!

Hot chocolate arrived at 5 am and we were set for another day of adventure.

Blossom

One swallow might not make a summer......

2010-07-15T17:49:00.010+01:00

Aristotle said

One swallow does not make a summer, neither does one fine day; similarly one day or brief time of happiness does not make a person entirely happy.

Well I hesitate to disagree with such a great philosopher, but in this instant he is wrong, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven swallows have certainly made my summer and their brief time with me has made me an entirely happy person.

I noticed the parents making the nest a while ago and have been tip toeing about the barn for fear of frightening them off, there were moments when I thought I had failed and they had left.

However on the 3rd July some very frantic new parents started to feed some newly hatched babies in the nest.

The on the 12th July three very bemused babies appeared, they managed to get themselves, trapped in our tool shed, and by early evening a heap of very exhausted birds were stacked into the corner of the barn.

We were delighted that the young parents had been successful in bringing into the world three strong babies.

The on the 14th July I Iooked up from my computer and saw FIVE little swallows sitting on an upturned bedstead waiting for breakfast.

I have done very little in the past two days other than do my utmost to get photographs of the miraculous and fragile creatures being fed and nurtured by their diligent and devoted parents.

I have hung out of windows, crept around the drive in stocking feet, and sat silently in the boot of the car so not to disturb them.

I hope you enjoy the photo's as much as I have enjoyed taking them.

Blossom

Work in progress

2010-06-14T12:57:00.012+01:00

A few months ago I told you all about our plans to buy a family retreat in the Isle of Wight.

Here I am some months later having travelled the waters of the Solent more times than I wish to mention in the past few months to tell you of the progress of this project.

On a wet and windy afternoon in January the Lovely Hubby and I fell in love with a semidetached Victorian Villa with views of the harbour at Bembridge from nearly all of the windows, a small and controllable garden, and a vast amount of work to do.

It had been the family home for more than 60 years of an senior officer in the Royal Navy.

From here he married, bought up his children and entertained his grandchildren, an inspiring and energetic 95 years, who had decided to move a little nearer his beloved wife who needed the care of professionals in her final years.

So he and his wife now look back towards their life long home from the other side of the harbour.
After the usual painful process of buying the house we finally took possession of it and set about the task of turning it around and making it fit for the 21st century hopefully with some empathy to it historic past.

Hours were spent mulling over the floor plans of the upstairs and downstairs. We wanted to make the most of the space that the house provided, and improves its rather sad outside which had some years ago been extended with two rather ugly flat roofed extensions.

Lovely 1960's carpets which turned Stuart and Bradley black!

With some ideas in mind we employed the services of a local architect to draw up and submit plans to the planning department.

In the meantime we went in search of builders!! a difficult task normally but the stretch of very expensive water between the mainland and the island made the task even more tiresome.

We are lucky enough to have a Robbie who can lend his hand to most things and he was sent along with Stuart the plumber to make a start as you will see from the photographs the preparation work of just pulling up carpets, removing wall paper, kitchens ( of which there were two!) faded and ageing bathrooms was going to be a mammoth task.

Bathroom, one of the kitchens and the outside tool room which have all gone to the land of old buildings .. The amenity tip!

Three weeks ago Robbie and Stuart started to fling their hammers and saw furiously at the tired building. On the first day Stuart and his son Bradley boarded the 6.30 Hovercraft back to Portsmouth looking like a couple of 19th century sweeps, they were black from the foam carpet backing, they both laughed when the holiday makers gave them a very funny look.

They have all worked tirelessly, taking down walls taking,out baths, replacing central heating systems. Robbie said the other day if he carried anymore rubble down the stairs he would end up looking like Popeye!

Thanks to their efforts I can already I can see the beginnings of a wonderful family home.

We have found the man with the knowledge to take down major structural walls, rewire and put in new windows, so hopefully within the next few weeks we will have turned a huge corner and be well on our way to spending long summers with our children and grandchildren beside the sea at St Helens.

Stuart at work and Bradley holds up a piece of wood!!

Blossom

Invictus

2010-02-22T17:18:00.010Z

I dragged my lovely hubby to the flicks last night, I am getting him in training for his retirement in 18months time.

He has not in his life time acquired the cinema going habit that I have and the training to say the least is difficult, none the less I pick the films carefully and so far he has not left half way through but he has yet to buy a bag of popcorn.

Our film last night was Invictus directed by Clint Eastwood with Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon.

The film tells the inspiring true story of how Nelson Mandela joined forces with the captain of South Africa's rugby team to help unite their country. Newly elected President Mandela knows his nation remains racially and economically divided in the wake of apartheid. Believing he can bring his people together through the universal language of sport, Mandela rallies South Africa's rugby team as they make their historic run to the 1995 Rugby World Cup Championship match.

It would not have been my first choice but I read a bit about it and thought this might be suitable training.

I am not really a Rugby fan although I do watch the occasional England match, I have been to South Africa twice and hated it both times, so from my persecutive it was not a good choice.

I cannot begin to tell you how it held my attention, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

It filled me with emotion and and made me realise what a difference it can make when someone or

something inspires not just one person but a whole nation.

The poem was an inspiration the Nelson Mandela he had it written on a scrap of paper on his prison cell.

Invictus is a poem by the English poet William Ernest Henley who was born in 1849 and died in 1903 at the age of 53

At the age of 12, Henley became a victim of tuberculosis of the bone. A few years later the disease progressed to his foot, and physicians announced that the only way to save his life was to amutated directly below the knee. It was amputated at the age of 25. In 1867 he successfully passed the Oxford local examination as a senior student. In 1875 he wrote the "Invictus" poem from a hospital bed. Despite his

disability, he survived with one foot intact and led an active life until his death.

Like all films there was poetic license, but the fact remains Mandela

inspired his people and his nation, and when I read the poem it inspired me.

Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
William Ernest Henley
It proved to be a good choice for my lovely hubby and myself.

Blossom

Amazing Birds

2010-02-17T17:47:00.019Z

The Banana Whitt in Tobago

I am never ceased to be amazed by the ability of birds and startling array of colours,it is all too easy to watch them and dismiss

their agile antics, their bright and almost unnatural blues and greens, yellows and reds, not just in the birds in warm climates but the

ones just outside our kitchen window, or on our daily journeys each day.

The Weaver Bird building its nest in

Africa

I marvel their perseverance when getting something to eat, hanging upside down, building a nest, pecking furiously into fat balls, peanuts pieces of bread and other goodies we put out for them, or swooping down to grab a roadside morsel narrowly missing car speeding by.

An Ox Pecker on a Giraffe in Africa, clearly he is more interested in building his nest than eating the ticks off the giraffe's neck!

This little chap trilled out a delightful song for us as we sat and photographed him, in Italia Game Reserve

Sparrows in a Paris fountain enjoying a summer bath.

They are not photographs of rare or nearly extinct birds but just ones I meet on my daily walks, or I have taken on some of my lovely holidays.

The other afternoon whilst eating our sandwiches on the quay at East Cowes, we amused ourselves throwing out the crusts to the gulls.

They are noisy screeching birds, noticeable by their absence until the bread appeared in the air and then there were dozens of them, all fighting for a morsel.

Caught in mid flight their strength and grace of their wings is quite extraordinary.

I often take a series of photographs just to see what I get and I thought I would share them with you.

I am inclined to take them for granted as I walk along the woods and shores of my surrounding countryside, or just sitting by a pool or on a balcony in some faraway hotel but once home and I am able to see these wonderful creatures, in full flight or busy with their every day work, in front of me on the screen I marvel at what sight they create.

Blossom

Back to my Roots

2010-02-08T09:24:00.017Z

If all goes well in the next few weeks, if the solicitors get their act together, nobody jumps in ahead of us and we can then get the architect to draw us some nice plans, and then find a builder( now there's a challenge). I will be setting sail and spending some of my days tracing my roots and heritage.

No, I am not an American or Australian about to embark on a journey to Scotland or Ireland to trace my family, nor am I a war child sent to distant lands with only a label around my neck .

No nothing so glamorous, in fact if I take the trouble to climb the hill that I can see from my garden and sit on the beacon I can see my family roots on a clear day.

No I am about to buy a holiday home in the Isle of Wight, the island where my paternal grandmother was bought up, where I spent day trips, where my Great Uncle tended the lighthouse at St Catherine's Point, and one of my family had 18 children christened at Godshill Church.

Why should I, you might ask buy a holiday home so near home! ..good question.

I am not sure I really have a good or sensible answer. I looked at all the options but in the end, the Island offered so much to everyone, its not far to travel, we can be there door to door in less than two hours and so can all the children and most of my friends.

It has a strange mix of holiday and history, of amazing Victorian a

rchitecture, and the very worst of the 20th.century rubbish.

Saint Catherine's Lighthouse

Once on the ferry and I can wave a fond farewell to Portsmouth with its Spinnaker Tower reaching high into the sky, I feel as if I am already on holiday.

This small place has attracted the famous throughout history. Queen Victoria had her holiday home here,Osbourne House majestically standing on a hill above East Cowes.

She and her beloved Albert spent their holidays here.Victoria build a church in the German style to make him feel at home.

Alfred Lord Tennyson bought the house called Farringford in 1858. In later years he was harassed by sightseers and in 1869 decided to move to Haselmere. The downs above Freshwater bear his name.

A more recent celebrity Anthony Minghella - playwright. lived here. He was a scriptwriter for Grange Hill, Inspector Morse, and the films Truly Madly Deeply and the Talented Mr Ripley.. He won an Oscar for Director of The English Patient . His father still owns Minghella's Ice Cream factory in Wootton.

So I wait in anticipation for the contract to be signed and exchanged and I can look forward to many happy hours on this intriguing island and maybe I can share with you the ups and downs of the houses renovations, I can tell you about the wild life I have seen on the quiet out of the way estuaries and hill tops.

Only this week we watched buzzards hovering on the thermals not high above our heads but at eye level on the top of Culver Downs, near Sandown on south of the island.

In the meantime the all is quiet the beaches wait for the little people with their buckets and spades, the pubs and restaurants are ready to feed hungry mouths, in the harbours boats are having their bottoms painted in readiness for their new season at sea.

Who knows whether this exercise will prove to be a success only time can tell that, but there is much to see and much to tell you, places to photograph and visit and a family to find out about.

Blossom

A walk through "My Snowy Village"

2010-01-08T19:17:00.012Z

I have heard it said that

" Snowflakes are kisses from heaven"

If that is true then my village can regard itself as well and truly kissed!

The magical view of snow covered Britain can be seen every day at the moment but I thought you might just like to see see my little corner of

Kissed England

Like a Butterfly

2009-10-08T22:14:00.011+01:00

I thought of my mother today, I can't say I have done that for a few weeks, she was all consuming for months, no years.

I had almost forgotten what it was like not to be worried about her and then she died.

I drew a line in the mental sand the night she died, I loved her but my life had been so filled with her I need a break.

I need to say that's enough, I too have a life and I must get on with it and I have.

I thought about her this afternoon when I took the compost bowl to

the compositor, passing the wild and out of control Michaelmas Daisies growing in the orchard.

They were covered in butterflies, oblivious to me they fluttered about their business, from one head to another and another and back again, there were almost too many for the flowers to accommodate, but there was no hassle, no argument, when one came along, another one moved and so it went on.

It reminded me of my mother, she used to give me when I was little butterfly kisses, brushing her long black lashes gently across my face, when I got older she said I had a butterfly mind, flitting from one thing to another and then back again. If I was worried she would tell me I had butterflies in my tummy, and she referred to herself as a social butterfly.

Maybe she was one of those butterflies this afternoon, returning to enjoy the late summer sun.

Yes a butterfly is how I shall remember her, beautiful, colourful and full of life.

“I dreamed I was a butterfly, flitting around in the sky; then I awoke. Now I wonder: Am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?” — Chuang Tzu quotes (China’s early interpreters of Taoism, 389-286 BC)

Blossom

A New Day

2009-07-27T16:10:00.009+01:00

I awoke this morning to the frail voice of Harry Patch who until yesterday was the last surviving British soldier to have served in WW1, the last person alive who could tell you what it was like to be at a battle in which more than 70,000 British troops died,the third battle of Ypres (the battle of Passchendaele).

There remains just one British veteran Claude Choules, a seaman 108 years old and living in Australia.

My reasons for being drawn into thinking about this thin frail voice were various, but none more so than a reality check that was bought to me in March of this year, March 26th 2009 at 4.58pm the moment my mother shook off her mortal coils and left this world for good.

Harry Patch and my mother had little in common other than being "old".

Harry Patch had fought in a war before my mother was born, his voice was far more fail than hers, in fact one of the very last things she said in a bold and stroppy voice was "Oh shut up"!!

No, the thing they had in common is they are no longer here, and gone with them are the real accounts of life at the time they lived it, something I perhaps did not really get to understand until my mother was no longer there to ask.

Yes we can look it up in a book, we can ask someone who might know, we can watch a film to see them, hear their voices by the wonder of modern science, but what we can no longer do is ask them, get the live account from the person themselves.

It is said "That you never know what you have got until you have lost it" and this is so true.

How often do we get restless and irritable when an elderly person starts to say something and takes forever to do it. How often do we say to our children "Hurry up, get on with it, not now"

How much do we miss because we don't take the time or the trouble to listen, to look, to ask or understand.

My Mother
There was so much more to know,
I now know,
I know so little.

In my mothers home there were boxes and boxes of photographs many without names, of people I did not know, what story could they tell, and if they had told them would we have listened.

Our lives a full of high speed " important things to do" places to go and people to see, but do we really see them.

My mother was never very forthcoming with family history, I did from time to time try to prise more out of her, but it was never easy, but it was amazing how many things I knew about her that my sisters did not and how many things they knew I did not.

Harry Patch did not speak to anyone of his experiences in the trenches until he was 100 so horrific they were. When he did speak some listened but I am sure not enough.

Harry's voice this morning was enough to jog me into "blogging " again, its important that we look and listen, not just to the every day news, to the recent "pop song" or play on the radio, but listen to the little person who is pulling at your coat or jumper trying to tell you something that to them is "important" or listen to the elderly parent who just needs to speak, the more they say the more we will learn.

Heaven forbid we will ever have to hear the terrible story that Harry kept to himself for so long, I hope that lesson has be heard and learnt.

No its the smaller things that slip away with their human form, their soul, their memory and their voice. The things we take for granted when they are there.

Don't leave it until they are gone and if like me you didn't write down that amazing recipe that your mother used, you will find as I did yesterday that the only person who could give it to you again is no longer here.

The recipe below is one I did write down, my mother made it like no one else I know, I try and it is delicious and maybe one day I will be as good as she was.

The Very Bestest Cheese Straws in the World

My mother had been making these cheese straws for as long as I can remember,.

I made some for a buffet party once and realised that I just expected cheese straws to taste like this, however from the number of people who asked for the recipe and who have since made them and have been complimented they clearly don't all taste the same so here it is for those who

would like it.

2oz Plain Flour

2oz Butter

2oz Tasty grated cheese

1 Egg Yolk ( the whites can be saved and used for meringues)

2 teaspoonfuls of water.

Finely grated Parmesan cheese for rolling out on

Mix the butter and flour until crumbed, add the cheese and stir in.

Add the egg yolk and finally the water, mix gently into a ball.

Leave for about 20 mins to chill

Roll out on the Parmesan cheese and a small amount of flour.

Cut into strips.

Bake on a greased baking sheet in a medium/hot oven ( I can't tell you the heat as mine is Aga I use the bottom of the top to those of you who have one) ( will get back to you on the heat will ask Mother!!)

I am told that a hot oven between 180 and 200 hope that helps.

Leave to cool if you can!

This should make about 20 straws.

Increase the recipe for more and the raw pastry can be frozen in blocks for future use. this is a great recipe for using up the tatty pieces of cheese that lurk in the bottom of the cheese box.

Blossom

For My Mother and for Harry Patch and all those who's voice we will no longer hear.

Oman/ The Beauty Within.

2008-11-27T09:25:00.010Z

The Middle East is somewhere until 10 years ago I knew little or nothing about, my father had spent time out there during the war and was less than polite about it and my husband was born in Libya.

I had watched the Gulf War on TV when I was in hospital in 1990 in fact it was the only thing on for the whole of the two weeks that I lay in bed with a DVT and my left leg in a full plaster.

So to me the Middle East was dust and bombs, tension and religion, tribes of men with little or no regard for women.

The thought that I would be sitting at a computer 18 years later trying desperately to find the words to describe the beauty of Oman and its people would be a million light years from my mind.
That however is what I will try to do.

I think to understand Oman and its people we have to know just a bit about their history, the land they live in and the speed at which their Sultan and the discovery of "Black Gold" has whizzed them into the 21st Century.

The very earliest reference to Oman is as early as 3000BC, when the Omani's who at that point were know Magan's traded in copper.The name Oman, is believed to have originate from the Arab tribes who migrated there from the Uman region of Yemen.
Many tribes settled in Oman making a living by fishing, herding and the breeding of stock It is possible for many of the present day Omani families to trace their ancestral routes to other parts of Arabia.

The Portuguese pillaged the villages and its people in the early 1500's to gain access to the very lucrative spice trade, they held fast for 150 years until 1650, when they were defeated bySultan bin Saif Al Ya’rubi.

Oman entered an era of prosperity at home and abroad, and many of the Sultanate’s historic buildings and forts date from this time. This all came to an end when civil war broke out between rival Omani tribes over the election of a new Imam. Persian forces seized the opportunity to invade and some coastal areas found themselves under foreign occupation once again.

This would be the last time that Oman would be invaded and by the 19th century it would be a sovereign power in its own right. As a country it would grow and prosper forging world wide links, and increasing its territories.This however came to an end in the early 20th century when Oman entered a period that would see it decline and once again become isolated from the outside world.

The 20th century saw rapid changes for the world but not for Oman, until 1970 the country was ruled by a very feudal system, it is the oldest independent State in the Arabian Gulf,and cut off from the modern world.
The search for oil began in the 1920s when a geological survey was conducted and that proved unsuccessful.The Second World War and other events interrupted exploration until 1962 when the first successful well was drilled, followed by others .
Oil production on commercial scale began in 1967.

Then in1970 when Sultan Qaboos came to power, Oman was almost as far removed from the modern, prosperous 21st century state we know today, as it is possible to get.

The people of Oman were poor and disadvantage, there was little or no infrastructure, school numbered very few only the wealthy had medical care. The wealthy Omani's left in their droves, to seek their fortunes abroad, Oman was bleeding from its heart the new Sultan with a vision that had until now not existed in Oman for several hundred years set about reversing this process encouraging his people to return home, throwing his power leadership and money into creating a strong nation. His people responded with enthusiasm and the Oman I was about to visit was born.

Blossom

Memories/ Oman.... where the ancient world meets the 21st century

2008-11-18T06:03:00.017Z

I have often heard it said "Life's adventures are 50 percent chance", I think it was that chance which took us to the wonderful world of Oman, where the ancient world meets the 21st century and together they walk side by side.

I have been to Dubai on several occasion and personally I cannot see the attraction, the last time I was there I felt that Sir Anthony Bamford had sent his rogue JCB's there (a bit like we sent our convicts to Australia) and they had all run wild and out of control building at high speed with no apparent thought for the history and culture that is so heavily felt in the Middle East.

I was quite excited when Emirates airways told my "lovely hubby" he must use up his air miles before his next birthday, but the excitement was short lived when I discovered that the miles would take us as far as Dubai or Oman.

Its odd how one clouded thing can give such a preconceived idea of another and that I am ashamed to say is the how I first thought of Muscat and Oman, tall buildings out of control JCB's and traffic jams... how wrong I was.

We very nearly ended up in Amman as the German girl who booked our tickets for us had difficulty understanding the lovely hubby and he in turned found her impossible to comprehend. Luckily the airport taxes for once in their life were our saving grace and the discussion as to why she thought they were one price and he thought they were another highlighted the mistake!

Unlike Dubai, the choice of hotels is limited, so after much research I narrowed it down to 3 that would or might suit our purpose.
More investigation and I disregarded the Chedi as I don't do minimalist and one report said a request in triplicate was required to get a plug for the bath as they are made of gold! how true it is I have no idea but its a good story.

The Al Bustan Palace, is very beautiful and highly regarded but as it has been under going a very high spec. facelife the advice was "no" not at the moment because it has been open and shut more often that a "truckers mouth when eating his triple burger and chips"

So it was down to one.. well three really as the Shangri la Barr Al Jissah boast three hotels on the same site, set beneath the mountains in its own bay catering for all needs it seemed like the perfect place.

My first choice was the Al Husan which is for adults only, and as the lovely hubby is not good with the noise that the under 8's make it seem like the right decision, until I read a review in the Telegraph raving about its wonderful attributes, and saying it was the hot spot for young wealthy Russian.
That did it for me, no way was I sharing a pool with Olga from Moscow in her size 00 1500$ bikini NO No No!! his nibs would have to put up with Miranda from Newcastle age 5 in her M and S knickers along with him in the pool.

As it turned out the children in the Al Waha were delightful, there were quite a few of them but rarely did we hear a grizzle or a tantrum and they gave a light relief to the "All Adult Point Scoring" that always seems to appear in any holiday hotel.

So it was by chance on a cold and miserable day in early November I found myself on a free business class flight to the Middle East, to a land that boast nearly 2000 km of coast line, with three sea's with magical names like the Gulf of Oman and the Arabian Sea, the interior is made up of nearly 82% desert, high mountain ranges and wadi's ( river beds).

I will in no way pretend this was a cultural tour, to broaden my mind and my knowledge... no it was more likely to broad my beam from too much food and the only reading I was going to do was a new novel I had bought. This was a holiday R and R to recharge batteries that were flatter than normal. I had resisted the hubby's mutterings of trips down wadi's and countless number of forts that can be found there. He most of all needed to do nothing and nothing was what he was going to do.

"You are going to be Mr Blobby the Beach Bed Boy!" and that's that I said
"If you don't slow down the children will not be waving a fond farewell to you when you set off to follow in your grandfathers footsteps across the barren wastes of a Antarctica in your retirement, they will be waving a final farewell through the crematorium velvet curtains whilst some tuneless music plays..

................. "so beach bed it is then"he replied!

We landed in the early hours of the morning, to be greeted by smiling people the the biggest and brightest eyes I have ever seen in any race of humans, I was in a very short time to become aware that all the things I dislike so much about Dubai were no existent here, and although my intentions were to do very little and to read only novels, this ancient world would soon be under my skin and I would want to know more about their ancient traditions, Simbad the sailor,and the Sultan of Oman who rules over this fast changing land, who is loved by all who live here.

It would be true to say that at the end of 10days we would have done an awful lot of sitting by the pool, swimming and eating, our batteries would be recharged, but it would have taken a stronger willed person than me not to have peeked outside and had a look at the mysterious world of Oman.

On our last night whilst sitting listening to the hypnotic music being played by two local musicians, and looking into an inking moon filled sky, I wondered how I would be able to put my experience into words for my cyber friends to read.

It would be impossible tell you what I had learnt about this ancient world until I had told you how I came to be here, my feelings before I came, and on my return.

So for them moment I will leave you with this and return at a later date to tell you why our minds, by a chance adventure would be charged with a desire to return and see more and find out more about these lovely people who embrace their heritage and at the same time take on board the challenges of an ever changing world.

Blossom

Memories/ Beaches, friends, sand and time out in Norfolk

2008-10-20T19:50:00.014+01:00

As the credit crunch tightens its grip I have noticed the trend towards things that remind us of "The Good Old Days" or what we perceive to be the good old days, a leaning towards 1950's fashions, wholesome food, and the good old family seaside holidays.

I was fortunate enough a couple of weeks ago to be invited by my lovely friend Mags to spend a week with her in Norfolk at a small fisherman cottage in Wells-next-to-the -Sea.

I know little of the area but here I was to experience the uplifting feeling that "nostalgia" can give you, a lightening of the heart and mind and emptying of nervous energy that grips me in my daily life and an understanding as to why when the going gets rough, people look back and find the simple things they enjoyed.

There are places in the world that seem to go at a much slower pace than the rest of the world, chugging along in some respects but keeping abreast of the 21st century world on the whole, however they do life at their own pace.

This part of the Norfolk coast has that unique ability of staying still, but having said that its not dull and in need of modernizing its just managed to hold onto the nice things of the past.

The roads are quieter, the people walk slower, they stop and talk, muse about this and that and appear to be unhurried and contented.

Its always easy to say these things when one is on holiday, when you are not in a hurry yourself you notice more but I really don't think this was the case.
I have been to lots of quiet places around the world but the tension of everyday life can still be felt rippling under the surface.

Not so at Well-next-to-the-Sea ( which incidentally is not next to the sea, its next the the estuary but who's counting!), the town was busy when we arrived on Saturday afternoon, there was a buzzing holiday atmosphere, fishermen selling fresh fish, people enjoying ice cream and fish and chips on the quayside.

The tide was out and yachts laid helpless on the sand waiting patiently for the return of the sea, so they could once again bob up and down in their graceful effortless way.

We walked along the sea defense to the beach, and that is exactly what it was beach no sea to be seen, just miles and miles of wet sand.

The dogs loved every moment running in and out of shallow lakes of salt water left behind, the rows of beach huts painted in pastel seaside colours reminded me of the Marks and Spencer advert for their summer collection.
Twiggy and her fellow models rushing between the brightly paint wooden structure singing " I'm going to marry a Lighthouse Keeper" back to the 21st century's search for nostalgia.

We had the most glorious week walking along the Peddars Way from Holkham to Cley-next-to-the-Sea ( which is even further from the sea than Wells) and back again. Taking a boat to Blakney Point to see the seals, even Flora the Explorer enjoyed her trip, keeping an eagle eye on the ocean for pirates and such like.!!

Wet and tired dogs each evening steamed in front of a roaring fire whilst we ate fish and chips and watched TV or read endlessly those books we had been meaning to read.

Our days were filled with sunshine and friendship, wildlife and water, good food and good company who could want and ask for more in these dull and difficult times certainly not me.

I can fully understand why there is a fashion for "nostalgia" when life gets tough because the things that cost very little are the things that help us cope and make us feel much better.

Blossom

Memories/ Gardening! A Sod of a Hobby

2008-09-17T13:22:00.020+01:00

I am not sure if I was born with an obsession for gardening or I grew into it. I cannot remember a time when I was not taken by all the wonders a garden produces.

I was born in a flat in the war battered City of Portsmouth, then grew up in a one of those seeming faceless drive through built up areas, on the outskirts. My father who had been banned by my mother from running a bookies office anymore bought the local newsagents and we lived above. None of these homes had gardens, but my grandmother with whom I spent a considerable amount of time had a wonderful garden, flowers, fruit trees, vegetable, greenhouse and a garden shed.

I was given at a very early age my own little patch, where I nurtured Radishes!! ( I loved them to grow hated them to eat, but there they were days after I have planted them!) Forget-me nots, nasturtiums, lettuce and anything else that was easy to tend.

Early summer took my Aunt and I to the nursery, they really were nurseries then, not garden centers full imported plants, but cluttered areas behind houses where dedicated nurserymen tended plants in all weathers bringing them birth to maturity and selling them to local enthusiast who would hopefully continue the process to give joy and beauty to all that viewed them.

Well that was the hope but as now I suspect that many of them wilted back into the ground from which they had come.Our nursery was run by Mr French and his boys, my Aunt would go along and choose boxes and boxes of bright red saliva's and bright blue lobellia for the front garden. I was not keen on these rather garish colours then and I still not keen now, how ever this was the fashion at the time and by mid summer they would all the be the same height and the same colour ensuring that everyone who went past would need sunglasses to look into the front garden.

My love was the back garden, the muddle of fruit trees, the runner beans and sweet peas, cherry trees that were covered with the fishing nets in the summer to stop the birds taking all the fruit, and my greatest love my grandfathers garden shed.

The smell of earth and seeds, drying daffodils and stored fruit. Old fashioned forks and trowels hanging from binder twine and a nail haphazardly banged into the wall.

This I think is where my love of the garden started.

I think I have chosen the three things in life that one can only remain a novice at

Riding
Gardening
Painting and Drawing.

No matter how much you know about anyone of these pursuits there is always someone else who know so much more.

FRED TO WHOM IS OWE SO MUCH

My gardening font of all knowledge was Fred and even he with all his years of experience hours of gardening RHS medals used to say" I'm just a beginner, you can never learnt it all"

He called everything by its Latin name, could lift from the gravel drive a tiny seedling turn it over and over in his had and then tell you its name, he would plant it in a small pot, put it in a cool spot and as far as I could see do nothing more but low and behold some weeks later a thriving plant would appear ready to be loving put into a prepared space in the garden.

We inherited Fred with a large piece of building land that we purchased back in 1979, along with the land came a huge house and garden and Fred who had tended the gardens there for some 20 years.

Land was built on, the large house turned into a Retirement Home and Fred moved about the place as buildings got pulled down or restored. He finally retired into a flat in the home and as retiring was not part of his life plan, I drove some 40 miles twice a week so he could come and help me become a better novice gardener.

With his help I transformed two gardens, one was a pretty cottage garden of our thatched 13th century home. Plants that I thought far to large to move were dug up and moved sometimes only a few feet down the bed and thrived, he taught me to put the right plant in the right place at the right time.

The other garden we started from scratch, high on a hill with terrible clay soil that was wet and heavy, was turned into a haven for wild life, colour appeared nearly every day of the year.

I feel it was a privilege to have had the knowledge of someone like Fred, so much knowledge went with him when he was released from his mortal coils in 1997. I miss him dearly and only once have I been brave enough to cut down the daffodils when they had finished flowering.

It was in the Spring the year after his death, a bright warm airless day dawned and I looked a the untidy heap of wilted leaves outside the back door and though it can do no harm to cut them back...........It did me a lot of harm! from nowhere as I cut the first green leaf came a blast of wind!! Frightened the life out of me, I swear to this day that Fred was warning me NOT to do that Madam ( he always called me)

When I think of Fred I think of the lovely Bernard Miles who used to talk on the radio on a Sunday night, one story was about a lady who had made an over grown garden look beautiful and the vicar said to her" Its amazing what we can do with a little bit of help from God"
"Yes she replied, you ought to see what it looked like when he had it to himself!"
My life went in a different direction and I left the garden Fred and I created and moved to another lifeless garden with a beautiful view. I have lived here now for 6 years and in that time I hope I have managed to create something that Fred and my Umpa( Grandfather) would have been proud of.

I still fail to remember the Latin names, plant the wrong thing in the wrong place, pull up young plants when I am weeding and swear profusely for doing it. I spend far to many hours in the garden leaving other thing undone, my hands are the sort that would do the before advert for hand cream, my back aches and my heart sinks when I returned from holiday and the weeds have run wild.

Its really is a "Sod of a Hobby" but I would not have it any other way, when I pick roses for the dining table or fresh vegetables for supper, or just walk round the garden in my pyjamas in the early hours or late in the evening I would not have it any other way the rewards out weight it all.

Its have given me patience, and some wonderful memories and friends.

Memories/ The Grey Horse.. A Fools Eye Full

2008-08-05T17:07:00.028+01:00

Joseph and my daughter galloping through the sea

Horses are my passion as they are with many people, I could say I don't come from a horsey background but that would not be completely true. My grandfather and my father were both "Bookies" so I suppose they were horsey in a way.

However I love to sit on their backs, they just liked to back them or shall we say other people to back them.

I was told many years ago that a horse is never the "wrong colour"

"You neither ride the head or the colour" a wise old groom once told me.

That may well be true, and I have had many horses of many colours and many with very plain heads, but in my heart the horse that will always turn my head, make me loose all my common sense, fail to see the quite obvious faults, forgive it failings that would be quite unthinkable in any other colour is "They Grey Horse" not one horse but all grey horses.

It might have been the same wise groom who told me a grey horse is a "Fools Eyeful" and I have not doubt he was right.Why you might ask?Whats so special about the grey horse?.

That is something I can't really answer, maybe its the children's rocking horse reminder, the ultimate childhood prize, galloping across the hills, in a famous race, chasing Red Indians, or just trotting home in the quite of an Autumn evening and all from the same spot in the nursery.

My love affair with the "Grey Horse" started in 1961, when through the snowy television transmission I watched "Nicholas Silver" win the Grand National, only the second grey to win the race and the only grey to have won since the turn of the 20th century.

Since then many of these white beasts have caught my imagination and that of many others.

I have galloped with Tonto the Red Indian friend of The Lone Ranger, only its me on his magnificent white Mustang Silver.

How many of you who have no interest in racing or horses have sat transfixed the the television on Boxing Day when the wonderful and brave Desert Orchid romped home to win the King George Gold Cup a race he was to win no less than 4 times,Desert Orchid won 34 of his 70 races, amassing more than £600k in prize money. When he retired Dessie ( as he became known) raised thousands of pounds for charity, and his mere presence at charity events bought the public in their droves.Desert Orchid became a legend in his own lifetime. He died in 2006 at the grand old age of 27.

1946 is a life time ago and it is this far you will have to go back to find a grey who won the Epsom Derby when Airborne bought home this much sort after trophy. Silver Patriarch made a gallant effort in 1997 only to be beaten by Benny the Dip.

Milton the legendary grey show jumper who made the Tina Turner tune Simply the Best his own. He became one of the Great Horses in Historycapturing the hearts of all who saw him, and like his steeple chasing counterpart Desert Orchid he too enjoyed the star status in his retirement.

I remember the first time I saw the beautiful white stallions of the Spanish Riding School of Vienna performing their exacting and demanding routine to classical music, their "Airs Above the Ground" routine involve movements born from the battle field. They are a moving and memorable experience and even if you don't have a horse passion like mine if you get the chance to go and see them its worth every moment.

Grey horses have been favoured by kings and emperors.
Marengo an Arabian stallion, is thought to have been Napoleon's favourite horse which he chose to ride in most of his campaigns

Metropolitan Police horse Billy and Pc George Scorey saved King George V at the first Wembley Cup Final in 1923 when the crowd invaded the pitch. Scorey led Billy to clear the pitch, and from then on both were famous, their presence requested at many events.

Grey horses are typically descended from Arabian ancestors, and scientists have now identified the genetic mutation that turns the a horse grey and ultimately white, this could mean that they could all trace their parentage back to just a single stallion or mare more than 2000 years ago.
The grey horse is so popular on the racecourse that the summer meeting at Newmarket the home of racing holds a handicap race restricted to "grey horses only" which makes it a difficult choice for the housewife! as its widely believed that the housewife only puts her money on the grey!

So back to me, Yes I have had lots of ponies and horses of all colours and our most successful ones have been in fact chestnut, but its not really about the success is about the emotion that is stirred when I see the grey large or small.

Our first grey was Smokey ancient and lame he came to live in the garden, in the shed actually, a shed that had started its life as a beach hut, then became an Estate Agents Office and finally a home for Smokey. He had birthday parties and started my children's riding careers.

My son and a friend on Smokey

My daughter and Smokey

In October 1980 a friend rang me early one morning
" Do you have an empty field, we are desperate?" she cried

Willow in the early Spring after her arrival

Willow at her first show in 1981

I did and by tea time it was full of Welsh Section "A" mares and foals 15 of each. They had been diverted by an" angel" a friend of a friend had found out that they were on their way to the knackers yard, the last ponies on a Welsh stud, the owner of the stud had died suddenly and the family wanted rid of all the animals, she heard about it too late to save the yearlings and two year olds but she managed to divert the mares and foals en route to their demise.

So there they all were as wild as hawks, unhandled, dirty and unweaned. Several hours were spent, phone calls made and by the end of the week I was left with two mares for £75.00, one 4 year old bright bay and one grey with a big head! ( Ken the groom would have laughed at me now).

The bay was beautiful and stood about 11.2hh, the grey was far from an oil painting but moved like a dream.

The bay took us months to break bucking off all and sundry but a winter out in the field after we all thought it was hopeless reaped its rewards and she went onto be a reliable and constant First Ridden Pony at top class shows.
Now the grey with the big head......7 years old never had a head collar on, had run all her life on the stud with the stallions and produced 4 foals.

My daughter and Willow 1982

We called her Willow, everything hung down, her mane, her beard, and her tits!
She became the love of our lives teaching both my children all they know, easy to break and handle, easy to love and properly produced she looked "smart" in the local show ring.
She jumped anything she was asked to making sure her little jockey was still on board when she landed.

Jumping for Fun with my son

I loaned her to umpteen people and she ended up in a small children's riding school.

Ahhhhhhhhhh I hear you say what a place to go a riding school... this is no ordinary riding school.
Its run by two delightful sisters, they keep only ponies is a quite village under the Downs, parents put their children's names down for a place almost before conception, and Willow continued to teach the children of Sussex to ride.

Out there in the city and the big wide world, there are literally dozens of young men and women who owe their ability to ride to Willow.
My husband went and released her of her mortal coils early this year at the grand old age of 35 in a field under the South Downs some 28 years later than intended.

Joseph my 15hh grey came into my life in 1992, a Thoroughbred/ Connemara cross who failed the vet badly and cost a constant fortune to keep fit and on the road, terrible in traffic, and hated to jump ditches but the funniest and kindest horse on God's earth, my daughter and I shared him, she evented him, her ability to get him over a ditch never failed to amaze me, and I hacked around the countryside away from the roads. He was my friend and confidant, who sadly did not make Willows old bone, his rather crocked body gave up in 2000 at the age of 22.

Muddy George

We also had two other grey's George and Mallachy who lived in harmony with the bays and chestnut's, dark browns and coloureds.

The greys were a nightmare to keep clean, they went to shows wrapped from head to foot in rugs and bandages in a vain effort to keep them clean, that was a success in dry weather but in the mud someone followed them around with a bucket of water and a sponge, no wonder I am on the very verge of complete lunacy having spent a lot of my time with grey show ponies and a teenage daughter!!
Champion Joseph

I don't have horses anymore and I am not sure that I ever will ...........but then if through the mist comes a grey horse maybe this fool's eyes will be filled again.

My thoughts whilst writing this blog have been of Smokey, Willow, Joseph, George and Mallachy, who to me were simply the best.

Blossom

A kiss for George

I've been tagged! by a Little Veg Plot

2008-07-22T18:06:00.008+01:00

I have been tagged by Little Veg Plot I have to share with you six random things about myself to share six random things about myself, and then tag six others.
Tag Rules:
Link to the person who tagged you.
Post the rules on the blog.
Write six random things about yourself.
Tag six people at the end of your post.
Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
Let the tagger know when your entry is up.

The difficulty for me is to reduce it to six random things, for those of you who are members of Purplecoo I apologies if you have heard some of them before, for the others I live by the saying that my mother uses all the time

"All folks weird but thee and me, and thee can be a bit strange at times!"

No1 I am not keen on the smell of goats... no I would go as far as to say I hate the smell of goats, my tale can be found at Memories/ Goats and my new found friend the lavatory pan

No2 I spend large portions of my life in the bath, I bath in the morning, in the evening, when I cannot think of anything else to do, when I am happy, when I am sad and even when I am dirty and smelly!

No3 I tumble dried the cat twice and it happily lived to tell the tale and still risked life and limb by getting into the tumble dryer if it could.

No 4 Was given a thousand lines for singing Jerusalem from the last word to the first word at in assembly. I had to write "If William Blake had intended the words of Jerusalem to be sung in reverse order he would have written them thus.

No5 I want to ride under the Big Sky of Montana before I am too old to get onto a horse.

No6 My toes are nearly as dexterous as my hands if I am too lazy to bend down most light weight things I can pick up with my toes!

I will now tag ..................

Sally's Chateau

ChrisH

The Lehners in France

Milla

snailbeachsheep

Marmitetoasy

Blossom

Memories/ Without a Raincoat

2008-07-12T12:03:00.012+01:00

I walked the dogs this morning as I do most mornings and often again in the afternoon. Nothing unusual you might say many of us spend much of our time doing this same thing.

Today was different not only because I ventured across the village to walk a different route, but because I ended up at the finish of my walk far to hot, because I could not leave home without a raincoat!

Weather as we all know in the UK has been dire, wet and windy, dull and far removed from the warm summer days we would like. The weather today was dry, not bright I have to say grey clouds dotted the blue sky and threatened a shower or two, so I took my raincoat just in case.

After a short while I began to boil, its not a heavy coat one, its designed for light use in summer weather, never the less it made me think, why on earth had I bought it. I was not going far, it was not raining and if it did I was no more that 15minutes brisk walk from home and it was a warm clammy day.

How many of us do just what I had done this morning take things just in case, maybe I will need it, what if I don' have it, not just a raincoat but all sorts of things that we clutter our lives with.

Mobile phones, diaries, handbags full of items that may not see the light of day for months and months.

I have often wondered what it would be like to leave home with just a change of clothes, a small tent and a few pounds in my pocket and see how far I got, and what wonders would I find in my uncluttered unencumbered life.

I am not a brave person, not very adventurous, I am certainly a "just in case" sort. I take too much clothing when I go on holiday, too much underware, too many shoes the list is endless.

Modern life has far too much baggage of every kind both mental and physical, and I see only signs of it getting worse not better.

The spirit of adventure has certainly been damped by the invention of satellite navigation, mobile phones, e mail and every conceivable kind of modern day lightweight equipment.

When I think of my father going to the Far East during the war, would he have taken a dozen pairs of underpants? I don't think so, or my mother-in-law going off to live in Singapore for three years with three small children, I doubt she would have had all the paraphernalia parents take today.

It's lovely to watch films made in the 30's, the travellers then boarded the trains or boats with a small leather case, which contained supposedly all they required for a weeks holiday.

I know the very wealthy took hoards of cases and staff but the normal every day traveller certainly didn't.

My Lovely Hubby's grandfather left his Scottish home in the early part of the last century and set sail from Hobart to find adventure and Shackleton in Antarctica. His story has recently been recalled in a book by Stephen Haddesely in The Ice Captain

He was Captain of the supply ship that was to meet Ernest Shackleton half way to the South Pole, and like Shackleton he never made it.

They were stuck in the ice for more than 15 months, no one knew where they were, if they were alive or dead. Grandmother just waited until he arrived home, hopefully in time for tea!

They took with them the things they knew they would need. I am sure there would not have been the room for the "just in case supplies". In fact it is noted that they forgot the waterproof clothing someone failed to put it on board.

Their story is told in great detail by Kelly Tyler Lewis in her book The Los t Men.

In the ships logbook one of the men wrote " We came looking for adventure now we have found it we should not complain!"

They left home to ride the Southern Ocean and the Ross Sea, and walk through the ice of Antarctica, they didn't give much thought to "what if", they just wanted to find what was there to be found and for grandfather one of the coldest and wettest adventures was without a raincoat.

My Lovely Hubby would like to follow in his grandfather's footsteps and go to Antarctica via the Ross Sea.

I am not sure that I will go heavens what would I pack for 28 days in the Southern Ocean? ....then maybe this would be my chance to set myself free and become someone who can go for a walk with the dogs without a raincoat!!.

Blossom

Memories/ A Most Unusual Cleaner

2008-07-06T12:43:00.010+01:00

I have for various reasons this week been reminded of Jayne "A one off person", family saviour and the best and most unusual cleaner in the whole of the British Isles. I apologies to those of you who might have read about Jayne but hope you enjoy hearing about her again

The first reason for the jog of memory was a comment I put onto the blog of
The Lehners in France and the other is I have been "done over" this week, no not by a hoodie outside Tesco’s because I nicked the last working trolley,but by my gallant troop of contract cleaners. "The Spruce Girls."

I suppose it’s the house that’s been done over really, but by the time, they have polished, vacuumed, dusted, shined, bleached and emptied, all in record time, I feel as if it’s me who has been done over.“Get her the flash tart! Contract cleaners not less “I can hear some of you saying.It’s not as grand as it seems, they come armed with all the machinery required once every six weeks or so and try to put some semblance of order back into my house.

I try to the best of my ability to keep it together but what with B&B’s, and acre of garden, two dogs, taking wedding pictures, drawing and the odd bit of commercial catering, something has to give and its usually the dust.

I supposed there have always been cleaners of sorts in our family most of them useless.
My mother had a fantastic one, she came twice weekly for 30 years and she always call mother Mrs B. and my mother called her Mrs K., never any first names, in all that time.

The first cleaner I had after I was married was Mrs S. she was useless, she arrived took her boots off, put on a pair of zip up slippers, groveled about the house for a couple of hours drank buckets of tea and left, the spiders knew no fear, they remained in exactly the same place, the dust on the furniture remained undisturbed, and I found myself cleaning up after she had gone.

I eventually managed to find the courage to get rid of her.

The first time I saw Acorn Antiques, I knew exactly where she had gone, she must have worked for Julie Walters or Victoria Woods, Mrs Overall was an exact copy of Mrs S.!!

Cleaners came and went no one was better than another, I just found some nicked less than others.

"Then along came Jayne", she had been working at a friends cattery helping with the cleaning there. They sold up and Jayne was looking for a job.She was the most amazing cleaner I have ever come across; she made my house sparkle from top to bottom.The only down side was her appearance!and the language!! She weighed in those days around 16 stone,( she later went on to be a finalist in slimmer of the Year) most of it in the bosom area; she was a larger than life character, with a turn of phrase that could make the most seasoned sailor blush. The more men there were about the worse the comments, but she never once said anything in front of the children, she was the height of good manners when they were about.

She had two outfits.Summer………………..Small T Shirt with rude slogan on it and a pair of men’s boxer shorts, on her feet black trainers.

Winter……………………Small T Shirt with rude slogan on it and a pair of jodhpurs, on her feet black trainers.

She would have been a fantastic candidate for Trinny and Susanna, although I doubt they could have done the bosom grabbing and uplifting bit, they would have broken their wrists.

The T Shirts did present a problem to me, I had to make her turn them inside out if the children were at home, I really could not cope with them seeing what was written on them.

Until, my blonde blue eye innocent 10 year old son said to me.

“Why do you do that thing with Jayne?”

“What thing “I replied

“You know that thing with the T-Shirt”

By this time his little pink face was going puce. Smelling a rat I said

” What thing with the T-Shirt “

Now he was getting cross

“Oh you know, make her turn it round” came a somewhat sheepish voice.

“Well “I said “It has some rather grown up words on it and I am not sure if you should see them”

“Don’t know why you bother” he said heading towards the T.V room, she always shows us when you go out!!!

Some years ago I was persuaded in a weak moment to try skiing, my family are all fantastic skiers and I had never been, I really didn't fancy it.

However with the promise of some Florida sunshine on the second week; I was whisked off to Vail in Colorado to ski for Christmas. I know lucky thing and all that but I was full of trepidation and had every reason to be.I was “pants” at it as I knew I would be.

I was like a human Aran knitting pattern, slip one, twist one, pass the slip stitch over, twice round the needle and drop one. That was me for five days, and then I tried and double blackberry stitch and ended up flat on my back with knee and ski facing in different directions.

I was “Blood Wagoned “down the mountain and spent the hot part of my holiday in a temporary splint right up my crotch.

I spent two weeks in hospital on my return and had my leg in a full plaster for 10 weeks and as my leg was plastered at a bent angle, my only way of walking was with the aid of my new best friends” Crutches” I hated them with a passion, but there was no going anywhere without them.

Jayne was fantastic; I could not have managed without her. I was however presented with one problem, I had arranged to have a Pony Club Committee lunch before all of this happened and was encourage by the family not to cancel.

“It will do you good” they all said

“Yes but I can’t manage on my own”

“Jayne will help”

“That’s what I thought you were going to say.

The very thought of having Jayne helping a room full of Pony Club Committee members was more than I could cope with.
I had only been on the committee for a few months and these women were SCARY.

In those days PC was run by large horsey ladies, wrapped in yards of thick tweed, wearing Hermes head scarves keeping control of tight perms, large bosoms strapped into place and dared to move, booming voices that made the cat head for the tumble dryer and beg for it to be put on. ( for those of you unaware I have twice tumbled dried the cat, with no ill effects I might add)

I arrived at my first meeting wearing blue jeans and a sweatshirt saying……………because I said so. It was my school holiday sweater and when the children argued I just pointed at the words.
I am sure they did 'nt know what to make of me, I was clearly not the usual type of committee member they were used to.

Anyway there was no going back, lunch was organised and Jayne was helping, my heart was beating at a dangerous rate and I tried desperately to think of ways to keep Jayne at low profile (impossible she had a audience and I knew she would play to it)

The ladies arrived and Jayne to my surprise was on her best behaviour, she handed round nibbles and showed the ladies to their places at the lunch table. Having got this far I needed to get her out of the room things had gone to well.

“Thanks Jayne you have been great, any chance you could run the Hoover round the toy room?”

“OK” came the reply

Phew!!!!!!!, not as bad as I thought. Very soon how ever she had reappeared, with some polish and was polishing door knobs within ear shoot.

I tried to ignore her hoping she would say NOTHING!

My two new best friends (crutches), were leaning against the sideboard, but one of them kept sliding to the floor. I picked it up a couple of times, but the next time it fell Jayne was there picking it up.

“What is the matter with you “she said.

“Oh I don’t know Jayne I am having a terrible time with my crutch" .

I knew !!! the moment I said it I was in trouble.

A wistful look came across her face, and a slight smile

“Mmmmmmm! I have had a wonderful time with mine” came the reply.

Stunned silence and then I could hear perms curling, amour plated bras pinging, Hermes headscarves sliding over amazed faces, and tweed shrinking as the Ladies of the Pony Club came out in a profuse sweat.

I don’t think the PC committee had ever been to a lunch party like it before or since.

She certainly lightened our lives;Not only could she clean for England, she had the most magical way with dogs, she bred and kept a variety of Husky dogs, they were the most obedient dogs I have known, she was the original “Dog Whisperer”.

She trained the dogs to harness and they pulled a wheeled sledge through the village.Jayne standing on the back driving the dogs along at great speed, wearing her summer outfit, black hair blowing in the breeze, was a sight to behold; she looked like a modern day Queen Boadicea.

She stayed with us for 15years, the children adored her, and there are some benefits to having a page three girl working as your cleaner when your son is growing up, you don’t have all those horrid magazines under the bed, gathering dust!

Blossom

Memories/ I have a Dream

2008-06-29T22:20:00.014+01:00

"I have a dream" the immortal words of Martin Luther King August 28th 1963.

I have often wondered about the word “Dream” and what it means. A small word used in a multitude of ways. Historic events are built from dreams but then so are small and often insignificant ones.

How often are a lives crushed when are dreams are trampled upon?

All of this came into my thoughts on the Wednesday of Royal Ascot, what a strange thing to think about amongst the extravagant setting this Royal race meeting.

My reason is a very simple one.

I sat crossed legged on the sofa cup of tea in hand waiting for the afternoons racing to begin. When it comes the the start of televising a special sport event no one does it better than the BBC whether its the Rugby World Cup or the Boat Race, The Open Golf or Wimbledon, they have a way of making it stir your imagination and Royal Ascot is no exception, thundering hooves, flamboyant hats and Royal arrivals all mixed with music to make the hairs on the back of your next stand to attention.

This beginning was no exception but this time there were no Royal processions or clips from the previous days racing , smart people drinking champagne and ladies in extraordinary hats.

There was still the mystical imagines of thoroughbred horses, nostril flared and hooves hitting green turf. Muscles moving is slow motion, close ups of bright eyes and gleaming coats, and all of this to the soft Irish voice reciting slowly to gentle music a poem by Yeats.

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Today a different Yeats would be there to try and capture the dreams of many.

Yeats the brilliant and beautiful 7 year old colt, at Royal Ascot to try and win the Ascot Gold Cup for the third year in succession. An Irish poem, for an Irish horse, and an Irish dream in the making.

Until that moment I had quite forgotten those beautiful words of Yeats and I have been thinking of them ever since.

So what is a “Dream”?

To Martin Luther King is was liberty for the black people of the USA. This year 45 years from that famous speech, there is for the first time the possibility that Americans will see their first black president. Would this have been beyond Martin Luther Kings wildest dream, we will never know in 1968 he was murdered for his dream and beliefs.

To Shakespeare is was a play a Midsummer's Nights Dream, fairies and forests, lovers and moonlight all with fun an happiness a far cry from Martin Luther Kings dream.

To the Pilgrim Fathers it was a dream of a better life.

Ivor Novello took a Shakespeare quote "Perchance to Dream" and turned it into a book and a musical, maybe this was his dream this was the only musical he was to write both words and music for.

The more I thought about this word the more confused I became about what it really meant.

So I began to list them one by one.

1. A mental image or several mental images when you sleep.

2. Imaginative thoughts when you are awake “Day Dreaming” living a a“Dream World” not living in the real world

3. An ambition, a desire, a hope, a cherished desire.

4. A pipe dream, a vain hope ( from the fantasies induced whilst smoking opium)

5. A state of mind

6. Someone or something wonderful

7. The American Dream

The cynics amongst us would say that those who dream or live in a dream world waste theirs and others time, but surely not so many events in history are because people dreamed of being great, of achieving the impossible, of making the world a better place.

Form the magnitude of Martin Luther Kings dream to the little boy who dreams of being a football star, or the little girl who dreams of being a ballet dancer. Dreaming is where it all starts, to dream is to believe and to believe is to achieve.

So I am back to where I started at Royal Ascot with Yeats the horse and the poet.
Yeats the horse won the Gold Cup and bought home the dream to all who were connected with him plus hundreds of thousands of racing fans who love to see history made.

Since The Gold cup was first run at Royal Ascot in 1807, only one horse - Sagaro - managed to win it three times under the legendary Lester Piggott in the 1970s, Yeats joined Sagaro in the hall of fame on Wednesday18th June 2008.

On my journey to find out more about this small 5 lettered word, I have come to understand one thing, peoples dreams are important to them and no one has the right to criticize them, to each person they are different and the last two lines of Yeats poem should be remembered by all who choose to ride rough shod over the dreams of others.

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Blossom

Memories/ "Why God"

2008-06-23T08:59:00.008+01:00

When staged in London I saw Miss Saigon 4 times, I was never failed to be moved by it.
Not just because it was beautifully produced and acted, the music wrapped around you taking you far from your theater seat. It bought home to me the sadness and the futility of war, the waste and the misery.

The reason after all this time that this musical was bought back to my mind was the news this week that yet four more of our gallant soldiers, met their deaths in antiquated vehicles unsuitable for modern warfare.

The first British female soldier was amongst them, a beautiful intelligent daughter and wife.

Yes I know that its her choice to join the armed forces, she was doing a job she wanted to do and that she would have been aware of the dangers.... or would she.

There are around 8,000 troops on the ground in Afghanistan, they drive “Snatch Land Rovers” in which many of our young people have met their end. They are protected from the air by 8 Chinook Helicopters, and I understand there are 8 others that are still sitting on the ground at home because they were bought cheaply and they don't have the correct equipment in them to fly in Afghanistan, they may or may not be fixed by 2010.

If a British Company provided the same “ Health and Safety “ equipment in a commercial way, they would have the book thrown at them and be closed down forthwith!.

We are there in these far off countries rightly or wrongly and we all have an opinion on that, however whilst they are there and we are sending some of the best of our young people to fight for us we should make sure that EVERYTHING that can be done to protect them should be done.

Yesterday morning a single red poppy opened in a tub outside my back door, was it heralding the coming of summer?, or was it welcoming four brave soldiers who were returning home, my first thoughts were not of the harvest but of them.

I wonder if twenty years from now my children will go and see a Musical based on the misery of the war in Afghanistan.

Once again a young actor might ask ”WHY GOD ?”

Its not God we should ask its our government!

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
we will remember them.

Blossom

Memories/ Bin and Dunit

2008-06-18T16:52:00.013+01:00

I think I have had it with the recycling, composting, bottle banks and local waste and recycling depots.

I have always had a conscience, when it comes to waste, and saving the planet but the “jobs worth” twits that run this country, the rats that are filling my composter and refusing to go are driving me bonkers.

Firstly there is the compost bin, it is heaving with rats, I have never known anything like it. They planted maize in the field next door to act as cover for the 10,000 pheasants that were put down last winter for the “nobs” to come and blast the poor little things to pieces in the name of sport. With the falling maize come the rats in their droves, and of course when the maize runs out and is ploughed up by the farmer the rats look for other sources of food, “MY COMPOSTER!”

Try as I may I cannot get rid of them, the ratman has been, “berludy composters” he says, the rats are increasing by the day, bins full of food rotting in garden no bigger than a postage stamp, they should only be for garden waste he keeps muttering, and I am beginning to agree with him.

I have stopped putting food in it, the ratman puts bait in it once a week, which I hate but still they keep coming, its on a concrete base with small gaps for the worms to get in, the rats chew through and make the gap bigger, then they eat through the lid. I am a quivering wreck when I go to the bin, with a hoe in hand I beat the living daylights out of the lid in the hope they will have run back to the bottom before I open the lid, the other day as I was wielding my hoe and shouting one whipped through my legs.

Head of House does her best to shoo them away, ( well she sits by the bin most of the day but thats about it)

I have tried really hard to look at them as one of Gods beautiful creatures but have failed miserably, I loved Samuel Whiskers as a child and felt sorry for him having a wife like Anna Maria, I have laughed at Flushed Away, and Ratatouille but I am afraid in reality those nasty yellow teeth and thick gristly tail are more than I can bare. They carry all kinds of disease such as Leptospirosis

(Weils's disease), some years ago only days after clearing out a shed that had rats in it, I was carted away in an ambulance blue lights flashing, and was hospitalized with Meningitis for 6 days, it may have bee coincidence but I don't think so.
So the upshot is the gardener is coming next week he is going to dismantle the bin yet again lay down rat proof wire and thicker slabs and we will try again, this time NO FOOD WILL GO IN IT!!

Which brings me to the next rant! Some of you may well have heard about “Chip and Bin” for those of you who have not the idea is that your bin will have a chip on it and when the bin man comes ( going by the trend at the moment that might be once a month or less ) your bin will be weighed six times on its way into the truck and you will be charged by weight for the rubbish you put out.

This has be tried and tested in South Norfolk for the past three years and is a resounding flop, to quote. Mr John Fuller, of the local council “The technology just did not work”. It was expensive and impossible to run, fly tipping increase by over 200% and it could put as much as £450 to each household for the removal of rubbish.

So what does the government do? Its going to trial the same project in 5 more counties, which once again will spend 100's of thousands of pounds of tax payer money on a system already proved to be unworkable at worst and unreliable at best.

Why should I have to pay to have rubbish that I didn't want in the first place taken away?. Charge the manufacturer and the stores they are the ones who create the rubbish.........plastic covers on everything, most of them impossible to get into and they end up straight in the bin.
Ikea seem to manage to sell things that aren't covered in plastic but Ikea is to far for me to reach. Markets and Farm shops manage to sell fruit and veg in paper bags so why can't Tesco? don't tax plastic bags ban the berludy things.

The list of useless rubbish is endless, and one day in the not too distant future we the householder will pay for it to be taken away, the people who run this country are bull head and arrogant, they will, you can be sure find a way to “chip and bin”

Spare a thought for the elderly and the poorly paid whilst they are paying to have rubbish that they didn't need in the first place to be taken away, the directors and shareholders of the companies who made the rubbish will languish in high profits.

In the meantime, I will do my best to have as little food waste as possible and take as much of my spare rubbish to the local amenity site, which is a scary and formidable task in itself. Mr Jobsworth who over sees the site sits at the gate in an old Parker Knoll chair, he is fat and bad tempered, an unhelpful bully.

One week last year there were over a dozen letter of complaint about him, but he's still there putting the fear of God up anyone who dare to enter, when I am not in the mood to be bullied by him I creep to the site in the next county, and hope that I am not asked where I live, if they find out I come from the next door lot, I will be fined.

"Gawdy Lawks" no wonder people fly tip!!!

So for those of you who are not asleep please remember when you are paying for your local supermarkets unnecessary rubbish to be taken away Blossom told us it would happen.
Blossom

Memories/ Sex and the City

2008-06-16T17:26:00.016+01:00

I don't really do “chick flick” movies, Hello, or OK type magazines and such like but I did in a moment of weakness go and see Sex and the City, with friends Mags.

I had no idea what I was going to see, I had read nothing at all about it and had never seen the TV program. So why was I now sitting in a cinema with a friend who had no more idea about what she was going to see than I had, holding a bag of Maltesers and a bottle of water waiting in anticipation for the film to start.

I put it down to idle curiosity but I think the truth was it gave me the opportunity to get out of the house and not have to cook supper!!

No none was more surprised than me at the end of nearly three hours viewing. It was fantastic I enjoyed every moment of it, nothing about it had been expected by either of us.

True the story line is “girlie” no more than one romantic escapade to another, mixed in with some rather shocking lewdness .I found however I was able to relate surprisingly to the interaction between the main characters, the friendship and the laughter, the support and the non judgmental companionship. These surely are the things most people hope for and seldom find.

We live in a solo world, people no longer live and work where they were born, families spread far and wide and more and more adults find themselves living alone.
Friendships we make at school and university are often difficult to keep up when we go in the big wide world.
So maybe the life style so many lead these days goes to explain the success of films and television series such as these.

Bridget Jones was an enormous hit because so many could relate to her, there is a Bridget in so many of us and many of would love to live the life of Carrie and her friends because its a bond, a friendship that stands the test of time.
Someone to call in the middle of the night, who will hold your hand when life is “crap”,lend you money without a second thought, and be there for you, no criticism made and no advice given unless asked for.
For some of us this is a reality, for many it is not. Maybe the success of Internet sites such as Face Book, are due to people wanting the “Sex and the City” life style. I think it is the focus on the female friendship that has made the film such a success, and Face Book in its own way mirrors that friendship, on line you can be “friends” with hundreds of people some you may never have met and may never meet, you can share you secrets and your hopes, your fears and your happiness, you can joke and laugh, send photographs and build an Internet “community”which is there at the press of a button.

We are herd creatures at heart, modern living has taken away the human contact for so many and replaced it with “cyber space “ contact and the imaginary world of Bridget and Carrie.

I am one of the lucky ones I do have “The Carrie Friendship” without quite so much of the other aspects of her life, I can relate so much to the film which is maybe why I enjoyed it so much.

Blossom

Memories/ Oops! I Forgot

2008-06-07T15:18:00.011+01:00

I forgot half of the things I went shopping for yesterday afternoon, is it that my memory is just not what it used to be, I hate to think that was true.

.....What's true I can't remember........... Oh yes as I was saying I am concerned my memory is not quite what it was.... or is it? maybe it's just as its always been but because I am getting older I am worried that its getting worse?

One of the first jokes I was sent when I started to use the Internet was one about the

Here After

It goes something like this, if of course if I can remember it.

The vicar called in yesterday for a chat, he said “You are getting to the age when you should start to think about the “Hereafter”

“I replied “ I think about the here after all the time.

The surprised vicar said” You do how often"?

“Oh all day” I replied.

“Wherever I am I think about the here after.”

In the kitchen, in the bedroom, in the bath room in the garden, and all the time I am saying to myself

“ What the hell am I here after”!

There was a time I could recall any telephone number I wanted, go shopping without a list, remember birthdays and anniversaries without checking the diary,remember jokes and conversations almost word for word.

My mother goes everywhere with a pad a paper and writes everything down, "You should do the same" she said and promptly asked me if I knew where her birthday book was!.

I have wondered whether its really failing memory or just lack of concentration, I put things down and can't find them dozens of times a day, the phone, my handbag, the car keys and numerous other items.

I have lost count of the times I have had to ring my mobile with the house phone because I can't find it, only to hear it ringing just under my nose.

Is this really memory loss or just that I am onto the next task long before I have finished the one I am doing.

I am sure that as we get older we do lose the ability to remember as much, but then how often do we hear children say I forgot my homework, I forgot my lunch, where's my football kit, where's my filofax the list is endless, but do we don't say to them you're getting old and losing your memory.

I can remember going to a horse show with the children some years ago, it was always a big family affair, horses, dogs and anyone else who wanted to come, this particular show was a long drive and we were half way home when one the children shouted

"We have only got two dogs", that meant that four people had forgotten to make sure we had put all four dogs in the lorry, we returned to the show ground to find one Labrador emptying the bins at the burger van and one JR Terrier watching the final stages of the Junior jumping!

My daughter came in yesterday for a walk with the dogs she had with her a 14 week old Labrador puppy, “ Where did that appear from” I asked .

"It belongs to a friend I said I would have it for 2 weeks whilst they went on holiday, I forgot I said I would have it"!!!,

They rang and said “ We will be there at teatime with Pepper, “Why” my daughter asked them?

“Oops “ said my daughter “ I forgot”

So is my memory getting worse, or is it I am getting older and more sensitive about the subject? Am I now becoming more paranoid about the things I do forget.

I think the later is more the truth at the moment, and I also think that the old saying “ If you don't use it you will lose it” My mother does lots of puzzles and crosswords and plays Bridge twice a week to keep her memory alert.
I am sure all these things go a long way to helping us keep our grey matter in trim thus helping us to remember.

I know that fading memory is not a thing to be joked about, although it is often the topic of a comedians joke or a poke at an elderly member of the family, however I do think that a lot of tosh is talked about the older you get the worse your memory becomes.

My husband went to dinner a few weeks ago with a retired vet friend, he is now in his late 80's and as sharp as a razor ( which of course is unusual for a vet at the best of times!!) After they had eaten and were enjoying a late night tipple the old boy said “ I've got a picture of you in my study” somewhat taken aback Lovely Hubby said “ You have

“Why?”

"I will show you”came the reply.

As he toddled off into his study,the old boys wife raise an eyebrow and grind, perhaps he's not quite as sharp as I thought pondered Lovely Hubby.

The old boy returned with a large scrap book, it contained hundreds of paper cutting of people famous and not so famous, young and old, alive and dead.

Lovely Hubby was handed the book with a page opened at a picture of himself taken out of the Veterinary Record, it was taken when he had served a year as a "big wig."

The old boy said “Every day for about 20 minutes I look through and make myself remember the people in it, that way I keep my memory in trim, I rarely get the names wrong”

There must have been nearly a 1000 photographs and Lovely Hubby said he had difficulty in naming some of the very famous let alone all the others.

So maybe I am right, the memory is not what it was but maybe thats because I have become more selective in what I remember, maybe I just don't concentrate like should, but I certainly don't think that I am any better or any worse than others far younger than myself.

So for the time being I will forget to worry about my memory fading and failing and enjoy remembering the things I want to and take a list along for the dreaded shopping!

I hope you enjoy my photographs of the wonderful "Elephant" they says he never forgets, I certainly can never imagine forgetting the fantastic experience of seeing these amazing creatures in their natural enviroment

Memories/ A Walk Around My Garden

2008-06-03T18:54:00.029+01:00

Walled Garden

A garden is never at its best in March just below the surface roots and leaves begin to stir ready to burst forth, but they will not really show their heads for another.

View in 2002

Such was my garden when I moved into my new home in March 2002, I had not really been taken with the house when I first saw it, but there was little to buy in the area that I wanted to live in so after a second look and the acceptance of my tounge in cheek low offer I completed and moved in.

Moss Roses

Now four years later and two months further on, I walk around the garden and even in the wet with grey skies over head I feel inspired I feel at home and I feel grateful that there was so little for sale.

Walled Garden under construction

Walled Garden this afternoon

Looking through the

gate from the walled

garden

I thought I would take you on a pictorial tour, most were taken today, with a few taken just a few weeks after I moved in.

I hope you enjoy the journey as much as I do and have.

Garden today

Blossom

Memories/ Dawn Chorus

2008-05-28T17:17:00.016+01:00

International Dawn Chorus Day was on the 4th May 2008 it is an annual celebration of the world's oldest wake-up call and the beauty of bird song.
I looked up the word “Day” the dictionary tells me as its a unit of time equivalent to 24 hours, the word comes from the Old English word “dæg”meaning daytime, the daylight experienced once per day and alternating with night.

Its now 24 days since this great event and my feathered friends are still at it!! don't get me wrong I love the birds, they cost me a fortune to feed each week, I put up little houses for them and we have been unable to enter the roof of our barn for the last three weeks for fear of disturbing the Jackdaws who are bringing up their clutch of young.

I waste hours watching a pair of Blue Tits who have made house in a small box outside my sitting room, and trying to get a photograph of them popping in and out but the “chorus “ that starts blasting out at 4 am is another thing, tuneful its not.

Once again I turned to my dictionary to try and unscramble this conundrum so many definitions but not one that I can really relate to. I could choose from
Musical (nope that it is not)

Entertainment( not at that hour)

Companies and Products ( getting nearer building nest making babies) and finally

Others ( which had a bit on snails but apart from the blackbirds knocking seven bells out of one for breakfast I could see no connection)

It is of course a sex fueled, verbal punch up of the male “song birds” defending their women their young and their territory, independently these birds are melodic and beautiful to listen to but in the early morning, as day breaks and I am half asleep it is worse than a 30 strong boys birthday party just before home time.

We live in a converted dairy with a clay tiled roof, it has the old fashioned ridge, every other tile is lifted above the others to enable the air to flow, out of these air vent each morning at 4 am pops a Sparrow (or three), you know the common type that is on the decline! ( not true I have most of them) and all hell breaks loose along with the dawn, they scrap and squabble, vie for position and wake all within a half mile radius.

Once they have woken all and sundry the blackbirds, blue tits , great tits, jackdaws, crows and anything else with feathers joins in, this is when the “chorus” turns into a “ Britain's got Talents” reject but not matter how many times I buzz they do not leave the stage.

By July I will have got used the the racket but at the moment my charitable affections towards my feathered friends is at a low ebb, I forgive them by coffee time, their antics on the bird table and their individual songs give a great deal of joy. I have two blackbirds who sit in the top of the lime trees most of the day, chatting away to anyone who will listen they seem to me to be saying “ Wobbly wobbly, wobbly”

Some years ago an old gardener friend of mine said listen the wood pigeon is saying” My feet hurt Betty” I cannot hear a wood pigeon now without this saying going over and over in my head, what with that and wobbly wobbly wobbly blackbird, I will only be fit for the funny farm by October.

We have counted over 40 different species of bird in or from our garden, in the winter glorious finches hang from the bird feeder, the hedge beside the backdoor shakes with excitment when I fill the bird table with treats for the sparrows they all bring me such a great amount of pleasure throughout the year.

I know that I would hate to be without my declining sparrows, my wobbly blackbirds, my squatter jackdaws, the robin who's red breast brightens a winter morning and my wood pigeon who's feet hurt but I do wish they could either all get in tune or sing just a little quieter.
Blossom

Memories/ Wrestling with a Pencil

2008-05-15T17:22:00.022+01:00

I make no excuses for using the title of a Norman Thewell book to tell you about my passion for drawing cartoons and illustrations.
Norman Thewell was my inspiration, and my hero as a child I would copy endlessly his cartoons of small hairy ponies ridden by plump naughty little girls and boys.

I see a situation and my mind runs wild with images of cartoon people and I want to draw it and then paint it.
I don't profess to be good or an expert, but I love to take my pencil, my paints and my imagination and put it all down.

I have just finished a cartoon for the laboratory assistant at the hospital who is leaving at the end of the month, she requested as a leaving present a cartoon drawn by me!!! Very flattering I must say, and I hope the finished result will be up to her expectations.

Over the years I have drawn hundred of these comical people and animals as Christmas cards, Birthday cards, as thank you presents and presents and have enjoyed every moment I have spent with pen and paintbrush in hand.

I love the beautiful handpainted tiles that could be bought to decorate behind the Aga and in the bathroom but they were way to expensive for me so I bought some ceramic paint which could be dryed in the oven and painted my own . I get a great deal of pleasure looking at them, they may not be as professional as the bought ones but I had such fun doing them. I have ducks in my kitchen,polar bears, seals and hippo's in my bathrooms.

I lose myself in a make believe world, with its tongue in cheek humour and and laughter, and I like to think that they make more than the recipient laugh,and that friends and family will also enjoy the humour.

Most of my pictures center around horses and other animals and the veterinary profession, at one time there were 10 hanging in the reception of my lovely husbands horse hospital and one of the local small animal practices had three or four.
I suppose over the years I must have raised several hundred pounds for charity, as when commissioned to do one I don't take payment for them just ask for a suitable sum to be given to charity.

Many of the member of Purplecoo have enjoyed the announcements that my Party Mice have made for forthcoming parties and birthday celebration, and on the odd occasion that I have failed to do my own Christmas card there has be a hue and cry from many of my friends. So all the time these kind people ask me to put pencil and paintbrush to paper I will.

I enjoy trying to paint and draw more serious subject, in watercolour and pencil, I have tried my hand at oils but I find the drying time too long and I run out of patience long before it is finished.

I don't earn a living with my brushes and pencils, heavens I would have starved long before now, and I am sure that I would never be good enough to do so, but it brings me a great deal of joy to sit down and wrestle with a pencil.

Blossom

Memories/ What's in a name

2008-05-10T09:45:00.011+01:00

I met Faith and In the Mud on Thursday, of course they are not their real names they are Blog names, cyber names, names made up for a purpose to use now and then when the name they were given at birth would not be suitable to use.
We had a lovely few hours wandering through the woods at Hatchwood House in Surrey, they have both blogged about our time together, so I thought I would post my photographs from our day with a few thoughts bought about by our meeting.

Before I met any of my cyber friends, I often wondered why they chose a name and if it suited them, mine was bought about not because I see myself as Blossomcottage but because it was the name of the house that I rented when I first found myself on my own after 33 years of marriage.
Writing to strangers in the electronic world of the Internet was also new to me and also something you did alone so Blossomcottage seemed like a suitable cyber name. It has in time become Blossom and I have typed it so often I need, when writing to people I know, check that I have not signed Blossom instead of my given name.

So here I was on a Thursday morning surrounded by the beautiful English countryside looking for In the Mud and Faith, I had already met HappySnapper, Westerwitch,Lixtrol,Humpty,and Wizzard and had thought that each one of them suited the name they had chosen. How would I feel today would the trend continue.
To my surprise it did In the Mud was the kind of person you could always turn to in time of need, I cannot imagine her getting into a real flap about anything, her name bought to mind the hundred of times I had been stuck in a muddy gateway in the rain and the wind with two very cross horses wanting their tea, with my wellie holding me fast in thick clay mud,and being unable to move.

I would get into a complete strop about the whole thing which only made the horses and matters worse.

I can see Muddie in the same situation stepping out of the wellies and returning for them when she had rid herself of the straining equines.

Faith had an aura of tranquility about her, tall and blond with a quiet way of talking and moving, she has a passion for doves and I cannot think of a more suitable bird, their presence makes you feel peaceful and Faith had the same effect on me.

So what is in a name, how often do you hear people say he's not a Bernard or a Michael, a Thomas or a Reggie, but why not what makes a person fit his or her name. Our parents would have looked at us when we were pink and screaming and chosen a name for us because they like it, it was a family trend or it was fashionable ( I was names after a Victorian dance my father liked)

Do some of us go through life not fitting our name, does it have an adverse effect on our personality if our father insisted we were called after Great Auntie Gert, or Uncle Horace. Why is it in the Country Life the girl with the pearls is always Charlotte or Henrietta or has a nickname like Binky or Lo? Will having a great name make us successful? Or is that hard work coupled with fate and circumstance.

I had a misguided opinion that if you were called Wayne the chances were you would watch football and drink larger after a manual job, but I was shown how misguided I was when a barrister called Wayne won a very difficult court case for me and stopped me loosing nearly all the money I had.

So what is in a name? Some of us in our life time will have a number of names first and last, I have been know by my given name, as Effie Bocks! “A” by my friend Marilyn 'cos I know more than her ( she is B) Daughter dear! Mummy, Auntie, Mum, the White Witch, Darling, The Wife, My Second Wife, The Current Wife and now Blossom, I could probably add many more.

However in the end we will be remembered not by our name but our person, who we are and what we do, how we behave and how we treat others, and nicknames and cyber names will fit us to because they tend to come about for a reason and how we or others view us.

Blossom

Memories/ Journey to Witch Mountain or Three Old Ladies in a Car (plus 3 dogs and a lot of gin!)

2008-04-17T13:16:00.012+01:00

Jerome K Jerome, wrote about Three Men in a Boat ( not to mention the dog) unlike Mr Jerome who’s book was conceived as a fairly serious guide to amateur boating on the Thames in 1889, and ended up as a hilarious account of the misadventures of three friends and a dog as they attempt to relax.

My trip with two elderly friends, three dogs, and a lot of wet weather gear (not forgetting the gin ) was never conceived as anything other than a relaxing adventure to Killin in the Highlands of Scotland in a beautiful cottage owned by Westerwitch and Happy Snapper.

It would without doubt end up being a hilarious adventure.

Some of you will already know my friends Marilyn and Mags and will be well aware that a trip to the supermarket or a walk can become an hilarious adventure so “Gawd only knows how we managed to go 1500 miles in one piece and avoid being arrested,( I might add that Marilyn was arrested the last time she came to Scotland but that's another story for another day) never the less we did and the following is a reasonably accurate account of the adventure, of course some of it was clouded by gin and wine and much laughter so one must at all times keep an open mind.

Like the sensible adults we are, we planned our holiday with precision it took about 35 seconds to decide and book, why should be take any longer to decide, who in there right mind wouldn’t want a holiday in the Highlands with three dogs, all with a passion for mud and water, in March in Scotland in a cottage at the side of a Loch it seemed such a good choice!

We overloaded the car, two spaniels sitting in the back on top of a weeks dog food and umpteen walking boots, Head of House got priority parking on the back seat although she had little choice but to sit on top of our weeks rations, but after falling into Mags lap several times she had a space made for between the Tesco’s bags ( bag for life and eco friendly I might add) and Mags right thigh.

Our journey took about 9 hours in all (including stopping for the dogs and Marilyn to have more than their fair share of pit stops). We had lunch at the Westmorland Services and should you find yourself at Junction 38 on the M6, stop for a tea and pee even if you don’t need it because it really is the best service station the UK.

By 5.30 the light was beginning to fade and the rain horizontal we turned into an unmade road because the sign said “Westerlix” and that was we hoped where we were going to lay our heads for the next week.
“I’m here” I yelled at WW down the phone, “Where are you”
“I’m here too” came the reply
“Where do we find you?” I shouted
“Depends where here is for you” she replied
“At the Westerlix sign” I said
Keep going until you can’t go any further “she said
That’s great it was raining hard and the visibility nil, there was a reasonable chance we would just have to wait until we hit something hard to know we had arrived at “any further”

We need not have worried there at the end of the road standing in the rain just visible were two cheerful people laughing and waving, ready to greet us with welcoming open arms.
Even in the half light and the rain I could tell this was the most beautiful place, our cottage bright warm and new.
“Get yourselves unpacked and then come into supper “said HS
Mags and I emptied the car , whilst Marilyn was put in charge of getting the dogs as dirty as possible in 20 mins and a fine job she did too.

After a delicious pasta supper too much wine and champagne we staggered back to Jonna’s to sleep the sleep of the dead, a long drive behind us and a week of relaxation, walking, dog washing, sitting on the old seat by the water enjoying the tranquil surroundings, drinking, reading and watching endless DVD’s and TV in front of us. What more could three old ladies in a car want?

When I woke the next morning white flakes of wet snow were fluttering gently and silently past the window, Mags was still sleeping, although it was only 7 am, it was nearly 2 hours past her usual time to get up!! She gets up most morning to feed and muck out 27 horse liveries!! starting at 5 am.

I left sleeping beauty and went down to the three dogs waiting patiently to be let out, this would become the pattern for the week, two sleeping beauties upstairs and me at the mercy of three dogs eager to explore the beauty of Westerlix.

Beautiful it certainly was and places to explore there certainly are, although my place to explore differed somewhat from Head of House, who thought the large container that acted as a store room had qualities that even the stunning Ben Lawers (which towers some 1214 meters high into the Scottish sky) in her opinion failed to have.

An old railway track runs from outside the Farmhouse, my morning walk took me along its path to the old station now derelict and crumbling but with a haunting beauty, I was fascinated each time I came across it, further down a bridge crosses the river, the drop down is to the water was considerable and H of H gave me quite a fright when I saw her poised on the wall of the bridge ready to hop over what she clearly though was a small wall!! I grabbed her in time and decided to next time put her on a lead! The dogs loved this walk but the spaniels Maisie and Muffin never quite appreciated their dunking in the Lochin when they returned to remove tons of wet soggy peat from their coats

We had a spectacular walk on Ben Lawers, the views from the top are exceptional and worth all the huffing a puffing coming from our elderly lungs, even H of H managed to pull herself away from the hidden container world to enjoy a three hour hike, where endless streams run and fall over heather and rocks on their way down to Loch Tay.

The sky was blue and the air clear, and all this whilst the South East of England was having seven bells bashed out of it by a force 9 gales, very satisfying!

Our week was to take us the Oban “ Gateway to the Isles “ its a bustling port where boats take holiday maker and residents back and forth to the countless Islands on the Western Coast of Scotland. From here you can visit Kerrera, Mull Iona and Staffa.
Head south from Oban and you can venture over the famous “ Bridge over the Atlantic to the island of Seil or take a boat to Easdale island famous for its slate industry.

The weather was changeable the day we visited Oban, turning from brilliant sunshine to horizontal rain. We chose to spend our time wondering the shops and taking an hour or so to have a very enjoyable lunch in a fish restaurant recommenced by Marilyn s husband Michael who had spent a few days the previous summer sailing off the Western Isles. As always with Michael recommendations come at a price, he would tell us where to eat providing that we asked the proprietors if they had found the bottle of whiskey he had dropped over the side of the boat when they had moored just outside the restaurant!!

We took the “High” road home along the A82 through the famous and stunning Glen Coe, I thought it prudent to keep quiet about my husbands Campbell ancestors whilst venturing through this breathtaking landscape famous not only for its beauty but for the battle between the Campbell's and the MacDonald's on February 13th 1692 which became know as the massacre of Glen Coe. So keeping my head down and history to the books we meandered slowly back to Westerlix stopping when the sky cleared to walk the dogs, through its steep side valley where deer roam and and the mountains tower above you, its thought the name Glen Coe means “narrow glen”

To return each day after our walks and sightseeing to the comfort of Westerlix was a joy, no matter how tired and how wet we had got we were able to flop into a comfortable sofa after a hot bath and enjoy the luxury of doing.....................nothing! Except of course keeping Marilyn topped up with gin and Mags topped up with nuts!

We meet some internet friends who until now had just been strange names in a cyber world, Lixtrol and Humpty who's happiness and laughter was infectious and the cheerful and happy Wizzard. Bambam and Pebbles the sheep and the war torn Arnie who now is fully recovered from his injuries and still maintains a happy and enthusiastic outlook on life the delightful Sassy bright eyed and ready for action at the drop of a hat or or at least the movement of WW's wellie on the gravel.
HS took time to help me with my photography and introduce me to the confusing world of studio lighting!

So should you find yourself with a week to spare you could not do better than to head north( unless of course you live in Inverness then you need to head south!) and sample the beauty and tranquillity, hospitality and friendship, of Westerlix and its slightly off the wall but enchanting inhabitants.

Blossom

Memories/ Fully paid up member of the S.K.I. club

2008-02-21T17:58:00.008Z

I always say to my children "If I leave you anything other than good memories, it’s a mistake. I will try to enjoy everything I can with you, help you financially if I can and watch you enjoy all I can offer you. "

When I throw off my mortal coils I hope they will be left with amazing memories of good times (and maybe a few not such good times) a sense of independence and an ability to make their own way in life.

Nearly a year ago my dear friend Lesley was told she was unlikely to make her 60th birthday, this sadly proved to be the case and in May last year she left us all with a huge hole in our lives but some wonderful memories.

Later that summer Lovely Hubby and I were sipping a cup of tea whilst watching the sun go down, our conversation turned to Lesley and her close family unit, they are a large family five children and 6 grandchildren, each holiday they got together at the family home, for several days the house was a buzz of noise and mess, arguments and laughter and at the end of it they all left and once again peace reigned.

“That’s what I want to do for my 60th Birthday “I said to Lovely Hubby

“What” he replied? He finds it impossible to keep up with my thought train sometimes.

“Have all the family together and have a week long party” I replied head buzzing with plans

So my membership to the S.K.I Club (Spend Kids Inheritance) was paid and months of planning and deciding where to have this big party began, we knew when but where took a little time but in the end skiing was the over riding winner and an all singing and all dancing chalet in the beautiful French mountain village of Meribel was booked.

We were a party of nine, four could ski, three adults and one child were very keen to learn and I waved the white flag. Several years ago in the mountains of Colorado I found my left leg and left ski facing in a different direction to my right ski and my right leg. The full length plaster left me with a suspicious regard for racing down icy slopes with planks of wood on my feet and although I have a great fondness for the mountain air and the walking I prefer a stout pair of walking shoes to ski’s.

On February 1st Lovely hubby and I left Head of House and the Prefect in the capable hands of Lilian and headed to the mountains in Ruby the Landrover Discovery, the children were to fly out to Geneva on Sunday and meet us in our mountain home. We were blessed with the most fantastic weather and empty roads which stayed with us all the way to Meribel.

Ruby like many modern cars is equipped with Sat.Nav. who is fondly known as Dagmar, she has a mind of her own and would spend the next 2 days doing U turns and adding subtracting times and miles as we followed the old fashioned map.

It kept us amused, and we would have guessing games as to where she would send us next. She did however come into her own when we arrived at our overnight stop of Bourg-en-Bresse, where she guided us painlessly to our hotel right in the centre of this beautiful French town.

Our hotel was on of the Best Western Group housed in an historic old house, with creaking stairs and floor boards, high ceilings and chandeliers.

Bourg-en-Bresse is a town to the north of Lyon in the Rhone-Alpes it is centred around the pretty Place de l'Hotel de Ville, there are narrow lanes which have some attractive 16th-18th century houses, many restaurants and nice shops to brows around. We had supper in a little country style restaurant run by a family, traditional checked table clothes and jugs of wine, delicious food and busy local atmosphere. We retired to bed very full and tired after a journey of 450 miles.

The sun and clear skies rose with us the next day, clear roads again made the final 250 miles to Meribel a joy and once again we chose our own route leaving Dagmar having the odd temper tantrum.

The children were due to catch a flight at 8.00 am, we had texted them all to say "Safe journey" and the oldest son sent back a message to say that he and his wife and son were at the airport but no sign of the others who were together and not answering the phone. In a panic another message was sent the reply came back

“Thanks for waking us we are on our way to the airport, hope we are not too late!”

We had a few moments of panic then a message arrived “Just boarding got you that time!! See you in Meribel!!”

Little Beasts!

We arrived at Chalet Kouneli at 2.00pm it was breath taking, busy staff were still making it ship shape from the last guests but they welcomed us with open arms, showing us around and supplying tea.

The rest of the party arrived about an hour later, in good spirits having downed two bottle of champagne.

My S.K.I. Club Party had begun.

There is so much to tell, so much fun had, tales of little people learning to ski, of games of Bopit, dancing and singing, and playing in the snow.

I will continue another day.

Blossom x

Memories/ The next stage of the "Seven Stages of Man"

2008-01-31T12:31:00.000Z

Next week I move to Stage 6 or at least I think its "Stage 6 Early Old Age!”

I will be 60 a pensioner, my sixth decade, it’s that really early old age or is it old middle age or is it just my next age?

When did I stop being young? Or perhaps I am still young who knows, at 60 I could be just over halfway if I live to 110.

All this got me to thinking when did my childhood stop, or has it?

I still love reading children’s book, writing children’s stories, watching cartoon and “U” rated films.

I collect Bears of all kinds and relish cleaning the dolls house from top to bottom, but my lack of energy at times and a glance in the mirror will tell me that childhood did at sometime in my life stop and adulthood started.

When I was little I was nearly something, like my grandson Elliot who will tell me he’s nearly 5.

Me, I can tell you that I am not quite 60 so does that makes me old, grown up holding onto my youth?

The time I hope will come when I am in good health and still have clear mind and be able to say I’m nearly 90 and so we go back to the beginning proud to be nearly something.

I hope that my childhood has not really passed and I am really still that little person, full of hope for the future, able to see the good side of life and wishing that what I do will make a difference to me, my family and my fellow man.

As I approach this milestone, I look back at what I have achieved, it’s not nearly as good as some but its better than others. Can I look in the mirror and say well I didn’t waste it all? and I am certainly not going to waste the rest however much it is.

Now is the time to improve what I can do, take up the challenge of the things I think I can’t do and continue I hope make a difference.

Like Peter Pan will I ever really grow up? or just keep wafting about in Neverland, can you still see me like Christopher Robin and Winnie the Pooh, sitting with my childhood friend in the Enchanted Place. I would like to think that what ever stage I get to in life I am are able to feel as I want to feel and not as my age dictates.

For surely as we leave one stage and move to another we leave behind memories and venture forth to make new ones.

I may now be eligible for my Bus Pass but I’m not Passed my Best.

That is yet to come

Memories/ Buds that made Blossom Smile

2008-01-24T12:11:00.000Z

I try each day to smile as often as I can, there is little doubt that smiling makes all things that little bit better.

It’s a difficult task at the moment, constant hospital visit to my poorly Mum, the ever grey sky and seemingly endless rain and drizzle, the constant circle of muddy dogs, walked, washed and muddied again.

This morning feeling in need of a smile and not sure where I was going to get it, I drove out of the village and there was my smile, poking their little buds into the new season.

Daffodils buds!!!! All around us at the moment but these are no ordinary buds, they make me grin helplessly, and will do each time I see them until their yellow head drop and they disappear into the ground once again. I blogged about them early last year and I make no apologies for posting the blog again for you I hope, to enjoy again.

Memories/Flower Re- Arranging

I am not given to bravery and have been cautious only to tell you about people I know well and would not mind if they saw my “Blog”.

I live in a very pretty village no shop, good pub, and about 50 or so houses. There are some characters, some I know well and some I am on the” nodding “on a dog walk terms, and some I don’t know at all.

Fearful, if I told a tale about any of them and they might take offence and sue, should they recognise themselves, until now I have refrained.

However this tale should be told as it makes me smile.
So I will tell to you but like “Dragnet” and Elliot Ness (gosh that ages me).The story is true only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Coming into the village last night from East to West I noticed that the daffodils on the right bank are coming out! So I can hear you say what of it, has the girl not noticed most banks have daffodils on them. All will become clear.

In the house on the left live “Mr and Mrs been here since before the wheel. “
In the house on the right live” Mr and Mrs Came here the same time as Broadband.”

Mr and Mrs Broadband’s house had not been lived in for sometime, they did wonderful work on the house bringing it up to scratch, the bank out side the house was overgrown, so they cleared it last autumn and planted daffodil bulbs 600 of them.

Mr and Mrs Before the Wheel look out onto the bank, and as they would be looking at them they decided that they were only prepared to look at a variety they liked so they dug the whole lot up and planted different ones.

Last night I could see that they were all beginning to bloom, but clearly Mr and Mrs Before the Wheel must have missed a few, because amongst the pretty dainty “Old Country Variety” were some great big bright yellow King Alfred’s, with perhaps a hint of a silly grin on their bright yellow face, for I am sure they are the ones that Mr and Mrs Before the Wheel did not want to see.

All a bit of true village nonsense and I hope you enjoyed it.

Memories/ What a difference a day makes.

2008-01-12T16:44:00.000Z

Yesterday it remained dark until 9.00 am, in fact it remained dark and grey most of the day, it rained sideways and up, and yes it rained so hard that at one point it was hitting the ground so hard it was almost returning from whence it came.

I wrote about my guiltily feelings, and posted it on my blog I had several wonderful replies, which is in my heart is what I was hoping for, some told me off for feeling that way and some told me of similar feelings in similar situations.

I have taken this and another blog from my page and tucked them both neatly up in my treasure box, ready for the next moment I need reassurance that what I feel is not unusual. It’s a bit of a safety net for me. Thank you to those who left comments, I will treasure them and refer to them in times of need.

In the meantime the day remained rather like my mood grey, the wind blew and the rain continued. However the canine contingent in the kitchen could see no such weather and their desire for a walk remained utmost in their minds and was not going to sink below the need for more food or a warm fire until they had run wild somewhere for at least an hour.

In need of some reasonable walking company, for it was not a day to be walking alone for many reasons, I rang my dotty, weak bladder, chum Marilyn.

“Are you up for a walk” I said

“No” came the very sleepy reply.

Looked at the clock, ops! before 10.30, I was not in with much of a chance of getting a sensible reply this early.

A little more muttering, and the same voice but slightly more awake said

“I’m not but the bloody dog is like a caged lion”

Options were few, wet muddy dogs if we go on the common, round the fields or on the shore. At least on the shore we could throw a stick into the sea and they would be wet but without mud when they got back in the car.

The rain had eased by the time we got there and the sky for a little while lifted from dark grey to the colour of my whites the last time I washed them with a pair of socks! but the wind was still blowing somewhere between a force 7 and 8 the rising tide was already near the path, but the valiant adventurers we are, dogs straining at the leash we set off.

Wind, rain, snow, or bright sunlight this part of the South Coast is always beautiful and always invigorating. Perfect for blowing away any of the nasty feeling that lurks within one and the ozone in the air clears the lungs, and brightens the mind.

I wrote about this part of the world about a year ago, I have published it below it will give those of you who did not read it an insight to this ever changing area, where in the summer months, it plays host to little boats, and wonderful bird life, the autumn the light changes from moment to moment, giving those blessed with the ability to capture its magic a chance to capture it forever. Through the long winter months it plays with the soul of anyone who ventures by, one day silent, clear and heavenly, another attacking all around like a raging lion.

We returned to the car pink faced and dirty with four wet, smelly but happy dogs. Home for coffee, which we decided not to drink before left, as a trip into the bushes by my weak bladder friend would not have been pleasant.

Blossom

Memories/ Walking with the Waders

It’s March the 1st, where has the winter gone.

In like and lamb and out like a lion the saying goes. I am not really sure if today is a lamb or a lion.

The sun is shinning and only a few clouds dance on a bright blue sky, so it must be a lamb. The front door opens on it’s own with an almighty bang, the south west wind is blowing force 5/6 across the open fields, so perhaps it’s a lion. Whatever it is the day is bright and dry so a long dog walk is the order of the day.

I am lucky enough to live in an area where I can choose from, downs, woods, heath or sea to walk. Today my walking chum and I have decided on sea.

Our destination is Chidham a small village on the edge of Chichester harbour, which is internationally recognised for its estuarine bird, ducks, geese and waders. The waders can be found here all the year round and during the winter months they are joined by wildfowl.

The dogs love it here; they fly across the plough towards the shore putting up all kinds of bird, who are high into the air long before the dogs reach them. The guttural chattering of Brent geese is broken by Curlew who makes an odd sort of trilling noise.

Once on the shore, the tide is low and we head towards Thorney Island, which was once an RAF base and is still owned by the MOD., however a footpath runs all the way round the shore line and here is a haven for wildlife, in particular Oystercatchers and Godwits, although they come here mostly when the tide rises and they move to higher ground.

I always mean to take a bird book with me on these walks and try identifying more birds, my knowledge is so limited.

The area is known as a salt marsh and although beautiful at this time of year most of the plants abound between July and September, where in sheltered parts you will find Sea Beet (the ancestor of Spinach) Glasswort, Sea Lavender and Curled Dock.

Rabbits abound and “The Girls” plus one, who is an ambulant Springer called Muffin are in their element, they hunt in and out of the ditches and across the shore.

In the distance on the mud waders are feeding, there are dozens of them all shapes and sizes, their bill digging deep into the mud finding small creatures. When the tide rises their feeding bowl will be replenished ready for the next meal when the tide once again goes out.

Through the Marina, where the boats large and small lie sleeping in the mud waiting for the summer and the hustle and bustle of the yachting returns.

The only sound is the wind blowing through the mast making the boats chatter like children waiting in class for the teacher to arrive.

Heading home, we pass through the village of Prinstead, its little house just beginning to wake from their winter slumbers, magnolia trees are out, the warm air down here brings flowers and shrubs into bloom weeks before the ones in my garden.

The market gardeners as busy, planting new soft fruit trees ready for the “Pick Your Own” season.

We arrive back at the car exactly two hours later, my pedometer tells me we have walked 6 kilometres, the dogs tired a bedraggled are pulled reluctantly through the ford, which is rushing along after last nights heavy rain.

What a wonderful way to spend March 1st, and I truly think it has come in like a lamb. So watch out for the end of the month .when the lions get active.

Memories/ Black Beauty

2008-01-07T09:53:00.000Z

We all have a book that is held in our memories for ever, I have several, yesterday I was remind of one “ Black Beauty “.
Read, watched, written about and loved by children and adults all over the world, the moving story of a black horse from his birth to his retirement and his misfortunes in between.

My memory was awakened by a small piece in the local paper. There is a large hospital in my nearby city of Chichester, most of it is now converted into apartments and in the grounds now stand houses, sold for vast sums. However, there still lies within
Graylingwell Farmhouse, dilapidated and in need of renovation. It was here, the article told me that Anna Sewell the author of the famous “Black Beauty” lived.

I still love the book but my interests in it are now slightly different. Anna Sewell wrote the book not as a children’s story but as social, moral and humane tract to highlight the plight of the Victorian horse.

Like many horse in that period Black Beauty starts his life in comfortable surroundings, looked after by knowledgeable people, his story takes us through his declining circumstances, becoming a victim of cruelty, ignorance, and fashion.
By doing this Anna Sewell speaks out and brings to the light appalling conditions these poor horses endured.

The story was hugely popular not only with children but with adults too, there are many versions and through all of them the powerful story is told, children cried over its various characters and adults had their emotions stirred, to a point that attitudes changed not only to the horses welfare but the welfare of the humans who worked with them and cared for them.

I am sure like me many of you remember reading it, and it now enjoys the status of a true classic.

Anna Sewell was born in Norwich on March 20th 1820, she spent a good deal time in carriages pulled by horses as she was crippled when she was quite young and a carriage gave her a freedom she would not otherwise of had. I imagine it was from this close contact with driving horses that she developed her concern for these beautiful and abused creatures.

Black Beauty was the only book she wrote and by this time she was 57 years old in the last decade of her life. It was an unusual story for its time as it comes directly from the animal’s mouth from his point of view; a trend we know well theses days. Making the horse into a human with its own fears and emotion could well have been instrumental in bringing about the change in people’s attitude.

There is a full biography by Susan Chitty called The Woman who wrote Black Beauty: A Life of Anna Sewell (1971).

There is little doubt that the lot of the Victorian horse was not a happy one, but even today we see abhorrent cruelty, and ignorance in the keeping and handling of all animals.

Monty Roberts the Horse Whisperer is the equines modern day saint, he has improved the conditions of racehorses, their breaking and training a hundred fold. He has taught a whole generation of horse owner that “Violence is never the answer” and for those of you who have had the privilege of seeing him talk will have watched in awe at his
“Join up Method “ of backing and riding away a young and unhandled horse.

The Join-Up message has inspired new ways of thinking outside of horse training as well. Today it is being applied successfully by corporations, government agencies, schools, at-risk-youth, violent offenders and many others. Black Beauty is a moving and beautiful story told to us by a horse, written by a cripple middle aged woman, who lived not far from my home and has been such an inspiration to so many.

The book has bought us an unimaginable number of beautiful paintings and illustrations, each edition provided us with dozens of different images of this imaginary black horse who turned the tide for so many real equines and its hopeful that the life of the million plus horses in the UK will continue to improve each day.

Blossom

Memories/ John Denver and The Ambulance Down in the Valley

2007-12-15T17:34:00.001Z

Cait O’ Connors recent blogs have bought back many wonderful memories of watching John Denver in concert, I saw him several times and bought my children up on his music………child abuse my daughter calls it now! To quote her

“We sat in the back of the car and endured hours of Annie’s Song, Sunshine and Leaving on a Jet Plane and look at me I am still sane”
She says it with a bit of a glint in her eye and I know she doesn’t really mean it. I still remember her removing herself from her car seat and hanging her arms round my neck whilst I was driving and saying “Play the sunshine one Mummy. So once again the poor old 8 track player was rewound into action and John’s voice would sing “Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy” and we would both join in.

He probably was a bit of an idealist campaigning for peace and the end of poverty, all things that most of us would like to see.

I remember him saying “We have the ability to stop poverty now, we do not have the political desire” and I am sure he was right then and still is now.

In Bali the “Powers that be” are fighting it out to prevent “Global Warming”, I am still not sure how much of the science behind carbon omissions and the rising of temperatures is correct for each “for” you can read an “against”.

I am not a scientist, so I can only read and try and understand some of it and do my best to help reduce the amount of energy I use and hope other do too.

Prevention is always better than cure, whether it is disease, poverty, war, or famine, we should all do what we can to save what we have and our fellow man.

All of this brings me back to my daughter “child abuse” John Denver, those of you who have read Cait O’Connor Blog will have read John’s Peace poem, the following is a more tongue in cheek poem I hear him recite its about “ Prevention being better than cure.

I hope you enjoy it and it perhaps make you to think too “ That we must find a Political way to stop Poverty, Global Warming and all the other things that are destroying us, our way of life and the planet.

My photographs are some that I have taken of things we might loose if we don’t ACT.

Blossom

Ambulance Down In The Valley

T'was a dangerous cliff as they freely confessedthough to walk near its edge was so pleasant.

But over its edge had slipped a Duke,and it fooled many a peasant.

The people said something would have to be donebut their projects did not at all tally.

Some said, "put a fence around the edge of the cliff,"others, "an ambulance down in the valley.

"The lament of the crowd was profound and loud as their hearts overflowed with pity.

But the ambulance carried the cry of the dayas it spread to the neighboring cities.

So a collection was made to accumulate aid and dwellers in highway and alley,

gave dollars and cents not to furnish a fence,but an ambulance down in the valley.

For the cliff is alright if you're careful they said,and if folks ever slip and are falling;

it's not the slipping and falling that hurts them so much as the shock down below when they're stopping.

And so for years as these mishaps occurred quick forth would the rescuers sally,

to pick up the victims who fell from the cliff with the ambulance down in the valley.

Said one in his plea, it's a marvel to me that you'd give so much greater attention to repairing results than to curing the cause, why you'd much better aim at prevention.

For the mischief of course should be stopped at its source;come friends and neighbors let us rally.

It makes far better sense to rely on a fence than an ambulance down in the valley.

He's wrong in his head the majority said.

He would end all our earnest endeavors.

He's the kind of a man that would shrink his responsible work,but we will support it forever.

Aren't we picking up all just as fast as they fall,and giving them care liberally.

Why a superfluous fence is of no consequence, if the ambulance works in the valley.

Now this story seems queer as I've given it here, but things oft occur which are stranger.

More humane we assert to repair the hurt,than the plan of removing the danger.

The best possible course would be to safeguard the source,and to attend to things rationally.

Yes, build up the fence and let us dispensewith this ambulance down in the valley.

Memories/December Garden

2007-12-12T09:50:00.000Z

Yesterday for the first time in weeks I was able to spend time in the garden, the weather was kind and Andrew my garden help came for the day. Between us we finally managed to put the garden to bed for the winter.

As the evening light faded I could almost hear the plants quietly breathing, enjoying their winter slumber.

This morning I woke to a bright blue sky and the sight of my sleeping garden wearing its first real winter frost.

I live in the South and a good frost is a rare and welcome sight, as the morning sun rose, the plants frosted finger glittered in the sunlight.

I spent a few minutes in the fresh cold air and captured my “December Garden”. With my camera, here are a few of the photographs.

I hope you enjoy them.

Blossom

Memories/ Rorkes Drift, KwaZulu Natal Africa

2007-12-01T17:44:00.000Z

I am told when you have smelt the smoke from an Africa wood fire, Africa will be in you blood and you will return time and again.

There is little doubt that this evocative smell coupled with balmy African evenings under a clear sky filled with twinkling stars, the sound of wildlife in this wild heaven can capture your heart and imagination.

For me however it was different taken by my lovely hubby on a journey through countryside not dissimilar to our own, to stay for 2 nights in KwaZulu Natal at Fugitives Drift, a few minutes drive from Rorkes Drift the site of a battle between the Zulu’s and the British.

Fugitives Drift is set in the 2,500 hectare Game Reserve on a hillside above the Buffalo River Gorge. Where birds and plants of all kinds fill the tranquil gardens, and at meal times you join a band of like minded people in a happy family atmosphere, after dinner around the campfire with the smell of wood smoke in the air Grace the beautiful Zulu girl sang Zulu songs.
This was the home of David Rattray, who was a self-taught historian an internationally renowned expert on the Anglo-Zulu war of 1879; it was from here that he started tours of the battlefield of Isandlwana and Rorkes Drift bringing to life the battles and their outcome until 26th January this year when he was murdered by the Zulus he so loved.
His work at Fugitives Drift is being continued by his wife and family with the help of Rob Caskie.

The Battle of Rorkes Drift is one of the greatest examples of bravery and heroism in British military history. Nine men were awarded Distinguished Conduct Medals, and eleven, the most ever given for a single battle, received the highest military honour of all, the Victoria Cross.

The two days spent at Fugitives Drift will forever be etched on my memory, the story told to us by the wonderful Rob Caskie, like a travelling storyteller from time gone by, before radio and television. He relayed to us the story of this great battle as we sat spellbound beneath a tree, shading us from the warm spring sunshine.

Rorkes Drift was named after James Rorkes an Irishman and early settler in Africa and it was from here he ran a trading station, until he drank himself to death.

A missionary family moved into Rorkes Drift until it was taken over by the British Army as a hospital and it was here on the 22nd January 1879, manned by 139 troops of the 24th Regiment of Foot, led by Lieutenant John Chard of the Royal Engineers, that the camp was attacked by Zulu army of 4000 men. The British soldiers could have run, but 17 soldiers lay dying of fever and to leave them was not an option. So they barracked themselves in using mealy bags and boxes which weighed a 100 lbs and contained army biscuits.

In a letter to his mother one soldier wrote “The army biscuit boxes were our only defence, but then army biscuits could stop anything”

We sat transfixed as the story was acted out, Robs grasp of the Zulu language with its loud clicking noises and his knowledge of the history wrapped around us blocking out the modern world, we were there, a 130 years ago trespassers into a bygone time.

I will not give you a full account of the battle for to try and do so would be impossible it needs the knowledge of a true historian to tell you and should you decide to find out more you could start with the film Zulu noted for starting the career of Michael Caine tells the story well, and is far from a Hollywood epic, it is well worth watching and remembering the parts being acted out are telling the story of a true battle and real people, I have watched it a number of times and I can tell you there is very little artistic license.

For two hours we listened to this extraordinary story, we would grow to understand and be humbled by the heroism of the 139 soldiers of the 24th Foot Regiment, get to know their names and what they did. They were not the cream of the military, many of them were just boys the average age was 23, no more than 10 stone and 5ft 3 in tall, they had walked hundreds of miles bringing with them thousands of supplies pull by Oxen in huge wagons which frequently got stuck in the appalling going, and here on a hot Summers day in January 1879 in temperatures up to 40 degrees, wearing thick wool uniforms buttoned up to their neck they would fight for their lives.
A far cry from their beloved Wales, where so many had started their journey, along side men from England, Ireland and Scotland.

Here I would learnt about Henry Hook the Cook and Pte William Jones and Pte Robert Jones, and John Williams Fielding who with his bare hands broke through the wall of the hospital damaging his hands so badly that they never recovered.

Surgeon Reynolds who had been in charge of the hospital caring for the 17 soldiers suffering from fever and went on to tend to the wounded, oblivious to the life and death struggle going on all around him. Those too badly hurt to shoot propped themselves up as best they could and reloaded the guns, and re-supplied ammunition to those who were still on their feet.

We must not forget Pip the dog, who belonged to Lt. Charles d'Aguilar Pope, 2nd Battalion 24th.Foot Regiment. He left the dog in the care of Surgeon Reynolds when he left with the centre column.Pip played his part in the defence by running up and down the barricades and yelping when the Zulu's were approaching. It is suggested that Reynolds became so attached to the dog that it was buried with him in the RC section of Kensal Green Cemetery in London.

I am not given to Military history but told like it was by a man with great knowledge and passion was a humbling experience. It's impossible to overstate the resonance that this real-life event had at the time. The British expedition in Africa was faring so badly that there were calls in Parliament and in the newspapers to abandon it and to concentrate on trying to quell unrest in Jamaica and India. But newspaper reports of the heroism of the men at Rorkes Drift changed the tide of public opinion permanently. Without the victory, the British Empire would probably not have included Africa at all.

It is easy when reading and hearing about British Battles to forget that there were two sides to each battle. At Rorkes Drift 4000 Zulu Warriors attacked the British soldiers,
These Zulu Warriors had run over a hundred miles, covering 25 miles a days and running faster than a British soldier could ride a horse.

There is the most beautiful memorial to the brave Zulus warriors at Rorkes Drift.

Rob finished his story as the sun slipped behind the hills over looking the battlefield; he dropped his head and quoted

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

we will remember them.

He walked away thinking I am sure of his dear friend David Rattray.

We all sat in silence all with a tear in our eyes.

If I ever visit Africa again and smell the smoke of the wood fire, my memory will be of my day at Rorkes Drift, of the brave men who shaped history and helped give all of us the life and freedom we enjoy today.

Blossom

Memories/ Under an African Sky

2007-11-21T18:44:00.000Z

Ithala Game Reserve

On the 8th November I set off with lovely hubby for a whirlwind visit to South Africa partly work with a small amount of play. I am not a natural traveller, I find being out of my comfort zone difficult, I do my best to overcome my “travel demons “ and enjoy what is put in front of me.

My trip to South Africa was full of demons but also full of magic, I will do my best to share with you two days on the “WILD SIDE” in the Ithala Game Reserve.

This special place, tumbling from the heights of the Ngotshe Mountains a thousand meters down into a deep valley, carved over the eons by the Phongolo River revealing the world`s oldest rock formations, is a game viewers paradise.Situated in the rugged, mountainous northern KwaZulu-Natal, Ithala Game Reserve`s is home to a spectacular array of wildlife species.Its scenic beauty aside, Ithala`s most characteristic feature is perhaps its astonishing geological diversity. Some of the oldest rock formations in the world are found here, dating back 3 000 million years. Man has been here for thousands of years and here have been found Stone Age spear and axe heads dating back some 20,000 years.

WildlifeIthala’s big game species include white- and black rhino, elephant, buffalo and, notably giraffe.The absence of lion makes for a relaxed air among these animals and other game such as zebra, blue wildebeest and a wide variety of antelope. These include impala, orbit, red hartebeest, eland, kudu, waterbuck, tsessebe, common and mountain reedbuck, steenbok and grey duiker. Predators are leopard, spotted hyena and brown hyena. Although they are rarely seen.With its many perennial streams and rivers, and the frequent occurrence of cliffs and rock faces, Ithala is also the ideal haven for a large variety of birds. Sightings of large birds at Ithala may include black eagles, lappet faced and white backed vultures, ostriches and secretary birds stalking across the veld.

We arrived in the early afternoon, and enjoyed lunch over looking the waterhole where monkey’s and baboon were playing in the trees, notices throughout the Lodge warned residents not to feed the monkeys, these notices were clearly not read by the monkeys themselves as one crept up quietly behind me at breakfast and stole my toast from under my nose!!

We had just a day and a half to enjoy this African wilderness and we were able to drive ourselves around, pleasing ourselves when to stop and how long for. Warthog families were in abundance, they grazed quietly beside the road, as we slowly crept up on them they eyed us until they could not resist the temptation of squealing and rushing off with their tails high in the air, each time I saw them do this it reminded me of Pumba in the Lion King.

Giraffe and Zebra came within touching distance of the car, along with Wildebeest and Tsessebe. We watched a small bird for some time as it sang away with its head in the air, I assume calling for a mate as its Spring in South Africa
To be in such close proximity of animals that are true wild is a great privilege. Eagles and Kites of several kinds flew above our heads and we were lucky enough to be just a few feet away from a pair of Martial Eagle who were resting in a tree.

Oxpeckers hitch a meal and a ride on passing Giraffe

We drove for more than 6 hours binoculars and camera constantly at the ready, the weather had become cloudy and quite chilly, and a storm eventually lit up the early evening sky, lightening flashed all around.

We joined in a night drive with a local guide, who found the elusive Elephant and Rhino, and as darkness fell with a spotlight we lit up Night Jar, and small nocturnal mammals scurrying around looking for a likely evening snack.

On our slow drive out of the Reserve on our way back to Durban we were lucky enough to see a newly born Tsessebe calf and a very young Zebra.

I was pleased to see that of all the wild animal there large and small, the only one that had a warning notice up was the wonderful Dung Beetle who's hard work is a example to us all.

Memories/ The Truth about Mother Gooose.

2007-10-26T19:14:00.000+01:00

I am sure all parents can remember singing nursery rhymes to their young, from their very earliest days as they were feeding quietly, bathing with great vigour, and as they chuckled helplessly when you did "Round and Round the Garden" one more time.

As they grew we joined in excited dancing around the sitting room laughing and gasping for breath, we sang these rhymes, softly and loudly, whilst sitting or playing games at birthday parties. We recited them in the car hoping it would waylay the” Are we there yet?” I can remember sitting cross legged on my daughter’s bed hoping that I would not have to sing BaBa Black Sheep another time before she finally agreed to snuggle down and go to sleep.

They are as we know full of sex and violence, death and cruelty, political and satirical. I have investigated the origins of many of these rhymes, and it has become a passion of mine, to find out about them and the various thoughts on how they came about.

Many of them started out being adult rhymes and were often sung to children because these were the only songs that the adult knew. Others were intended for children to feed them information such as London’s Burning (the great fire of London), and one that cause a lot of controversy

“Ring and Ring of Roses” which many believe is about the Black Death or Plague on the other hand it is thought to have been a way children got around the Puritan’s ban on dancing.

So where did the rhymes originate?, these are some of my thoughts.

You of course may know better!

Little Jack Horner...............Thomas Horner, the steward to the Abbot of Glastonbury during the reign of Henry VIII, shortly after the dissolution of the monasteries, Mr Horner settled into a very comfortable house and this rhyme tells the story of his acquisition of the property.

Mary Mary quite contrary…………I have always believed that this was a song about Mary Queen of Scots, however other thoughts are Mary Mother of God, or Mary Tudor. I doubt that it was Mary Mother of God, but it could very well have been either of the other two Mary’s. Interestingly Mary Queen of Scots did have four ladies in waiting all called Mary so could they have been the “Pretty Maids all in a row”

Goosie, goosie, gander…………has nothing to do with geese, well not the ones with feathers anyway, goose was a common name for a prostitute, some of the most famous of these were the Winchester Geese, from Southwark in south London, where licensed brothels existed from the middle ages. Henry II was responsible for setting up a royal protection of these brothels and he also owned a chain of them in Cherbourg. Goose bumps were a thought to be the bumps and swellings caused by venereal disease, so the first verse of the rhyme would make good sense

Goosie goosie gander where shall I wander,Upstairs, downstairs and in my lady's chamber

There are various thoughts on the meaning of the second verse, some believe the “old man “ to be a Daddy Long Legs and the words are about a cruel children’s game of he loves me...... he loves me not as they pick off the insects legs

There I met an old man who wouldn't say his prayers;I took him by the left leg and threw him down the stairs.

Jack, be nimble, Jack, be quick. Jack, jump over The candlestick.

The lace makers of Wendover in Buckinghamshire were a lively bunch. Every year on November 25th, they celebrated the feast of St. Catherine, their patron saint. Costumed as men, singing special love songs for the occasion, they visited neighbours, who served them wigs - buns flavoured with caraway seeds - and a hot pot - a drink of warm beer thickened with rum and whipped eggs. Afterward, they held a banquet and set off fireworks, especially Catherine Wheels. In conclusion of the evening, they played leap-candle. A candlestick with a lighted candle was set on the floor. A player's jumping over the candle without extinguishing the flame augured good luck for the following year.

Rock-a-bye-baby On the treetop When the wind blows………..

The author of this well-loved lullaby was reportedly a pilgrim who sailed on the Mayflower. The Wampanoag Indians, who befriended the colonists, carried their infants in cradleboards on their backs. In temperate weather, they suspended the cradles from tree limbs so that passing breezes could rock the babies while their mothers tended the maize and beans. With typical motherly indulgence, the cradles were decorated with shells, beads and porcupine quills. For sober-minded puritans, the sight of a birch tree festooned with such cradles must have been very memorable indeed.

Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, To see a fine lady upon a white horse;

Before the suffragists came along, women were sometimes compelled to obtain their ends by unusual means. Consider the case of Lady Godiva. Her husband Leofric, Earl of Mercia, imposed a heavy tax on his subjects. Distressed by their hardship, Godiva pleaded their case. Her husband listened politely for a few days, then with mounting annoyance, and finally offered a dare…."Ride naked through Coventry, and I'll do as you ask." Confident that his wife would never commit such an act, Leofric returned to his ledgers. Undaunted, Godiva galloped through town on a handsome white horse, clad only in her coppery tresses, while all the folk in Coventry stayed indoors with the shutters locked, to spare her blushes. The earl conceded, and lifted the tax. And if she hears music wherever she goes, it's probably the townspeople singing her praises.

Anyway before I bore you all senseless I will stop, perhaps you too have a favourite nursery rhyme that you know the meaning of, I have been looking them up for years and love to hear about others ideas on the more obscure ones.

Blossom

Memories/ A Common Walk

2007-10-19T11:48:00.001+01:00

There is something about Iping and Stedham Common on a frosty autumn morning that is quintessentially English. The mist floating in the warming air creates little mirages of refracted light on the distant South Downs. The frosty air has bought out the colours and the spiders have decorated the landscape with their fine embroidery which Mother Nature has adorned with dew and light frost, the expanse of heather is now slipping back into its winter colours, just a few weeks ago it was the most amazing purple carpet. Natures magic tapestry at it best.

Blogging is about sharing your thoughts and your days with others now or in the future, time has been limited recently, so I thought I would share with you my walk with the dogs this morning by way of some photographs I took along the way.

I hope they give you as much pleasure as I had walking in such a glorious sun filled setting
Dew filled spiders Webs

Common Dogs

Beware the hunter looking for the scent

Silver Birch Past and Present

Gone to Seed

Distant Downs

Blossom

Memories/ The Mary Rose

2007-10-11T20:06:00.001+01:00

I enjoyed lunch today with my niece Sarah, she is large and uncomfortable and only 5 days from giving birth to her second child.

“I can’t get comfortable she complained” and I can remember so clearly that feeling of being unable to bend and move, then she said “and I feel so old”

“How can you feel old, at 32” I scoffed

I do, I was watching the news before I came out and they were showing the raising of the Mary Rose, I can remember watching it when I was very little in kindergarten its 25 years ago today.

I laughed at her but there is a point when you start to see things on the news or in books that were history being made when you were tiny and suddenly here they are being reported and you are all grown up and pregnant.

I remember it too but then I would as I am much older than Sarah, it was one of the most historic of events and it was happening on my doorstep, only a few miles from my home, in a stretch of water I could see from my bedroom window on a clear day.

The Mary Rose is the only 16th century warship on display anywhere in the world. Built between 1509 and 1511, she was one of the first ships able to fire a broadside, and was a firm favourite of King Henry VIII.

After a long and successful career, she sank accidentally during an engagement with the French fleet in 1545. Her rediscovery and raising were seminal events in the history of nautical archaeology.

The wreck of the Mary Rose was discovered in 1836. In 1967 the wreck site was accurately pinpointed and four years later, in 1971, the hull was first sighted below the fine preserving silt of the Solent.

Plans were formed to excavate the site and a team of 600 volunteer divers, scientists and archaeologists surveyed and recorded the wreck in the world's largest underwater excavation.

The raising of the Mary Rose, on October 11th 1982, was seen by millions on worldwide TV. After 437 years on the sea bed, the remains of the Mary Rose were lifted and taken back to Portsmouth Dockyard. It was the most awesome sight seeing it lifted from the seabed.

The remains were sprayed continuously with chilled fresh water and in 1994 work began on the permanent conservation of the hull, to take up to 25 years in a controlled environment.

If you are lucky enough to be in or near Portsmouth it is well worth the visit to see this historic vessel and learn about its history, viewing galleries provide an excellent view of the hull and stern of the ship.

More than a thousand of the finest and most important artefacts recovered from the silt of the Solent are on display in the Mary Rose Museum. Pieced together they provide a unique picture of the men of the Mary Rose and the ship in which they lived, fought and died.

The Mary Rose was named after Henry VIII favourite sister Mary and the Tudor Rose emblem. She was one of the Kings “great ships” with high castles at the bow and stern and she was one of the first ships with gun ports cut out along the side of the hull to enable her to fire very heavy guns.

She served in the Kings navy for some considerable time often in battle with the French. On 10 August 1512 she was part of an English force that attacked the French fleet at Brest.

The Mary Rose crippled the enemy flagship, bringing down her mast and causing 300 casualties. This was possibly the first battle in the Channel when ships fired their heavy guns through gun ports.

The sinking of the Mary Rose is the event for which the ship is best remembered.
On 19 July 1545 Mary Rose was part of an English fleet that sailed out of Portsmouth to engage the French.
She fired a broadside at the enemy and was turning to fire the other broadside when water flooded into her open gun ports and the ship suddenly capsized in full view of Henry VIII watching from the shore.

It is not certain what caused Mary Rose to capsize; she was overloaded with extra soldiers and may have been caught by a gust of wind, which made the ship heel over.

There she remained until 25 years ago when she once again saw the light of day.

If Sarah had not complained about feel old I might not have remembered this important day.

Yes looking back has that slight disavantage of making one feel old but it is far outweighed by the memories of such great and historical events.

Blossom

Memories/ Autumn Stables

2007-10-02T15:56:00.000+01:00

As Mother Nature winds down for the winter slowly packing everything up tucking it neatly away until Spring, a stillness has filtered down over the stable yard, there are just as many horses in the stables and they still plod round on the horse walker each morning, go out for their hack around the country lanes or receive an hour of disciplined exercise in the sand school.

None the less the sense of urgency has gone. In a busy competition yard where I am keeping my equine charge Tilly, the air until now has been full of expectancy, young horses preparing for their first competition, show horses being groomed and schooled in readiness for a qualifying class or a big County Show, bathing and grooming all done with an intense air about them. The farrier in and out almost on a daily basis balancing that foot, putting studs in hind shoes, looking for a reason for the slightly unlevel paces taken by a horse the day before a competition.

Successes have been great and small, from the novice horse claiming his first victory, which might have been achieving a clear round at a small event to the daughter of the owner of the yard winning a silver medal at the Young Riders European Three Day Event at Blair Castle in Scotland. Now though the pace has changed, the farrier still spends as much time in the yard, but he takes more time drinking his cup of tea and chatting than he does putting shoes on.

I love the sudden tranquillity, Milo the terrier still sit expectantly in the horsebox but even he knows there is little chance of going anywhere.
Several of the horses are on box rest, sore or torn tendons being nurtured
One grey mare is finding the whole resting bit tedious and nods her head up and down each time anyone goes by hoping they will stop and speak, if they do she rewards them by taking large bits of their coat or jumper into her mouth and playfully refusing to let go.

The summer glint on the horses coats has begun to fade they still look well, but the thicker “bramble coat” is beginning to show and soon it will be time to clip those still in work or preparing for hunting ( or should I say hound exercise!).

I am a lowly soul in this yard a “Happy Hacker” just keeping the horse going until her owner has produced her baby and I am ready for her to return to a more competitive life. For the time being we are both happy to amble round the country lanes, the odd trot and the occasional canter when the ground allows, but even here the equine world is going quietly to sleep.

I pass ponies in their fields, munching happily at the grass enjoying the peace and quiet after a hard summer of Pony Club activities, their young riders back at school filling their minds with geography and maths instead of filling pony’s hay nets and water buckets. Saddles have been replaced by hockey sticks and rugby balls, riding kit, by gym kit and picnics by school lunches.

The Polo ponies that spill from every available corner of this area in the summer are now growing hairy and fat in the once empty fields, their hogged manes beginning to sprout in an unruly manner, by next Spring they will have once again grown to their natural length ready to be shaved back off again when the social round of chukka’s and champagne fill the Polo grounds, and the pretty young things in their high heels and tiny dresses watch the swarthy Argentinean men crash up and down after a small white ball, sods of earth flying high into the air, ponies being turned and twisted, this way and that. Oh how these honest servants deserve their winters rest.

Tilly and I wander along bridleways and lanes, the trees slowly turning an Autumn gold, small mammals hurry and scurry through the dying undergrowth a sense of urgency prevails here preparation for winter for those who will soon go into hibernation. We pass large houses shut up for the coming winter, their owners gone to warmer climates where the chukka’s are starting, and the champagne beginning to flow, how sad these once family homes are now just a flamboyant base for the rich, I pass the gates of the big house owned by a famous Russian billionaire that too stands silent in the slumbering woodland.

I am in a world of my own as Tilly’s hooves break the silence clattering along the tarmac road; I love the hedgerows at this time of year the sloes growing big and fat, the blackberries now nearing their end, the bracken that had served as a thick cover for the woodland floor now turning a golden brown. A pheasants flies across our path startling us for a moment, but soon there is just the noise of hooves on tarmac.
We pass the village pond where a few geese crop the grass, the sun glints across the fishing lakes in the distance.

Back at the yard the grey mare has bored of nodding her head and is soaking up the autumn sunshine, the old Labrador raise his head to see who has arrived but unimpressed he lies back on the patch of fallen apples, I jump down once more on firm ground.

The mild closing days will soon give way the winter winds, fading light and bare hedgerows; it is just a moment in time but how beautiful a moment it is.

What joy it has been not only to have experienced once more the hustle and bustle of a busy yard but also the changeing season and the winding down to autumn stables.

Memories/ Meeting the Headmistress

2007-09-28T14:16:00.000+01:00

I am used to being called to meet with the Headmistress; I had plenty of practice in my skool days

Back in the days when dinosaurs roamed freely and I was at a nice “gals school” it was a regular occurrence for one misdemeanour or another.

The meeting had its protocol, one arrived 5 minutes before the allocated time and sat on an old settle in a very dim and dark hall. Time arrived and a bell was rung. You got up went to the study door and knocked twice. Waited… a loud voice called “come” and in you went.

The school was a large Victorian pile; the Heads study a beautiful bright room with long windows over looking the tennis courts.

Once entered, the room was full of an over powering feeling of control, books to the ceiling in size order, heavy mahogany furniture polished to within an inch of its life and there standing in the window( blocking out a large amount of light) would be “The Headmistress”.

An old fashioned kind of woman who always wore the same knitted jersey suit (she may well of had dozens of them but it looked like the same one) thin white silk blouse, and often three rows of pearls. She gripped her hands firmly across her chest with her glasses hooked over her little finger, swinging rhythmically. If he was at home her poor down trodden husband Sydney would stand slightly behind her to her left. A tall strange looking man, long face with jowls that started at his ears and sagged down below his chin stopping somewhere near his “Adams Apple”

“Well” she would chant “what do you have to say for yourself”

The only thing she seemed to lack control of was a piece of hair at the front which sprung into uncontrollable action when she started to get cross and go puce it was worth being difficult and making her temper rise just to get the wild hair to ping from its iron hairgrip and start bouncing.

I am sure all my visits were worthwhile, forming the rather cynical, bemused and slightly off the wall sort of person I am today. The thousands of lines I have written for her made me grateful that the keyboard has been invented, as the arthritis I have in my hands must surely been due to the senseless writing I performed for her.

I have little memory for what I did to deserve the punishments other than being a bit dyslexic, I spent a large amount of the time bored to death at the back of the class room, drawing to amuse myself, and thinking of naughty plans to carry out at a later date.

I do remember getting 2 thousand lines for being part of a group of girls who sang the school hymn Jerusalem at the top of our voices causing mayhem, because we started at the last verse and continued to the first.
I was instructed to write:

“If William Blake had intended the verses of Jerusalem to be sung in reverse order he would have written them thus”

So hear ends my encounters with the Headmistress until September 2007 that is…

Time has moved on, the wheel has been invented, dinosaurs have become extinct and I am nearing my pension book but once again I have been summoned to a meeting with the Headmistress. This time our illustrious leader “Westerwitch”

Some of you would have read her version and very complimentary it is too. So the following is my version of the afternoon in an Edinburgh hotel meeting a cyber pen friend.

We had arranged to met in the reception of the Sheraton Grand around 12.30, which became a bit a of moveable feast as Happy Snapper was gainfully employed in Glasgow for the morning, so 12.30 became 1.30 and eventually after several text messages

Where can we park?

We are here

Where are you

On our way

Two bubbly people appeared on the stairs to the bar in the hotel, carrying Purplecoo bags, but they need not have done, I would have known them anyway. WW put me in mind of a glass of Babycham, little bubbles pinging out of the top of the golden hair, each movement full of life.

HS the gentle, kind, person I imagined him to be.

Within what seemed to be only moments, these cyber acquaintances, became real friends, we talked as if we had just not seen each other for a while, full of common interests and tales to tell.

They had lived not far from me in Sussex, but had taken the decision to leave the commuter rat race of Sussex, full of DFL’s (Down from London) fast lives and cars, for the peace and quite of the Scottish Highlands full of friendly people and soft rain, of wild winds and real lives. It has clearly given them a quality of life that far outweighs anything they could have got in the South.

I did have one query about their comings and goings that day, I understood that they had both been in Glasgow but having witness the sad dissection of a Club sandwich by WW, I did in fact wonder if she was really a veterinary surgeon and had attend the British Equine Veterinary Association lectures in the Conference Centre that morning. I did notice in the lovely hubby's program that there had been a lecture on:-

“The Evaluation of Standing Laparoscopy for Detecting Gastrointestinal Disease” and did wonder if she was putting into practice what she had learnt whilst we talked!!

Anyway if not it will teach her to look for the cocktail stick in a club sandwich next time, which appears to have caused her a little bit of difficulty!!

By teatime, we had eaten too much, talked but not enough, laughed ‘till we nearly cried and hope made a strong and lasting friendship.

May all your encounters with other Purplecooers be as good as mine?

Blossom

Memories/ Smells and Sounds that stir your inner self

2007-08-28T09:18:00.000+01:00

“When Diana touch my arm with her hand the hairs on the back of my neck stood up” my friend Jan said with a tear in her eye.

No, I am not going to tell you about a friend who has suddenly found she is in love with another woman, I am going to tell you about Diana a friend who’s suffered a head injury after a fall and then I am going to “Tag” 5 of you.

When Jan said the words above to me I realised for the first time that I knew so little about Diana, she was only really an acquaintance, you know the kind of person who has always been there in the background, I could stop and have a coffee with her, exchanged views on various subject and watch in admiration as she rode a horse beautifully through the complicated movements of a dressage test, and over large fixed and dangerous cross country fences.

Then early in May her lights went out, her body continued but her mind has been lost somewhere in the “Twilight Zone”.

Her horse slipped whilst on a Charity Ride and she slid off hitting her head on a telegraph pole, she went into a coma and now is in a sleep wake mode, unable to speak, or move until Jan who had been talking to her had in her frustration of not knowing what to say said

” Diana I know you can hear me please respond”

Diana’s hand raised and rested on Jan’s arm.

They say that people who have recovered from these kinds of injuries and strokes tell of being able to hear but not being able to respond, that friends and relatives talking to them had helped them to recover.

Diana has an army of friends and family who daily go and sit at her bedside and talk endlessly about anything they can think of. She has made more movements since touching Jan and has now spoken three words, how much better she will get no one knows, but it has made me think how important it is to know your close family and friends to be able to say things to them that stir their inner self and reach deep into their mind.

I know that there are things I hear and smell that will always stir me, no matter how many times I am exposed to them, they make the hairs raise on the back of my neck, make me smile or make me cry, they reach deep into my soul and could wake me from the deepest sleep.

I don’t think I am alone, even lovely hubby who is not emotionally stirred too often can be seen positively to beam when he hears an Army Marching Band or Johnny Cash singing, or is allowed to bath with Wright Coal Tar Soap without being told to sleep in the garden shed.

I am not really being flippant I just know that some special things can move us in a way that others can’t. They may just be small and perhaps relatively unimportant; there is no way of knowing what move one person in a way that is without effect to another.

I thought I would list the 12 things that stir and reach my inner soul and then “Tag” 5 of you to do the same. I will put mine with my personal things so if I am ever unlucky enough to suffer a fall like Diana or a severe stroke my family and friends will know what is most likely to reach me in “The Twilight Zone”

1. The sound of a baby or small child laughing with complete joy, almost helpless with laughter.

2. The smell of Lux soap it makes me think of the birth of my two children

3. The smell of summer rain on new mown grass, or on hot country lanes

4. Some one I love saying “I Love You”

5. My hair being stroked

6. The sound of horse’s hooves on a wet empty road.

7. Land of Hope and Glory being sung at the last night of the Proms.

8. A baby’s hand clutching my finger.

9. The songs Fields of Gold (sung by my daughter-in-law when I walked into church to marry lovely hubby) and “Your Raise me Up” it makes me think of Lesley who was in the front row of the choir, when they sang it at our Wedding ( pre WestLife I might add)

10. The smell of fresh baked bread and fresh ground coffee.

11. The feel of a dog or horses soft warm coat.

12. The rhythmical High Blowing of a galloping horse

I “Tag”………………………………..
Grouse,
Westerwitch,
Exmoorjane,
Suffolkmum
UPL

Tell me the 12 sounds and smells that reach your inner self.

The photographs I have added are a few of the sights I have taken that bring me joy.

Blossom

Memories/Goats and my new found friend the lavatory pan

2007-08-23T12:51:00.001+01:00

I have a love of all creatures’ great and small, some I embrace with open arms and clutch closely to my bosom, and others I admire and love from arms length.

The goat is an arm length creature, not because I am frightened of them, although the Billy can give you a very uncomfortable bash up the bum if you are not fully aware of his presence, no I keep them at arms length or even binocular length because, really hate the smell!!!

Now before all you wonderful goat keeping people out there scream and throw a hissy fit shouting they don’t smell!! Sadly to me they do and its stomach churning in the extreme.

As a vet nurse I developed a self preservation method of dealing with my aversion by breathing very slowly and rhythmically through my mouth when they were anywhere near, that along with plastering “Vick “ ointment around and up my nose got me through the task in hand.

I am a member of the asthma and hay fever population, it comes and goes in degrees of severity, I can go for several years and it will be controllable and of little nuisance to me. Then for no apparent reason I wheeze and sneeze for months sounding like a broken winded nag.

In my early twenties I suffered with an unusually bad bout of the wheezes and sneezes, around that time my great friend Pauline had just begun to keep goats and she said

“You should drink goat’s milk, its great for people with allergies and asthma”

I explained my dislike of their smell to which she replied

“They only smell if you don’t keep them clean, and the milk is delicious”

I could not convince her that it would make no difference I would still smell them but eventually agreed to go and see the beloved Violet and Rose two white Anglo Nubians.

They were indeed clean, knee deep in straw and white as the driven snow she did not go as far as to put ribbons in their coats but they did have beautiful lilac and pink collars. At this point I had no idea if they smelt as I had Vick up my nose and breathing through my mouth very slowly.

“There you are I told you they did not smell, do you have a cold I can smell Vick?”

I did not enlighten her and returned home with a pint of their milk and promised to try the delicious liquid.

I sniffed the milk and for a moment I thought she is right it doesn’t smell so took a swig as promised, it had not got as far as my stomach when I tasted that terrible smell that I hated so much, I began to reach and only just managed to get to the loo before I threw up for England and continued to do so for the next two hours, and even then I was fearful of leaving my new found friend the lavatory bowl.

Pauline rang later that day and was delighted when I said “You were absolutely right, it is good for allergies, but continued I was so busy throwing up I had no time to sneeze or wheeze!!!”

Violet and Rose continued in their life of luxury and I visited from time to time with Vick up my nose and breathing through my mouth, accepting kind offers of coffee providing it was black.

Pauline’s passion for her goat keeping grew, the time came for Rose to visit Billy, I received a phone call asking me if I could help her take Rose to see her lover, expecting her to be transported in a trailer I saw no reason to refuse my helping hand.

I arrived at the yard to find Pauline’s old Volvo parked in the drive and sitting on the back seat was Rose, her front legs on the floor between the front and back and her rump and hind legs on the seat, chin resting on the passengers seat.

This was above and beyond the call of friendship but I was stuck so Vick and I joined Rose and Pauline in the Volvo, for a 15 mile trip to Billy.

We arrived at Billy’s house, a beaten up smallholding deep in the Sussex woodland.

Billy’s owner greeted us, she had an uncanny resemblance to her four legged friend barring of course the horns but the beard was exactly the same.

“I am sorry” Pauline I cried “Billy is not kept in the pristine condition that Rose and Violet are and he really does smell I have to move away.

Billy’s owner heard me and muttered something about townies and told me to go and help the vet who was with was up with the donkey!

Donkeys I do, so I took myself off to find said vet and donkey. I found a very good looking young man with his hand well up side a small but very pregnant donkey, “ Oh good the cavalry has arrived can you help” he said

So for the next hour vet, donkey and I rolled around the field until we managed to put the wet and exhausted baby into the world.

I introduced myself to the man I had been rolling in the grass with and then returned to the yard with a large blob of Vick up my nose.

The deed had been done, Billy was back in his pen and Rose was back in the car, delighted to be on my way but little did I know what journey home would be like; going had not been too bad, Rose had been bathed and dusted liberally with baby powder, so I am pretty sure the smell was limited. However the return journey was a different ball game, no amount of Vick, pure perfume or air freshener would have masked the smell of Billy, Rose settled her chin on my seat and grinned blissfully all the way home whilst the smell could almost be seen rising and humming from her coat.

From that day to this I do not know how I got home, but once in doors I stripped to my underwear and rushed to the loo, dropped to the floor and threw up and up and up gripping my new found friend the lavatory bowl not wishing to let it go.

I cannot even cope now with the smell of a round of goat’s cheese on the cheese board at a dinner party; I make sure that I tell my host before I go so I do have the embarrassment of spending the evening making love to their lavatory pan.

Blossom

Memories/ Dogs..they fill your life and take your hearts

2007-08-18T17:22:00.000+01:00

OLLIE

When your child is distressed no matter how old she or he is your heart aches, as did mine on Friday morning when my lovely Gemma rang and sobbed down the phone “We have lost Ollie”

The loss was of the worst kind, not run off down the road, disappeared on a walk; it was the ultimate loss the one we all dread the most, passing into the kennel in the sky, if of course you are a believer and if not he had shaken of his mortal collar and move on.

Ollie was not only a dear little Patterjack, he was Gemma’s friend, confidant, constant companion, and at times her pain in the bottom.
Small black and in the canine world a “special needs dog”.

Purchased 7 years ago, from a smallholding in Hampshire he was a Jack Russell/ Patterdale cross, from that moment to this, he has filled her daily life, driven her to distraction, given her tennis elbow from chucking a ball, has always been pleased to see her, loved her, and left a large hole in her life.
She will in time remember him and smile at all the good times they had together, all the private moments they shared, and his unconditional friendship.

All of this set me wondering why we do it to ourselves? These four legged creatures enter our lives and create mayhem, we accept behaviour we would not accept from our children or our husbands, they rule the roost, even when well trained and leave us bereft at their loss, long before we are ready to leave this world, and what do we do?

We do it again and again.

I can’t really remember being without a dog, as children we didn’t have dogs ourselves but Nana did Airedales! Who guarded her home and were loyal and loving.

Then when I reached 17, I purchased my own dog Sindy an English Setter. Impossible to train, wilful, beautiful and within weeks my parents were besotted with her, she slept on the bed, stole supper, ran off for hours on the golf course and remained with them when I got married because they couldn’t live without her!! Me I was in BIG TROUBLE if I was home late, let alone slept in late and ate the special supper bought for my father!!

Dogs have come and gone in our house, all with individual character, some good, some very good and some diabolical.

Their social skills are appalling bottom sniffing, licking, poo eating, barking at the neighbours, and guarding you with their life, although I still find it difficult to explain to my spaniel that the postman is not breaking in and if she continues to grip him by the ankle she will be all sorts of trouble.

They come in with their muddy paws on, wet coat and tramp through to the sitting room where they find the most comfy place, within minutes they are fast asleep, their innerself puffs foul air into the atmosphere, and they snore away until the door bell goes and within second they can be hurling their shoulders at the front door daring anyone to pass unscathed.

All this said their in nothing quite like spending and hour or two walking the countryside with you canine friend even if he or she is already in the next county chasing rabbits or the newly freed young pheasants ( very keen on them doing that it gives them a fighting chance if they can fly well). Returning home, washing off the fox poo and the mud drying them with a fresh towel and sharing a nice cup of tea with them (two sugars of course).

I have lost count of the times I have laughed and cried into a soft coat, told them things I would never tell anyone else, and whatever you say to them, it’s returned with a wag of the tail and a nudge with the nose.

You can scream blue murder at them for chewing your best boots, digging up the garden, piddling on the floor or emptying the dustbin. Just a few minutes later there they are tail wagging like mad with half a loaf from the birds table in their mouth, pleased as punch to see you and still your best friend.

Whilst I write this Head of House is under the desk waiting for me to move so she can dash towards the door indicating its time for tea, I know she’s there I don’t have to look the canine aroma wafting gently upwards confirms it.

Later when supper is cooked and eaten and I am bathed and clean sitting with my glass of wine on the sofa, she will look at me with those big brown eyes and wait for an invitation to join me, I will of course send the invitation providing she does not have one of those revolting fat ticks hanging off her chin.

Why do we do it? because if like me you are a dog lover life would be empty without them, my life is fuller, richer, dirtier and poorer in monetary terms for their unconditional love and friendship and no matter how many times I sob when they leave me bereft and with a broken heart because of their passing I will join in again and again until I draw my last breath and I am reunited with all my past four legged friends.

My life is more rewarding for their company, their passing leaves a hole which is filled with treasured memories of happy days.

In memory of Ollie a little dog with a very big heart, Charlie and all my past canine pals.

Blossom

Memories/Living the Dream

2007-08-07T21:21:00.000+01:00

Ms Muir pathetically infantile article in The Times, about the Boden set sent my mind racing.
At first I was tempted to write a reply, to try and be witty and one step ahead of her, but then I thought why bother I am and a thousand steps ahead of her already, I don’t feel the need to poke fun at people to make a “buck” but it set me wondering, why people like Johnny Boden, Emma Bridgewater, Laura Ashley, Cath Kidston, so successful.

On the whole their products are expensive and of limited quality, you can go into Argos and buy chinaware half the price and better quality than Emma Bridgewater, Johnny Boden clothes are not the best quality and reasonably expensive and Cath Kidston, loads of money for items my mother was glad to see the back of when rationing stopped.

So why?............. I think its “Living the Dream” and there is nothing wrong with that, the desire to have a stable home life, pretty things, happy children and an honest relationship. That’s horribly middle class you might say, but there's something about those happy, happy children in the Boden catalogue, with their clear faces and messy, sand filled hair.

Is this not the dream so many are looking for? Children running free, through flower filled meadows their days free of worry and full of happiness. Nobody does it better than Mr Boden like little angels full of sunshine and printed cotton bare feet and brown skin.

We open a catalogue and there it is for us our children living the dream.

In turn the dreamers use Emma Bridgewater china to decorate their tables and lay their Organic food on, whilst dressed in a Cath Kidson “piny” serving their Boden clad children.

The is nothing wrong with wanting this, its human nature to want the best for our loved ones but the truth is it's advertising at it's very best, preying on young hopefuls, tired Mums, on memories of childhood books, where adventure is the name of the game and everyone is home in time for tea.

Even if you haven’t ever bought a Boden “cardie,”( and I have to admit I have) or and Emma Bridgewater mug with pink hearts on it( given one as a birthday present), you will have dreamed of a better day and better life, more money and no worries. You will in turn have opened a magazine or turned on the television and in a low moment seen a good advertisement for a body lotion, an herbal tea, or a new panty liner and thought that is I will get some tomorrow and me life will be better.

Advertising is a comfort and a curse, without it life would be dull, I enjoy my colour supplements, and glossy pictures, I love a good book as well, but a coffee and a croissant on Sunday morning has a certain something with a Sunday supplement full of things that I don’t want and can’t afford and certainly wouldn’t buy even if I could.

Having now decided why these people are so successful, I need to decide why the likes of Ms Muir are so scathing and patronising, and by God she is not on her own, clearly in her case she saw what she thought was a story and wrote several hundred words of drivel without bothering to research any of the blogs she so stupidly mentioned.

She and her type would have been the sort of child at school, who would knock seven bells out of another child to get a ball, or a book or some other item, not because they wanted it but because they didn’t want the other child to have it.

Ms Muir and her cronies probably think they live in the real world but clearly they don’t. If they did they would know that Blossomcottage, and Suffolkmum, would not be going on holiday in August, they will be at Pony Club Camp, or Sailing Week or School Activity that require you to drive a round trip of 200 miles each day.

If she had bothered to do her homework she would know that Tattie Weasel would be tripping over too many chickens, maneuvering round dogs and caring for her family too busy to buy Boden or paint a beach hut.

As for muddy boots, she would I know give Ms Muir a piece of her mind whilst wearing a pair of shoes far more expensive than Mr Boden could ever produce.

So in truth Ms Muir is a sad journalist who thought she could push a few country folk in the mud and swirl them around a bit in their Boden cardie whilst holding their Emma Bridgewater mug, from the bedroom window the smiling pink faced children watch on, through the Cath Kidston curtains.

The honest fact is we are real people with real lives and a few dreams, very few of us will be able to say we have not tried to buy the dream from time to time but we are all too intelligent to be lead down the overgrown garden path by Mr Boden and his fancy catalogue. We buy what we like and what is value for money. If you are like me, you pick up the fancy catalogue at the front door, peel off the plastic cover and pop it into the recycle bin by the backdoor.
Then wait for the sale copy to arrive.

Blossom

In Defence of Boden

I was pleased to see Annakarens comment on the Mini Boden, I have not had a reason to buy these clothes and was glad to see that having bought them, she had found them value in CPW (cost per wear ) department. I am a great believer in value for money, its not the buying or the cost of something, its how much use you get out of that item, so if Mini Boden passes down through several children then they can certainly be regarded as value for money.

Memories/ Real Tennis not the grass stuff!!

2007-07-31T08:43:00.000+01:00

“Useless girl” my gym mistress said as she grabbed my wrist and tried once again to show me how to top spin a tennis ball.

“I don’t think you have a real feel for tennis” she would say.

In parts she was right, in parts she was wrong.

Lawn Tennis and I had a love hate relationship I so wanted to be able to play, but I hit the ball like a Yorkshire cricketer, hard and beyond the boundary. So it all remained a frustrating, slow and tiresome game until I reached my mid twenties and I was introduced to the game of Real Tennis………….

I moved with my previous husband to Hayling Island at the tip of the South Coast of England, in those days it was very much an island not many houses a few holiday camps, a golf course and a Private Tennis Club. Not a Lawn Tennis club in but a tennis club in the real term

Tennis was played as early as the 5th Century in Tuscany where the villagers would hit a ball back and forth to each other up and down the streets. In time the game of tennis became the same everywhere but the name would differ from country to country The English called it Real Tennis( Lawn Tennis was not to appear until the 1800’s) the French Jeu de Paume ( hand tennis) when it eventually reached the USA and Australia it became Court Tennis or Royal Tennis.

It became known as Royal Tennis due to its patronage by the Kings of England and France, Henry VIII was a keen player and although as a child I had seen the court on my visits to Hampton Court Palace it was not until now I was to understand the game and play it and find out that I could despite my gym mistresses scathing comments, I was to be able in time to play Tennis, not the modern game of Lawn Tennis but the game of Real Tennis or to the purest TENNIS.

For those of you who have not had the privilege of seeing this game let alone playing it I will do my very best to explain its history and its complicated heart, each court has a personality of it own and no two courts are the same, and it is played indoors.

Its history can cause heated arguments, and many versions of how it all began exist but I feel fairly confident that the version that I know is reasonably accurate.

Many believed that the first enclosed courts were founded in the Tudor and Stuart Royal Courts and houses but it is now thought that the first enclosed tennis courts were found on the Continent.

It is believed that the 15th century Italian and Burgundian courts served as models for the early modern courts of Europe.

Philip the Good and Charles the Bold as well as at the Renaissance courts of the illustrious Medici, Sforza, Gonzaga and Este princes, all enjoyed the early game of Tennis, and research to date shows the Dukes of Burgundy and two Italian princely dynasties, the Estes of Ferrara and the Sforzas of Milan are associated with the first walled-in tennis courts.

When you first enter a tennis court, with its galleries and openings, it appears confusing and complicated. The boundaries of the court, however, echo the confined spaces where the game of tennis originated in the 14th century: the streets, the market squares or courtyards surrounded by buildings, where the ball could bounce off walls and roofs and still remain in play. The sloping roofs alongside the tennis court resemble the penthouses above medieval shop fronts. The tennis court’s side galleries come from the open windows lining the street, in which the ball could disappear during play.

In England by the 15th Century the game had developed and matured thanks mostly to Henry VIII who had become a very keen player, he was an athletic man and fitness had became very much part of the game. It is said that he heard of the execution of Queen Anne Boleyn as he played tennis at Hampton Court Palace. It is a very spooky court and I can’t say that I enjoyed going there very much.

By this time in history the scoring and the rules had also developed a pattern and they remain largely unchanged.

Apart from its special rules for serving and chases, the game is simple to understand. Each player aims to get the ball over the net and in doing so may use any wall - as in squash.

The scoring is the same as in lawn tennis (15, 30, 40, deuce, advantage), except that the score of the winner of the last point, and not that of the server, is called first.

A set is won by the first player to win 6 games. So, if the score is five games all, there is a final deciding game. At the conclusion of each game the winner of that game has his score called first.

It is here the similarity to the scoring of lawn tennis ends.
The game is begun by a service which is always from the same end of the court (the service side). The opposite end of the court where the receiver stands is called the hazard side.

The service does not alternate with each game as in lawn tennis. The server changes ends and ceases to serve only when a chase has been laid.

The meaning of a chase I will explain in a minute.

To be a good service the ball has to touch the penthouse roof at least once on the hazard side of the net and drop in the service court. If it does not touch the penthouse roof or if it hits a window or the roof it will be a fault.

A chase is a” Point in Lieu” to enable the players to change ends thus getting the service end.

It is marked where the ball bounces the second time without being hit by the player.
On the service side a chase is laid wherever the ball bounces a second time.

The non service end is know as the Hazard end and “points in lieu” this end are known as hazards, and the second bounce has to be between the net and a parallel line at the back of the court.

Once two “points in lieu” or chases have been made the players change ends and play the points again, the aim is the make the ball bounce at the same point or beyond the original.

So if you find yourself at Hampton Court, Queens Club, Oxford, Cambridge, Petworth Park or any of the other 42 courts remaining in the world when there is a game in progress, you will hear phrases such as

“Better than a Yard”

“More than a yard worse than the last gallery”

“Hazard between 1 and 2”

It’s really not as complicated as you think; it really is just a point in lieu!

The balls are hand made, by winding endless wet tape round and round until a ball shape has been created, I have in the past helped make such balls, endless evenings spent chattering, winding and drinking cheap wine until we had created some 50 balls that go to make up a set, once made they then have to be hand covered in felt. Machine made balls are used for friendly games and practice but a Championship requires the real thing.

The racquet when I first played was handmade, but I think that has long since ceased, but it is still shaped like a hand the original way of playing.

So here I am 1970 on Hayling Island a terrible tennis player and being introduced to a different way of playing tennis.

Seacourt Tennis Court was built in 1911, as a private venture; it was at that time the last court to be built in the world. Expensive to build and run it had fallen along with the game into a decline.

However in 1966 a handful of local residents clubbed together and purchased the court and some of the surrounding land and turned it into a thriving racquets club, its centre feature being the Royal Tennis Court

To stand at the service end of this formidable area with a wooden racquet in your hand is a surreal experience.

The court is enormous and as you can see at first sight the game appears complicated, but it was to become part of my life for nearly 10 years. To have been at the heart of the reinvention of such a wonderful game, to see it thrive and develop and witness its revival not only here but in Australia and USA.

New courts have been built, new competitions arranged and endless battles have been fought by historians to lay claim to its heritage.

I was to find I could play tennis, no longer was I limited to getting the ball over the net, but here I could use the walls, the penthouse roof and if I could not get to the ball I could leave it and lay claim to a “Chase”.

The dreaded topspin shot was gone, now I was to “cut the ball” much easier for me to learn, and I had time to watch it sometimes just roll gently round the roof of the court and drop down so I could send it back over the net not worrying if it was going to disappear into the next county.

I played in league matches and won; I played with a 90 year old man and lost!

Over and above all that I played tennis not Lawn Tennis for which I had no real feel but Real Tennis for which I had a passion.

Blossom

The Little Yellow Trail

2007-07-25T20:53:00.000+01:00

Whilst telling all my Purple Friends about finding a skiing chalet with a company call "Purple Ski" I was reminded by Faith of a blog I wrote a while back in the days of Country Living, it was about peeing and trail leaving for those of you who have not heard it here it is again for those of you who have, please humour an aging friend who is making a habit of repeating herself and hopefully enjoy reading once again

........................The Little Yellow Trail...............

I think the funniest “pee” story I know within my group of friends was a woman who went skiing with some great friends of mine.

It was only her second time so she was still quite a novice, on her first trip she had hired a ski suit, but having enjoyed herself so much this time she purchased a brightly coloured all in one.

Her confidence grew and on the third day she ventured up the mountain with all the others including her husband. They had lunch in a mountain cafe and started on their downward journey, not long into the decent she became desperate for a “pee” husband told her to go to the side of the piste and he would keep guard.

She squatted down pulling the all in one through her legs and held it tightly, she had failed to point her skis across the mountain and a bit up hill, and she was in fact pointing straight down the slope.

Suddenly she took off still holding her ski suit tightly and in shush position, her bare bum exposed to all, gathering speed and leaving a little yellow trail behind her she did not stop until she arrived at the bottom of the mountain amongst a group of very surprised people. She had four very red cheeks!!

Mortified with embarrassment she made her husband go and buy her a navy blue ski suit with a hood which she kept up for the rest of the week.
He told her that it wasn’t her face they were going to recognise!

When we asked him why he didn’t race down after her, he said

“It’s like chasing a mad cow no hope of catching up”

She has the most wonderful sense of humour about it now and is happy to tell the tale to anyone.
Blossom