You can’t go wrong with an egg.

I like egg in a sandwich – I have done all my life,

I don’t have a bread preference – I can take a bun or a slice.

The egg has got to be a fresh one – preferably free range

As we keep our own chickens – anything else would just be strange.

The eggs must be hard boiled – using the 3 minute rule

You see I like them just so – and I am nobody’s fool.

Generally I just chop them with a touch of mayonnaise

I may even add chives but not cress – that was just a daft phase.

Ham is another choice – tinned salmon for a special occasion

But you can’t go wrong with an egg – for an every day sensation!

View from my Window!

Different window - front of the kitchen!

( Thankyou hens for illustrating a little poem I found!)

Look Back, Around and Ahead

Don't look back with guilt or regret.

Look back with appreciation.

Don't look around to blame or compare.

Look around with admiration and acceptance.

Don't look ahead in fear.

 

Look ahead with purpose and hope.

For more views visit here

Garden Visitors

The Woodpecker

The woodpecker pecked out a little round hole

And made him a house in a telephone pole.

One day when I watched he poked out his head,

And he had on a hood and a collar of red.

When the streams of rain pour out of the sky,

And the sparkles of lightning go flashing by,

And the big, big sheels of thunder roll,

He can snuggle back in the telephone pole.

Elizabeth Roberts

I hang our bird feeders outside the snug window in a tree and also  in the big cherry tree outside the kitchen window, so during the day we can watch the birds feeding We have a variety of visitors, blue tits, chaffinches, mistlethrush, blackbirds, robins but yesterday I could hardly believe my eyes when I spotted a woodpecker eating the peanuts. He was there for quite a while.
The hens will not venture out into the snow - I have moved them from the hen hut into the empty goose hut (sigh) as there is more room for them to potter during the day I close the door, once I have given them clean sawdust, food and water and they are quite secure. I am aware of paw prints in the snow each morning when I go through the garden to the hen hut and I am worried that if I left the door open a hungry fox could quite easily pop inside for breakfast. Beyond the back of our garden are open fields and countryside so we know there are many wild animals out there.

We are entering Day 12 of the snow and whilst it would appear a thaw seems to be happening - the roads are treacherous due to ice so again I am staying put! I normally go to our village church for advent but all services are cancelled due to the bad weather so later today I think we are getting the tree down from the loft and decorating the house - watch this space!

Softly Softly!

Snow has been mentioned on the weather forecast – by the weekend it would seem. This is not such good news after days of constant raining. We haven’t been far at all – choosing to enjoy the warmth and comfort of home. The nights are dark so much earlier and the hens are often in for the night by 4pm. We have to ensure we have sufficient oil to keep the central heating going and we are stocked up with coal for the AGA.

I don’t really mind the bad weather – as long as I do not have to venture very far! If it does snow I will be out and about with my camera. We are surrounded by farmers and we see them preparing their land and animals for the cold spell. Animals seem to have their own inbuilt weather forecast system! We know that if Ella comes inside after a quick “necessity” visit round the garden – that the weather is going to be cold and she will be inside until nature calls again!

I love reading and catching up with news whilst keeping warm and I came across one of my favourite poems – guaranteed to warm the cockles of your heart!

Nod, by Walter de la Mare, 1873-1956

Softly along the road of evening,
In a twilight dim with rose,
Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew,
Old Nod the shepherd goes.
His drowsy flock streams on before him,
Their fleeces charged with gold,
To where the sun's last beam leans low
On Nod the the shepherds fold.
The hedge is quick and green with brier,
From their sand the conies creep;
And all the birds that fly in heaven
Flock singing home to sleep.
His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,
Yet, when night shadows fall,
His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,
Misses not one of all.
His are the quiet steps of dreamland,
The waters of no more pain,
His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,
"Rest, Rest, and rest again."

J is for Journey!

~ Success is a journey, not a destination. The doing is often more important than the outcome. ~ (Arthur Ashe)

 

This morning I had a fantastic time on the beach with Freida. As usual we had it all to ourselves and as the sun was warm and the air was still it was a fantastic space to be. Whenever I am near the sea I always think of the times I was away from home and missed the open coast so much. I returned home when my Dad died and I knew the time had come for me to return home and look after mum. I will never forget the journey home as I knew my life was about to change, but little did I know how much. A few months later I met Jon. A holiday had been planned with friends to France for 5 weeks. It was during this time I realised I had met “Mr Right”. The journey home was a very significant one as I knew it would be the last journey I would make , as a single woman. We were married a few months later.

What significant journeys have you made in your time?

The Journey

One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice --
though the whole house began to tremble
and you felt the old tug at your ankles.
"Mend my life!" each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers at the very foundations,
though their melancholy was terrible.
It was already late enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen branches and stones.

But little by little, as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly recognized as your own,
that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.

~ Mary Oliver ~

If idle hands are the devils tools we are OK then here in the Nesbitt household!

 

 

Earth and sky, woods and fields, lakes and rivers, the mountain and the sea, are excellent schoolmasters, and teach some of us more than we can ever learn from books.

John Lubbock

Walking up the lane last Thursday I noticed the duck pond was quite quiet as for some reason the ducks had chosen the second pond as their favourite of the day. It was during my walk with Freida I noticed the amount of elderberries, brambles and rosehips which were ready for picking. Our own plums are now picked and freezing ready to be made up into Christmas drinks. This week is going to be a week of picking & pottering in the kitchen as well as continuing with preparations for my exhibition……busy busy I think!

Chicken update!

This morning when I let the chickens out I noticed a pale blue egg! This means that Bev has started laying again after her broody period. I knew she would eventually start laying again but was a bit concerned that the attitude of the other hens towards her would put her off, but it would seem things are getting back to normal! The bullying has settled down but she does tend to keep herself to herself! This morning I fed them their favourite treat, cooked boiled rice mixed in with their layers pellets and some grit!

On a small farm just over the hill there lived a farmer named Farmer. He took some kidding about his name, but not much, mostly because he didn't talk to many folks. He lived alone with his wife, Mrs. Farmer, whom he loved very much. And they had a chicken, whom he also decided he loved very much.
"I love this chicken," he said to his wife one day."Yes, I love her too," said the wife. "She's a nice chicken." "By cracky, I'm going to write a love poem for her." "I'm not so sure people should write love poems for chickens," she warned, but his mind was already made up.
Mr. Farmer worked on his poem for an hour. He had never written a poem before, so he didn't know how bad this one was. It went:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
You're a great chicken,
Cock-a-doodle-doo.

He thought it was good enough, and he wrote it out in his best handwriting and brought it to the chicken early the next morning, and set it down in front of her so she could read it.
The chicken looked at the poem with one eye, then the other. Then she hopped on the paper and scratched with her talons, until it was nothing but shreds. The farmer frowned and walked away silently.
He was downhearted, but Farmers don't give up so easy. He said to his wife, "I love this chicken."
"Yes, I love her too," said the wife. "She's a nice chicken."
"By golly, I'm going to write a love poem for her."
"But you did that already, and she scratched it up."
"That just means my poem wasn't good enough. I'll write a better poem."
"I'm still not sure people should write love poems for chickens," she warned, but his mind was already made up.
Mr. Farmer worked on this new poem for five hours. He had only ever written one poem before, so he didn't know how mediocre this one was. It went:

Dearest chicken, lovely bird,
Love is not too strong a word
For the way I feel for you,
And hope you feel it for me too.
I love you more than I can say,
And even more each passing day.

He wrote it out as before, and brought it to the chicken early the next morning. He set it down before her, anxiously watching for some sign of approval.
The chicken stared at the poem for a second. Then she pecked at it. And pecked again and again, poking holes in the paper until every word was obliterated. The farmer grimaced and walked away, choking back a sob.
But a Farmer does not admit defeat so readily. He said to his wife, "I love this chicken."
"Yes, I love her too," said the wife. "She's a nice chicken."
"By God, I'm going to write a love poem for her."
"But you did that twice already, and she tore 'em both up."
"That just means they weren't good enough. I'll write a better poem."
"I'm pretty sure people shouldn't write love poems for chickens," she scolded, but his mind was already made up.
Mr. Farmer worked on this third poem for three whole days. He had only ever written two poems before, so he didn't know how good this one was. It was, in point of fact, the greatest love poem ever written by anyone in the whole history of poetry. It went:

As grains in the cornfield, for thee have I shucked,
Words of love do I offer, yea of praise and renown,
Winged yet earthbound, as seraphs cast down,
To thee have I whisper'd, to me hast thou clucked.
Pulchritudinous poultry, from beak to thy legs,
To gaze at thy galliform soul is to sing
Of the unbested arm and the untested wing;
I toast thy fowl beauty as I toast thy fresh eggs.
Say not love is folly 'twixt chickens and men;
For hath not my heart forged a bond with thy breast?
Yea, a thick bond, which thickens, like mud in a nest,
And quickens my pulse for thou pullet, thou hen.
O chicken, surpassing the swallow or dove,
As thou swallow my corn, spurn not my love.

He finished writing it just as the sun came up on the third day. He brought it to the chicken, and bowed low as he placed the parchment before her.
The chicken looked at the poem for almost a minute. Then she clucked musically, and the farmer's heart filled with joy.
Then she turned around, and pooped right onto the sonnet. She defecated again, and again, until every word was smothered in chicken droppings. Mr. Farmer stumbled back to the house. He could barely see for the tears in his eyes.

That night, he said to his wife, "I love this chicken."
"Mmm, so do I," she agreed. "May I have the other drumstick?"

For more camera critters visit here

Frugal Food, fun and Friends!

Good weather had been predicted on Sunday so we went for a motorbike ride with friends. Our neighbour knows the Dales area well as he was brought up there. He led the way and we were happy to follow, it was a proper mystery tour! We had never been on some of the roads before, but the scenery was utterly spectacular!

We stopped in Reeth and had a wonderful picnic. I say wonderful as it was a bargain! I only had a few minutes to prepare so I threw some eggs in a pan and hard boiled them. There was some bread buns in the freezer which I had bought for the price of 10p! I buttered the partially defrosted buns knowing by the time we would stop for lunch they would be just nice. I nipped to the local post office who do the most wonderful yorkshire ham. 6 slices for the 6 of us! Desert was a pineapple, again bought at a reduced price of 35p! It was quite a sight when we set up our picnic area on the green at Reeth and Jon produced his penknife and sorted the pineapple out! We did get some stares but hey even bikers can have a healthy picnic! None of those dodgy burgers for us! We rode to Hawes and after an icecream and a chat with friends we mad our way home via Leyburn, Bedale, Northallerton and Stokesley! A wonderful mystery tour! In fact Fantastic!

Friday + Special!

Friday 55 Flash Fiction is brought to you by G-man (Mr Knowitall). The idea is you write a story in exactly 55 words. If you want to take part pop over and let G-man know when you've posted your 55. Here is mine for this week!

Missing

Gentle Man kind blue eyes wearing a loving broad smile.

Smart appearance, tweed jacket and matching hat.

Interests include his family, home and garden.

Endearing sense of humour and a very generous nature,

Looking after all around him.

Last seen August thirteenth nineteen eighty six

Answers to the name of John Henry Davison, Dad.

The greatest gift I ever received come from God, I call him Dad! - Anonymous

John Henry Davison came into my life when I was 7. Mum had just got a new job at the prestigious ICI, Wilton Training Centre. One of the Training officers was John Davison, or Jack as he was known. Mum was one of the secretaries. This was her first job following the harrowing divorce she had gone through, a visit from the bailiffs to strip the house we lived in, seizing goods to cover my biological father's bankrupted business debts, a nervous breakdown.

Mum borrowed the deposit for a small terraced house from her 2 brothers, Uncle Bob and Uncle Stan. It needed lots doing to it, including total rewiring. We all know how single women are targeted by unscrupulous workmen, and back in the 1960's things were no different, so Jack helped Mum by making sure she was not taken for a ride. He also helped where he could, as electrics were his "thing!"

The very first time he came to our house I was introduced to "Uncle Jack!" Years later I learned he had been more nervous than me! I was playing with my doll's house.
He spent time talking to me and I liked him. He re-wired my doll's house, I had the best there was! Independent switches in each of the rooms, as a real house would.

Over the years a friendship developed and he would visit us every Saturday. It was quite a treck for him as he did not drive and travelled from just outside Guisborough.

Mum eventually introduced him to her own parents.
My Grandad, a man of few words took him out for a walk! He wanted to know his intentions as Mum had been through so much.
Jack assured him he had her and mine best interests at heart.
Grandad was re-assured and a great friendship was kindled between them.

On one of his visits as Jack sat with Nana who was quite ill. Nana drew him close and asked him to promise he would look after Madge and Denise....he promised.
On June 17th, 1970, Nana died.
On November 1st Uncle Jack and mum were married, the day before mum's birthday.

We moved to a bungalow and after a couple of years we all moved to Guisborough,
Dad's home. Mum and I loved this change although by this time I was at University.

Mum and Dad were both still working at ICI. Dad had a very stressful job and in 1983 he suffered a massive heart attack. It resulted in him having to stop work.
In those days ICI was one of the best emloyers, with very good benefits, both Dad and Mum left with "Golden Handshakes", mum deciding to leave in order to ensure Dad had the rest he was to need.

Happy with their bungalow in Guisborough, they bought a static caravan at Rosedale Abbey. They loved to visit and stay whenever they had the time. Infact, the photograph above was indeed taken in the caravan, by mum.

On the morning of August 13th 1986, whilst staying at the caravan, Dad told mum he would prefer go home. He wasn't feeling very well. They had planned on going to Danby Country Show, one of their all time favourites.

They packed up and set off for home. It would have been a very busy day on the roads, due to holiday traffic, -the Whitby to Guisborough Road in particular!

As the car passed Gisborough Hall, Dad brought the car to a stop and slumped forward.
He had died, literaly at the wheel.

I was teaching in Nottingham at the time.
I received the news later that afternoon and returned home the following day.

This was to be a turning point in my life. I was to return home and look after mum.
I had a fantastic relationship with Dad, he was indeed my Dad.

Notice how he suddenly evolved as Dad from Uncle Jack? It was the same in our relationship.
I don't know when it happened, it just did. One day I just called him Dad!
Dad recounted the event to mum..he had cried at the time, privately, with pride and love.
I often sit in Dad's chair and remember him....I will take great comfort in doing that today, August 13th 2010!



When Dad was at school he learned the poem " Meg Merilles" off by heart. This he would recite when his teacher asked the class to stand up, one by one and sing. Dad was incredibly shy as well as tone deaf, this was his contribution. he often recited this, infact at the drop of a hat!

Here is the poem in it's original form, for Dad!

Meg Merrilies

Old Meg she was a gypsy; And liv'd upon the moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf, And her house was out of doors.
Her apples were swart blackberries, Her currants, pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, Her book a church-yard tomb.

Her brothers were the craggy hills, Her sisters larchen trees;
Alone with her great family She liv'd as she did please.
No breakfast had she many a morn, No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare Full hard against the moon.

But every morn, of woodbine fresh She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen yew She wove, and she would sing.
nd with her fingers old and brown She plaited mats o' rushes,
And gave them to the cottagers She met among the bushes.

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen, And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore, A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere — She died full long agone!

John Keats

Cornfields and Chicken update!

Chicken update - Bev and Mabel continue to sit on eggs, very Contented. 12 days sitting so far out of 21 day incubation period!

As I took Freida for a morning walk up the lane it was lovely to see the cornfields glowing in the sunshine.

The corn was so ripe and ready!

We must have walked a few miles really – just ambling along the lane and walkways.

It is always nice to be greeted by our neighbours!

and meet the new arrivals!

Each month, TATE ETC. publishes new poetry by leading poets such as John Burnside, Moniza Alvi, Adam Thorpe, Alice Oswald and David Harsent who respond to works from the Tate Collection.

The first poem to appear is John Burnside’s beautiful meditation on John Nash’s evocative wartime landscape The Cornfield 1918, currently on display at Tate Liverpool

Cornfield

after John Nash

Nothing is as it was
in childhood, when we had to learn the names
of objects and colours,

and yet the eye can navigate a field,
loving the way a random stook of corn
is orphaned
- not by shadows; not by light -

but softly, like the tinder in a children’s
story-book, the stalled world raised to life
around a spark: that tenderness in presence,

pale as the flame a sniper waits to catch
across the yards of razor-wire and ditching;
thin as the light that falls from chapel doors,

so everything, it seems,
is resurrected;
not for a moment, not in the sway of the now,

but always,
as the evening we can see
is all the others, all of history:

the man climbing up from the tomb
in a mantle of sulphur,

the struck match whiting his hands
in a blister of light

Fish and Chips!

On Saturday we went to Newcastle with some friends. Westgate Road is definately a place for bikers as it is filled with shops stocking everything needed for motorbike owners. I have been thinking about learning to ride a motorbike for some time but being short there is always the problem of my feet not reaching the ground, but in one shop I came across one bike which seemed OK and the colour was right too! I don’t think I would get a new one, no an old one would be more suitable…….watch this space.

We had fish and chips for lunch and the portions were absolutely mammoth! We all finished our plates but really I felt so full. Only a matter of minutes later we were back on the motorbike making our way to Darlington! Being on the back of a motorbike, in leathers after fish and chips is not a very comfortable place to be!

As we are so near the seaside we know some good fish and chip shops, especially in Whitby and Scarborough. In my pottering about with various blogs I came across this poem and had to share, it really sums up the whole fish and chip thing!

Enjoy!

FISHING CHIPS by Stan Ski!

Up North
where I come from where, when it’s not raining
it’s overcast
and people say
what they mean
and they mean
what they bloody well say
eating out means the Chippy.
Not Fish Bar
or Fish Shop
or Fish ‘n’ Chip Restaurant
We’re talking real Fishing Chips
(are fishing chips, chips that catch their own fish?)
They don’t do
French fries
pommes frites
Nouveau Cuisine
Not our cup of tea
They don’t do
mayonnaise dip
they only do
salt and vinegar
Economy gastronomy
cheap at half the price
cheap as chips
If it’s a big fish you’re after
for the larger appetite
they also do
double portions
twice the chance to catch that fish
twice as many fishing chips
fishing…?
(Should have seen the one that got away!)
Fishing chips catch
Haddock, Cod
(complete with rod
hook, line and sinker?)
Or, if you’re feeling flush
even Plaice
Mushy peas can be added
Bread and butter
and a mineral
Tea is served every night
at six o’clock
(Unlike the Americans
we eat dinner
at dinner time
noon)
Fishing chips for Friday tea
wrapped in greaseproof
and newspaper
up North
where I come from
where, when it’s not raining
it’s overcast

For more Macro Monday pics visit here

Eyes and Skies!

On Tuesday I was quite busy and knew the tide would be in at our near-by beach, so just for a change I took Freida up the lane!

There are always so many simple, lovely things to view!

In the hedge rows

One of these days by James W. Foley

Say! Let's forget it! Let's put it aside!
Life is so large and the world is so wide.
Days are so short and there's so much to do,
What if it was false--there's plenty that's true.
Say! Let's forget it! Let's brush it away
Now and forever, so what do you say?
All of the bitter words said may be praise
One of these days.

Say! Let's forget it! Let's wipe off the slate,
Find something better to cherish than hate.
There's so much good in the world that we've had,
Let's strike a balance and cross off the bad.
Say! Let's forgive it, whatever it be,
Let's not be slaves when we ought to be free.
We shall be walking in sunshiny ways
One of these days.

Say! Let's not mind it! Let's smile it away,
Bring not a withered rose from yesterday;
Flowers are so fresh from the wayside and wood,
Sorrows are blessings but half understood.
Say! Let's not mind it, however it seems,
Hope is so sweet and holds so many dreams;
All of the sere fields with blossoms shall blaze
One of these days.

Say! Let's not take it so sorely to heart!
Hates may be friendships just drifted apart,
Failure be genius not quite understood,
Say! Let's get closer to somebody's side,
See what his dreams are and learn how he tried,
See if our scoldings won't give way to praise
One of these days.

Say! Let's not wither! Let's branch out and rise
Out of the byways and nearer the skies.
Let's spread some shade that's refreshing and deep
Where some tired traveler may lie down and sleep.
Say! Let's not tarry! Let's do it right now;
So much to do if we just find out how!
We may not be here to help folks or praise
One of these days.

For more skies visit here

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PANTS!

Y is for Y - fronts!


Far left...can you see them?




This is what our back garden looks like as we speak and in fact most mornings really as I must confess I love washing our laundry and seeing it hanging out to dry in the breeze, nothing compares!

If you look closely you will see I hang the socks out in pairs, then as they dry I pair them up and they go straight into the sock drawer. From time to time socks will go amiss so rather than waste time searching I have a large bag I drop them into and will have socks re-united moment where I find partners for all the lonely socks I have! Strange, quirky, odd but true.

The second picture tells a story! Just off the picture is another of Jon'e work T-shirts so there are 3 in all on the line. so this tells me Jon did 3 sessions in the workshop. This doesn't necessarily mean he did 3 days as sometimes he may change his shirts if they are gruby, as is often the case.

The other two T-shirts tell me that we have been out on the motorbike on at least 2 occasions over the past few days. This is the case as we went to Whitby last Thursday night and to Scarborough on Saturday. The T-shirts also tell another story! If you look closely wou will see that they are both dated - TT Road Races 2008 and Mad Sunday 2010! Yes we bought the Tshirts when we went to the isle of Mann TT Races in both those years. We went in 2009 too and indeed have the T-shirts but Jon didn't pick them out on these occasions. Each year we go over to the Isle of Man there is always an abundance of TT merchandise to buy and we always buy the T-shirts. Whenever we go out on the motorbike Jon always wears a TT Tshirt - they are definately amongst his favourites and he has 5 so there is always a clean supply on the off chance we get out on the motorbike!

My world as I always say is a simple, contented world and having the hum of the washing machine ringing in my ears first thing each morning is part of the everyday life here in the Nesbitt household!

Laundry

by Ruth Moose

All our life so much laundry;
each day’s doing or not comes clean,
flows off and away to blend with other sins of this world.
Each day begins in new skin,
blessed by the elements charged
to take us out again to do or undo what’s been assigned.
From socks to shirts the selves we shed lift off the line
as if they own a life apart from the one we offer.
There is joy in clean laundry.
All is forgiven in water, sun and air.
We offer our day’s deeds to the blue-eyed sky,
with soap and prayer,
our arms up, then lowered in supplication.

To see other Worlds visit here
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It is 1.30pm and comments are disappearing somehow! I have had several comments made as I received e-mail notification yet they are not appearing here! I even left a comment myself but although initially published it too has disappeared...any thoughts?

Skywatch

Another lovely morning spent on the beach! My best friend Maria, Freida and myself….it was wonderful! A fantastic start to another day!

A New Day

Anonymous

If life seems at its lowest ebb,
Because a day's gone wrong.
Let not your heart be troubled,
For a new day soon will dawn
And we can never be quite sure,
Just what it has in store.
Since each one is so different,
Than the one just gone before
As it penetrates the darkness,
With its soft and tranquil beams.
It calms even the most restless soul,
And brings new hopes and dreams
So when a days been troubled,
And the night is dark and long.
Lift up your fallen spirits,
For a new day soon will dawn

For more skywatchers visit here

Weekend....sorted!

Back lawn June 2010

The Gardener's Morning

The robin's song at daybreak
is a clarion call to me -
Get up and get out in the garden,
for the morning hours flee.

I cannot resist the summons,
What earnest gardener could?
For the golden hours of morning
Get into the gardener's blood.

The magic spell is upon me,
I'm glad that I did not wait;
For life's at its best in the morning,
As you pass through the garden gate.

- Howard Dolf

I find the sheer size of our garden quite daunting at times and need to find a way to identify the various tasks which need to be tackled and come up with a plan!
This week, a blogging friend of mine, Weaver took delivery of a mini=printer and is using it to document her nature season. This gave me a wonderful, (well I think so!) idea!
As I see a task which I can tackle I will simply take a photograph (yes, I am awaiting the delivery of my very own mini-printer) tackle the problem then take another photograph of the finished result! The photographs I will then put into my garden journal which I will make tonight, or when the weather isn't suitable for gardening!
I have a vast collection of Country Living magazines, about 3 years worth of back issues to be precise and I have been looking for a use for them, so these will be used well!

Watch this space!

For Chris

Yesterday we had to attend the funeral of a very dear friend, Christine who died last week as a result of a traffic accident whilst out on her motorbike. It was a freak accident really and could have happened to anybody, but sadly for us and all of Christine's family her number was up!

The service was to be held at our local church, All Saints in Easington. We knew there would be a lot of people attending the service as Chris was so popular. The church was absolutely full with a huge crowd of people standing as there wasn't any seats left. The service was to begin at 1.15pm and by 1pm the place was packed with many standing outside.

During the service we learned lots of facts about Christine, facts which we wouldn't have known. After the many years I have known Chris I did not know she not only loved poetry but wrote some herself. Her favourite poem was Wordsworth's Daffodils which we are all familiar with.

The poem 'Daffodils' is also known by the title 'I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud', a lyrical poem written by William Wordsworth in 1804. It was published in 1815 in 'Collected Poems' with four stanzas. William Wordsworth is a well-known romantic poet who believed in conveying simple and creative expressions through his poems. He had quoted, "Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility". Thus, Daffodils is one of the most popular poems of the Romantic Age, unfolding the poet's excitement, love and praise for a field blossoming with daffodils.

William Wordsworth wrote Daffodils on a stormy day in spring, while walking along with his sister Dorothy near Ullswater Lake, in England. He imagined that the daffodils were dancing and invoking him to join and enjoy the breezy nature of the fields. Dorothy Wordsworth, the younger sister of William Wordsworth, found the poem so interesting that she took 'Daffodils' as the subject for her journal.

"Daffodils" (1804)
I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud


That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine


And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they


Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie


In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

It is such a shame that often we only discover things about people when it is too late to talk. I asked Jon if he had a favourite poem and he said whilst he wasn't a great lover of poetry he did like "If" by Rudyard Kipling. He went on to say that he didn't think it was appropriate for a funeral but I think it would be OK.

My favourite poem is by EE Cummings. I particularly like it for the words in the final line sum up the great feeling of walking on the beach and being so near to the sea. When I was teaching in Nottingham, in the East Midlands I often read this to my pupils and described the coastline I was brought up with which is now an important part of our walks and indeed we can see the North Sea from our house, so it is fitting!

maggie and milly and molly and may
by E. E. Cummings

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea

Do you have a favourite poem?

A Poem! By Moi!

Saltburn by the Sea

I often take wilma a few miles up the road to Saltburn beach, a place we often went when I was a child. I have many many happy memories of building sandcastles whilst mum and Antie Dot sat and chatted about everything and nothing!

I have joined in with another writing project which I heard of via one of my blogging friends, Weaver of Grass. Full credit for the idea belongs to this chap
This morning I read Weaver's excellent poem with the title of "My Home Town! This got me thinking about what I would write, so this afternoon when we went out on the motorbike to Whitby I started playing around with some words. Arriving home I continued to think about it as i cleared out the henshouse, put the hens to bed and finally put Jo into his shed.

Hope you like it!

Childhood spent in street house with a yard out the back

twas a little palace for nothing did I lack

The hills were our playground for hours would we roam

and as the sun began to set we’d make our way back home

For hours on my roller-skates I’d skate near the chippy

this was the 60’s you see our neighbour was a hippy!

Carol was her name, her sewing skills deserve merits

Eric was her new husband and in his yard kept ferrets!

I remember one occasion a bit hard up perchance

she whipped down the curtains and made a dress for a dance!

For family outings we’d head down to the sea

we’d have egg tomato sandwiches, Mum, Auntie Dot and me.

We’d go for little outings when Uncle Moss bought a car

it was an Austin 30 but we didn’t go too far!

You see seconds away was the countryside

and through the leafy lanes our little car would glide

The memories still linger my family sadly gone

but the same love of nature I now share with hubby Jon

Not in an Austin A30 do we travel on our tours

but on a blue motorbike we tootle over the moors.

The love I have of nature, the countryside and sea

bring back my childhood memories a good thing, you must agree!

Coming Home!

This was the view from our cabin window as we returned home from France.
Judging by the sunset, it was taken just as we were approaching the North East Coast.
As we travelled up the coast it was really great to pick out landmarks surrounding our area.

Like so many people although I love travelling and touring, the journey home is always the best.

We did have a great time, a proper adventure which is just the way we like to do holidays. We can not plan the weather or routes, we just go with what we find.

It is good too, that we both have the same attitude.
Jon and I share so much of our life together and as we travelled home I was thinking about the new projects which were waiting for us back at home.
This filled me with excitement and a buzz!and true appreciation of a happy marriage.

When I first met you,
I knew that I had come at last home.
Home after wandering,
Home after long-puzzled searching,
Home after long being wind-born,
Wave-tossed, night-caught, long being lost.
And being with you was normal and needful
And natural as sleeping or waking.
And I was myself,
Who had never been wholly myself.
I was walking and talking
And laughing easily at last.
And the air was softer,
And sounds were sharper,
And colours were brighter,
And the sky was higher,
And length was not measured by milestones,
And time was not measured by clocks.
And this end was a beginning,
And these words are the beginning -
Of my thanks.

A.S.J. Tessimond

For more skies visit here

My World.......thanks to so many!

 

Whilst we were staying with Dorothy we visited Oradour, a small village not far from St. Christophe. It is a village which was brought to the ground in 1944.


Around 2 p.m. on 10 June 1944, four days after the Allied invasion of Normandy, approximately 150 Waffen-SS soldiers entered the tranquil village of Oradour-sur-Glane in the Limosin region of south central France. For no apparent reason, Hitler's elite troops destroyed every building in this peaceful village and brutally murdered a total of 642 innocent men, women and children, an unexplained tragedy which has gone down in history as one of the worst war crimes committed by the German army in World War II. On that beautiful Summer day, the defenseless inhabitants of Oradour-sur-Glane were rudely dragged out of their homes, including the sick and the elderly, and ordered to assemble on the Fairgrounds on the pretext of checking their identity papers. After all had been assembled, they were forced to wait in suspense with machine guns pointed at them. Then the women were separated from the men and marched a short distance to the small Catholic Church, carrying infants in their arms or pushing them in baby carriages. The men were then ordered to line up in three rows and face a wall that bordered on the Fairgrounds. A short time later, they were randomly divided into groups and herded into six buildings: barns, garages, a smithy, and a wine storehouse. Around 4 p.m., a loud explosion was heard which was interpreted by the men to be a signal for the SS soldiers to begin firing their machine guns. Most of the men were wounded in the legs and then burned alive when every building in the village was set on fire at around 5 p.m. By some miracle, 6 of the men managed to escape from one of the burning barns and 5 of them survived. They testified in court about this completely unjustified German barbarity against blameless French civilians. The Oradour church only had a seating capacity of 350 persons, but 245 frightened women and 207 sobbing children were forced inside at gunpoint while the men were still sitting on the grass of the Fairgrounds, awaiting their fate. The women and children were locked inside the church while the SS soldiers systematically looted all the homes in this prosperous farming village. Then around 4 p.m. a couple of SS soldiers carried a gas bomb inside this holy place and set it off, filling the church with a cloud of noxious black smoke. Their intention had been to asphyxiate the women and children in the House of God, but their plan failed. As the women and children pressed against the doors, trying to escape and struggling to breathe, SS soldiers then entered the crowded, smoke-filled church and fired hundreds of shots at the hapless victims, while other SS men stood outside ready to machine-gun anyone who attempted to escape. The soldiers fired low inside the church in order to hit the small children. Babies in their prams were blown up by hand grenades, filled with gas, that were tossed into the church. Then brushwood and straw was carried into the stone church and piled on top of the writhing bodies of those that were not yet dead. The church was then set on fire, burning alive the women and babies who had only been wounded by the shots and the grenades. The clamour coming from the church could be heard for a distance of two kilometers, according the Bishop's office report. The fire inside the church was so intense that the flames leaped up into the bell tower; the bronze church bells melted from the heat of the flames and fell down onto the floor of the church. One SS soldier was accidentally killed by falling debris when the roof of the church steeple collapsed. Only one woman, a 47-year-old grandmother, escaped from the church. Taking advantage of a cloud of smoke, she hid behind the main altar where she found a ladder that had been left there for the purpose of lighting the candles on the altar. Madame Marguerite Rouffanche, the lone survivor of the massacre in the church, managed to escape by using the ladder to climb up to a broken window behind the altar, then leaping out of the window, which was 9 feet from the ground. Although hit by machine gun fire and wounded 4 times in the legs and once in the shoulder, she was able to crawl to the garden behind the presbytery where she hid among the rows of peas until she was rescued, 24 hours later, at 5 p.m. the next day, and taken to the hospital in Limoges where she was admitted under an assumed name. It took a full year for her to recover from her wounds. In 1953, she testified before a French military tribunal in Bordeaux about the massacre of the women and children in the church.


We were speechless as we gazed at the destroyed living testament to the devestation which had fallen upon this community. It made me think of where my world would have been were it not for the sacrifices of those who fought during the world wars. A few days later we travelled to Belguim and saw the lines of the graves of the fallen. Sombre indeed but a reminder of just how many fought for our freedom!

 

 

I am joining in a Monday themed poetry project



Here is my poem, based on what I saw at Oradour!

A Village......

Alone against the demons of destruction,
within the ranks of perecution
the officers bringing a solution
when they acted as a pollution,
to the purity of the people
who were helpless and weak.....
when death did them seek
and put an end to their lives.

They marched as an aliance,
with heavy boots of defiance
and crushed hopes of any life
due to struggles and strife...
of power!

You can see here what it is about!

For more My Worlds to ponder visit here