Do You Believe in Fairies?

Dear Diary.

Clouds, Joni Mitchell, audio only.



Cloudwatching is one of my favourite occupations. This is probably one of my top five songs of all time. Even the lyrics alone would make it a most- loved, yet tear-inducing poem. Do take the time to listen. I only posted it because the fairytale line came up in my headphones as I was typing this blog. Another coincidence?.......

All things by immortal power
Near or far
Hiddenly
To each other linked are
That thou canst not stir a flower
Without troubling of a star

Francis Thompson

There are so many wonderful fairy illustrations from favourite artists of mine from Cecily May Barker to Charles Rennie Mackintosh.

There is an old book on my shelves called Fairies in Legend and the Arts by Alison Packer, Stella Beddoe and Lianne Jarrett, published in 1980, It was withdrawn by the library service but I rescued it for the price of just one pound. It contains illustrations by the usual fairy artists: Cruickshank, Rackham, Jessie M King and many others. I gleaned much from it to help me write this blog entry.



I have a much-loved fairy artist Trudi Finch who has a studio in Wales. Here, the pic below, (not the one above) is an example of her work. She is the Celtic Fairy.




Why am I blogging about fairies? There has been a discussion in Purplecooland posed by a question in the forums (and a poll!).

Do you believe in fairies?

Of course I voted ‘Yes’ though I have never seen one and probably never will - though I said that about ghosts once and was to be surprised.

Fairies and gnomes all belong to the group known as the elementals and their existence and mention of them can be traced back to the twelfth century. They have many names these elemental folk : goblins, hobgoblins, brownies, boggarts, sprites, Mer-people, The Good People, The Gentry, People of Peace and of course the Irish Little People.

Fairies in some places were thought of as Fallen Angels and that is where their ownership of wings came from as their stories evolved through literature. Humans’ understanding of fairies has changed through the ages, much of it down to their many kinds of representation in literature. But love and sometimes-belief in them still persists and it is enjoying a renasissance at the moment.

Many people believe in other (spiritual) realms inhabited by spiritual beings which sometimes come into contact with our own. ‘Twas ever thus. I have seen a ghost on two occasions. I care not if folk believe me or not - until you see one yourself you are likely waiting to be convinced.

So what is the earliest written account of fairies from the twelfth century? Ironically enough, as I live in the Cambrian mountain region of Wales, it was in a story handed down by Gerald of Wales (Giraldus Cambrensis) in a chronicle Itinerarium Cambriaie (translated in Penguin classics). Funnily enough a contact of mine has written an article about this chap Gerald and it was published recently in Country Quest which is a fine Welsh magazine. I have also linked my sister-in-law to dear Gerald as an ancestor so he seems to be haunting me somewhat does our Gerry.

There were many sightings of fairies in the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and much literature had a fairy theme including much from a favourite poet and mystic, William Blake no less.

There was a revival in the nineteenth century. Theories abound - lost souls, a pygmy race, fallen angels denied access to Heaven and Hell , this latter was most widespread in Ireland where we Irish see them as gentle folk and beautiful.

The Puritans sometimes saw them as no better than devils probably because the white witches seemed to confess to knowledge of Fairyland but they denied there was evil in it.

Another idea is that they are creatures of the imagination. We can get into deeply metaphysical water here - is all life but a dream, imagined and produced by our thoughts and our I-magi nation? Do our thoughts produce our reality? I happen to believe they do but that is another story. I believe that we give fuel to energies such as evil and if we poured love on them instead then they would nor enflame us. But I shall save the subject of creative visualisation for another time.

Back to fairies. The tradition is still strong in Scotland and Ireland.

Talking of Scotland.

And talking of elementals, I read a book years ago that has always stayed with me. It is The Findhorn Garden written by the Findhorn community, I am sure you know it. It tells the story of a Scottish garden created out of a small area of wasteland, just a caravan and a row of beans that developed into more than a garden, it became a spiritual community fuelled by faith and love, accompanied by the sighting of devas and nature spirits.

Everything we grow grows BIG and we always share a joke about Findhorn as the same thing happened there - everything they grew was massive in size!

I will come back to this subject of fairies as I have only just got going, there is so much written on the subject and so many beautiful works of art to share.

I’ll sign off now with a few pics of my own fairies who live all over the garden, not just at the bottom. M was lucky enough to capture these images with his camera.



















Look out for yours!

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait,

War and the Mind

Dear Diary,

Much Madness is Divinest Sense


Much Madness is divinest Sense
To a discerning Eye-
Much Sense—the starkest Madness-
‘Tis the Majority
In this, as All, prevail-
Assent—and you are sane
Demur—you’re straightway dangerous-
And handled with a Chain-

Emily Dickinson

Before I start I would ask of you - if you read nothing else today, read this blog extract, it is called Who/What/When/Will They/Get Help written by Bollinger Byrd, a fellow purplecooer.

Don't forget to come back here though, when you have read it
and watch this video.



James Blunt

No Bravery




*

Today is Sunday. No writing from me, I am stricken with a migrainous head but I am shamelessly treasure hunting for delights to share with you.

A friend recommended this first poem to me yesterday and reading it set me off on the search for others.


Counting the Mad

This one was put in a jacket,
This one was sent home,
This one was given bread and meat
But would eat none,
And this one cried No No No No
All day long.

This one looked at the window
As though it were a wall,
This one saw things that were not there,
And this one cried No No No No
All day long.

This one thought himself a bird,
This one a dog,
And this one thought himself a man,
An ordinary man,
And cried and cried No No No No
All day long.

Donald Justice


Somehow, to my mind, all my poems today (and the video) link up with Bollinger’s post.

On this theme, of war and the mind, my next posting will feature two Very Special People, I’ve only featured one or two so far in previous blogs; I have been pondering on who to feature next, what a sad reflection on we humans that is; there seem to be so few that spring immediately to mind. Well known people that is. Send me your suggestions please!

On a lighter note.

An Irish rainbow

I meant to do my work today

I meant to do my work today
But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.
And the wind went sighing over the land,
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand..
So what could I do but laugh and go?

Richard le Gallienne

A selection of birds on one of our feeders outside the kitchen window

My blueberries

Out There

Do they ever meet out there,
The dolphins I counted,
The otter I wait for?
I should have spent my life
Listening to the waves.

Michael Longley

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit
Caitx

There is always hope

Midsummer Musings

Dear Diary,

When bright flowers bloom Parchment crumbles, my words fade The pen has dropped ...

Morpheus

It’s been a long time since my last confession. I’ve been chasing the dead and catching quite a few of the blighters.

I’m working on M’s family tree and getting on really well in spite of having received a tree from someone else, some years ago, that contained a completely wrong link. I had put it all up on Genes Reunited, it took berludy hours and then I had to delete it all because of the wrong line. Ah well, a good learning experience. Check everything thoroughly, especially anything anyone else tells you, don’t ever take it as gospel.

Now I am chasing a French line, this is the hardest of all. M had a French grandmother and we know little of her origins. I am having to learn how to ‘do’ genealogy French style and am calling on my ‘O’ level French. I love the language though, as well as the country - sure I was French in a past life as I often ‘think’ in their language and I could easily live in the country and feel quite at home.

AS a result of doing the tree M and I are planning a couple of jaunts this year: one to Dorset to check out where some of his ancestors came from and one to Northumberland to find a section of my roots. I can’t wait.

I am writing this while keeping one eye on the TV as the Russian tennis player Marat Safin is playing - no prizes for guessing why he is my one-to-watch and my one not-to-miss. I don’t think it’s just his skill with a racket that comes into it.



I’m pleased to say he wins the match, he was the underdog and has beaten a high class player. Djokovic. Safin received a standing ovation; apparently he is a popular guy and the most charismatic player around the circuit. So it’s not just me eh?

I have been gardening this morning. West Cork weather - warm and soft rain showers - suits me fine. I love rain and if the temperatures are clement it is all the more pleasing. I’m still battling with the ground elder, it’s going to be a constant job I’m afraid and even then I will never fully eradicate the damned stuff. I am limiting myself to a couple of hours or so a day in the garden, trying not to overdo it.

Housework is getting neglected when I am in the garden.. I can’t do both I tell myself (and I know where I’d rather be). Ah well, you know what they say about Dull Women.



I lose interest in cooking too, in the summer.

The roses are blooming profusely but the recent strong winds and the rains are spoiling them somewhat. The beds are petal-strewn but I try and save all the scented petals and dry them for pot pourri.

It’s not been warm enough to sit outside, either to eat or to read. One of my greatest pleasures is to sit in the garden, reading. I have a really lovely book at the moment, the classic, On the Black Hill by Bruce Chatwin.





It was his first novel and won the Whitbread. Chatwin is sadly no longer with us, he has been promoted, but on the strength of the writing in this book I will be seeking out his other past work. I thought I had already read this title but then realised I had only actually seen the film. If I have learned anything, it is that you can’t compare a book with a film, they are two different art forms entirely.

Of course the book is even more interesting because it has local interest, I know the areas in Wales that he is writing about and I understand the history, the landscape, the wild life etc. But I am sure it would appeal to anyone,regardless of where they live. Chatwin’s writing is delicious, easy to read yet full of one-liners that make you stop and draw breath, to re-read and savour, such is their delight to the soul. Some of his writing is so poetic yet humorous too and reminds me very much of Irish writers.

Here is just one example.
(Talking about identical twins).

Because they knew each other’s thoughts, they even quarrelled without speaking.

.

What else can I recommend book-wise?

Our library book group read The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini recently and it was a success, enjoyed by all. I was wary of it as I had been unable to read his follow up book A Thousand Splendid Suns asI found it too harrowing. Kite Runner was not harrow-free but I found the subject matter somehow easier to cope with.



Our current book is Moon Tiger by Penelope Lively which I am re-reading. If you have missed this one I would strongly recommend it to you as well. Beautifully written, in a very cleverly-devised format, 'everything’ is within it and it is one of those books that works on many levels. It won the Booker in 1987, deservedly so in my opinion and I don’t always agree with Booker choices.



In September we are reading a little book written by one of our group members, a philosophical study that should provoke a healthy discussion on the meaning of life. I am really looking forward to that one!

I’ll close now with a poem. Chosen at random but one I love so. It seems so long since I have put up a poem, I hope you enjoy this.


BLESSINGS


God bless the little orchard brown
Where the sap stirs these quickening days.
Soon in a white and rosy gown
The trees will give great praise.
God knows I have it in my mind,
The white house with the golden eaves.
God knows since it is left behind
That something grieves and grieves.
God keep the small house in his care,
The garden bordered all in box,
Where primulas and wallflowers are
And crocuses in flocks.
God keep the little rooms that ope
One to another, swathed in green,
Where honeysuckle lifts her cup
With jessamine between.
God bless the quiet old grey head
That dreams beside the fire of me,
And makes home there for me indeed
Over the Irish Sea.


Katharine Tynan

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.

- Ernest Dowson, 1867 - 1900

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

How Can I Keep From Singing?

Dear Diary,

For Christina.

My life goes on in endless song
Above earth's lamentations,
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
That hails a new creation.

Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear its music ringing,
It sounds an echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing?

While though the tempest loudly roars,
I hear the truth, it liveth.
And though the darkness round me close,
Songs in the night it giveth.

No storm can shake my inmost calm,
While to that rock I’m clinging.
Since love is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?

When tyrants tremble in their fear
And hear their death knell ringing,
When friends rejoice both far and near
How can I keep from singing?

In prison cell and dungeon vile
Our thoughts to them are winging,
When friends by shame are undefiled
How can I keep from singing?


Robert Wadsworth Lowry

It will be a quick little blog today. It is a sunny day and not the weather to be stuck at the computer. I have just spent three hours in the garden and it was so enjoyable. I imagine it to be how Heaven would/should be. Sunshine, flowers, birds, bees, butterflies and animals for company. Pottering is one of my passions, wandering from one job to another and I would be quite happy to be a gardener in the next world.

I have been planting my three new rambler roses, (David Austin’s of course). Also another hardy fuchsia to remind me of the west of Ireland as my soul is feeling just a little bit homesick. And finally I have planted a little salvia from the plant sale last week.

This is an clready- established climber rose in the front garden.

My study window is the upstairs one.

I could spend all day pottering outside but I am stopping myself from doing so as I always overdo it and consequently I wear myself out. So I have come up the wee cottage stairs and am sitting by my window; my desk has a spectacular view out over green fields and my beloved little river of course, she is quite low at the moment. The dogs love to go and stand in it and drink the pure mountain spring water.

I’ve spent another hour digging out a bit more of the blasted ground elder that has taken over one of my large flower beds. It is exhausting toil in this heat so I only do an hour at a time before moving on to the ‘lighter’ and more pleasant tasks.

As I type this I am listening to my blog music and it is so wonderful. Alison Crowe is singing Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah and I am very quietly singing along (M is downstairs watching the tennis). Safin isn't playing otherwise I would be watching too :-). When I am alone I'm always singing; I don’t hold back then but wouldn’t inflict my full volume on anyone else’s ears. I so love to sing: when alone in the house, out walking, or driving in the car and I have to stop myself at work or when I am idly wandering round in shops!

Apparently I used to sing all the time when I was in a cot.

Ah well, nothing changes.

But if I have to come back to Earth again then in my next life I want to have a really wonderful singing voice, perhaps like Enya?

I did a bit of research on the J Haptogroup last night. (see previous blog). Seems we came from Syria and we are one of the younger groups being a mere 10,000 years old. Some are 45,000 years old. What that means I don’t know.

Here is a pic M took the other day. Cloudwatching is one of my passions too.




Hope you like all the photos; they are M’s work so I can’t take the credit.

The kite was in the sky today and the sky, well it was above us.

I hope the sun isn’t shining on Bush and Brown in London today.

I nearly typed Bush n’ Blair. Isn’t it funny how those two surnames seemed to be joined at the hip?

All three are ‘B******’s’ if you ask me.

Here is a quotation for each of them.

If you want to make peace, you don't talk to your friends. You talk to your enemies.
- Moshe Dayan

Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired, signifies in the final sense a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed.
- Dwight David Eisenhower

Mankind must put an end to war, or war will put an end to mankind...War will exist until that distant day when the conscientious objector enjoys the same reputation and prestige that the warrior does today.
- John F. Kennedy

I will love you and leave you and hope you are all enjoying sunshine, cloudless skies and peace today.

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Caitx

Light and Shade

Dear Diary,

Political language. . . is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.”
George Orwell
1903-1950



It’s one of those days when I really feel like blogging but haven’t got a single subject in mind; instead I have several little ones going round and round in my head.



My Heart Is Heavy



My heart is heavy with many a song
Like ripe fruit bearing down the tree,
But I can never give you one --
My songs do not belong to me.

Yet in the evening, in the dusk
When moths go to and fro,
In the grey hour if the fruit has fallen,
Take it, no one will know.

Sarah Teasdale




It’s a day when I am thoroughly disenchanted with politics. Even more so than usual.

About what? How long have you got?

Non-joined-up thinking creating so-called progress. A drop in standards every which way. Bureaucracy gone mad. Threats to our services. Banging innocent people up for 42 days, banning demonstrations from Parliament Square to Downing Street against George Bush when he visits on Sunday.


Do you ever fear that so many folk are sleepwalking into a black tunnel that will be closed off at both ends one day?


On a lighter note these are my Blessings today.


Sleep and lie-ins. I had one of the latter today as Fridays are my Saturdays, well that’s what I tell myself as I have to work every Saturday morning (everyone say aaaaah).

It seems that every time I look out of a cottage window I see a parent bird feeding its baby. Be it a woodpecker, nuthatch, sparrow, tit or whatever, it is always a joy to behold.

I saw the jay for the first time this year. He flew into one of our pine trees. A beautiful shy bird but I do know he is a predator.

My garden, especially all my new David Austin rose bushes which are flowering now and their scent is heavenly.



The Dalai Lama book that I am currently reading. Details can be found on this page. The man is truly a special human being.

A new song that I have on my brain; my son’s new composition that he recorded recently. Anyone know any record producers?

And talking of guitarists…..



As I write this I am Listening Again online to Johnny Walker’s last Sunday show and Eric Clapton has rung up and is talking from the USA! What a treat to hear two of my favourite men together. My fave guitarist and my fave DJ (and both Arians, with the same birthday).

One more blessing before I go.

To aid my family history research I treated myself recently to a DNA test from the Ancestry website as they had a special offer, (as an adopted person I told myself I deserve it). I got the results today for my DNA Maternal Line and it is very exciting. Apparently I am what they call an European Traveller, a ‘J’ group. This group left Africa, moved to the Near East, went to Spain and I guess they ended up in the west of Ireland. We make up 10% of Europeans apparently. There is a lot of J group folk in Sardinia and also in Pakistan. Interesting stuff and I have a list of people to contact who have similar DNA.

Now I have requested the book The Seven Daughters of Eve (through the library) as it is meant to describe the different genealogical groups and their lifestyles in some detail.

I am eager now to do some more research…..when those blasted chores are done of course. The mountain of ironing, the weeding, the cooking.

But will I be able to wait?

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

PS. Q. How can you tell when a politician is lying?

A. You can see his lips moving.

A Poppy and a Poem

The Little Garden



A little garden on a bleak hillside
Where deep the heavy, dazzling mountain snow
Lies far into the spring. The sun's pale glow
Is scarcely able to melt patches wide
About the single rose bush. All denied
Of nature's tender ministries. But no, --
For wonder-working faith has made it blow
With flowers many hued and starry-eyed.
Here sleeps the sun long, idle summer hours;
Here butterflies and bees fare far to rove
Amid the crumpled leaves of poppy flowers;
Here four o'clocks, to the passionate night above
Fling whiffs of perfume, like pale incense showers.
A little garden, loved with a great love!

Amy Lovell
1874 - 1925

A Task for a Sunny Sunday

A Raindrop on a Broad Bean Leaf

Dear Diary,

D J Kirkby passed on this task for us on this Sunny Sunday.

Just a bit of fun you understand.

Q. What were you doing ten years ago?

We moved here to my little old blacksmith’s cottage around ten years ago after a few years that I will only describe as ‘personally challenging’. It was the start of a feeling of being totally ‘at home’ and of good times despite more challenges that I had to surmount: two serious accidents and also an operation and treatment for breast cancer. I have come through it all. I am very happy.

We come to this Earth to learn lessons and I guess I chose a difficult path but I hope and pray the path remains fairly even from now on. I’ve learned so much in the last decade, well every decade actually, as I guess we all do, but there have also been a host of blessings along the way. A second and a third granddaughter were born and I have had so much pride in the achievements of both of my children. Also finding more family members, including my late father, five dear half-brothers and a dear half-sister. There are still blessings to be discovered every day and you can read just a few amongst these pages.

I am sorry I have gone on a bit; I was only asked what I was doing ten years ago but felt moved to tell you about the whole decade because so much has happened. I’ve nearly died (twice) but I feel sometimes that I am in heaven on Earth living here in a kind of paradise. As I write this, in brilliant sunshine, sitting in my deckchair on the riverbank, listening to gentle sounds - birdsong and slow-flowing water, watching a buzzard circling over our newly-ploughed field, I know I am truly blessed.



Q. Tell me five things on your ‘To-Do’ List Today

Planting some new plants that M bought for me yesterday at a little local Gardening Club sale.

They are:

A poached egg plant
A heather
A Phlox (just what I had been looking for lately!)
A Lupin (I pray the slugs don’t find it as I’ve lost so many to the little blighters!).

Telling M about my visit last night to see a medium on a one-to-one basis. It was truly amazing, so much so that I am in danger of becoming a little blasé about the accuracy of her readings.

‘Resting’. I was late to bed and drank a little too much of the Black Stuff in the pub last night after visiting the medium. I enjoyed the evening though as it was spent with two very dear friends.



(This links with number 3)
I should be digging out some more ground elder from a ‘long’ bed of the berludy stuff. It’s an exhausting job and it’s not the weather for it. Far too hot. I am writing this instead, inspired by D J. (Thanks!)

Tonight. Catching up with the reading of blogs. I am so behind as my computer motherboard died on me last week after a lightning strike.



Q. What snacks do you enjoy?

Very Strong Cheese and biscuits, Cheese Melts or Oatcakes, pickled onions/home-pickled shallots, with wine, Guinness or a good Real Ale.

Buttery popcorn.

1000 on a Raft as Eric Clapton calls it (Beans on toast).

Chips and mayonnaise.

A sandwich made for me with home-made bread, salad, raw or spring onion, nice tomatoes, rocket/lettuce and mayonnaise. I hate making sandwiches; I would almost rather cook a meal.

Sometimes something eggy is called for: on toast or boiled, omelletted, anything really.

Pancakes are good too.

For me the best snacks are more likely to be savoury ones. Sweet food I see as for times when I am in need of comfort or for really instant energy.



Q. Favourite places?

Where I live.




By my computer

In my bed in my bedroom (obviously)

Where I work.

Countries: Ireland, of course, especially West Cork and I love Great Blasket Island, County Kerry.



France.

English Counties: Dorset, Devon, Cornwall, Northumberland.

Welsh counties: Pembrokeshire.



Q. If you won 1 billion dollars, what would you do?

Open an animal sanctuary

Open a healing/retreat centre

Set up charitable projects

Buy a cottage in West Cork
Set up a recording studio there.

Buy a camper van.

Go on courses on subjects that interest me.

(How much is a billion dollars in English? I fear I may have overspent somewhat?).

Q What Places have you Lived in?

London
Surrey
West Sussex
Mid Wales

It looks like only four addresses but I have had umpteen moves in my life. I may blog about them one day.

And now, with all this talk of snacks, I am getting very hungry and my tummy is calling for its lunch. What will it be I wonder?

If you have read this far Thank You as I know it’s really Boring Stuff.

Why not have a go yourself; let me know if you do and I’ll pop over and visit you.



Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit.
Caitx

Intimidation

Dear Diary,

Leadership is based on inspiration, not domination; on cooperation, not intimidation.

William Arthur Ward

Our writing group’s homework for May.

The theme is intimidation. As if fear hadn’t been enough to tackle last month, now one of our members has delved deeper and suggested one of its compatriots, intimidation.

I think on it. Every day. Synchronistically, the word intimidation starts to crop up all the time. On radio, TV, in newspapers and magazines; it seems to be everywhere. Isn’t it always the way?

The word keeps breaking down in my mind:

IN………..TIMID………..ATE.

Make someone timid (within).

I think on timidity; this brings me back to fear again but this new word reeks of cowardice, weakness, nervousness, not a good mix of emotions to own up to feeling. I straightaway rebel against this emotion. It’s an instinctive thing I guess. My Irish genes will out; I always relish a challenge, always ready for the fight.

I remember the O’Connor family motto.

Nec timeo spurno

I neither fear nor spurn.

Intimidation. It’s a kind of war really, a battle of the aforementioned nerves. The enemy uses it as a form of deterrent, a means of control. S/he terror-ises. Terrorism can be the underdog’s unholy fight for freedom but can also be a weapon to rule by those in charge if they try to make us see it as a real and ever-constant threat, (whether it is or not). So do we live under its reign whatever flag it flies?

Scaremongering needs Fear and Alarm as its sidekicks when Big Brother comes calling and is it me or does He seem to be a constant caller these days? Is this the Age of Intimidation? Is it part of a ruling power’s armoury, so much so that now we see the authorities as bogeymen as their sabre-rattling envelops us all in a veil of fear? (or tries to).

In - timidation involves the use of untruths and blackmail. And in order for threats to succeed they have to make us apprehensive and fearful (that F word again) - of whatever reprisal may befall us. So if the threat is a real one then fear is indeed a wise response. But shouldn’t we make it a positive response? By fighting against intimidation in all its guises. By being positive and fighting negativity. By joining together in peace and fighting against war.

Someone, I forget who, wrote that fear is the opposite of love and that fear dissolves in the light of love.

So I’ll sign off now with Love and Light and with just a little Hope too.

How about Hope for next month’s homework?

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Caitx

In Praise of Buttercups (and Bluebells)

After the Rain

Dear Diary,

June My whole life Will never get past “June”
June, when my heart died When my poetry died
When my lover Died in romance’s pool of blood June,
the scorching sun burns open my skin
Revealing the true nature of my wound June,
the fish swims out of the blood-red sea
Toward another place to hibernate June,
the earth shifts, the rivers fall silent
Piled up letters unable to be delivered to the dead

Translated to English from Chinese by Chip Rolley. Shi Tao. a journalist and the author of this poem was imprisoned by the Chinese Government after forwarding to an overseas website a document from Chinese government censors warning their media not to report on the 15th anniversary of the June 4 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre. Shi Tao was sentenced to 10 years’ imprisonment and 2 years’ deprivation of political rights. Although he remains in prison his poem is free and is following the Olympic torch around the world. International PEN, the worldwide writers’ organisation, are campaigning for the release of around 40 writers currently imprisoned in China. Shi Tao is one of them. Please share this poem.

It doesn’t seem like summer but here are a few photos taken in my garden that may convince you that it really is May, well nearly the end of May to be exact. Do you like the buttercups photos? I want to speak up in praise of buttercups but first I will own up to digging up ever so many before I became poorly with this virus. The ones that escaped my fork have flowered in abundance and I have to admit that they are beautiful and their yellow so cheering. So in their honour I have entitled this blog In praise of buttercups. They did have to be thinned out though because, as you know, they would take over if left to their own devices. But is anyone like me, a softie where plants are concerned? Anyone else feel a pang of guilt when they pull weeds?

By the front porch

I also love the bluebells at the moment they are in flower. This is a pic of a wood near here.

Buttercups among the Granny's Bonnets, Columbines, Aquilegiae, call them what you will.

And more

June is beckoning with heady promises of delight to come. Warm evenings, family meals in the garden, late night forays and magical moonlight vigils by the river. Is She all talk I wonder? You can never trust Her even if she comes carrying bouquets of roses, (she knows I am a sucker for those).





I will let you into a secret now, just between you and me. I am not enamoured with Her as She usually brings armloads of grass pollen that render me breathless. To be honest, and I am going to be contrary now, such is my habit, Hers is the month that I am most likely to be found hiding away indoors, trying to escape the allergen-infested air that surrounds Her and the cottage as the farmers, (God bless them all), grow and harvest their seemingly ever-so-large fields of hay. (That sentence was far too long). In June I am most likely to be found looking dreadful, feeling depressed and to anyone who encounters me I am dangerously irritable. So I welcome any May rains. I see Her raindrops dampening down the rising pollen grains and making for me and for some of the female members of my family, a ‘kinder’ hay fever season. There has to be some advantage to this poor weather we are having doesn’t there?

Everything is growing like mad. That is the way of May I suppose. All the plants seem to be drinking in every fluid ounce of the rain which has been falling in abundance this week and I have never seen the area looking so green; it reminds me of Ireland. Torrents of the wet stuff are meant to be coming our way later today and possible thunderstorms.

Talking of which: last week S, my son, narrowly
escaped being struck by lightning as he stood polishing his boots by the open window of his first floor flat. He lives in a local market town and the lightning struck literally right in front of him, its accompanying thunder deafening him for a while. Everyone’s Sky boxes were blown but that was nothing, it was lucky no-one was hurt.
(Thanks to the guardian angel who was protecting him that evening).

A, my dear son-in-law, has ploughed our field this week so that will be a blessing - no pollen blowing my way from outside the cottage. M is to go round with his metal detector which is very exciting. There is the remains of a Roman Road diagonally crossing our field and I think that will be the area M will concentrate on. A medieval loom weight was discovered there a few weeks ago (see earlier blog) so I am very hopeful that more treasures might be unearthed.




Blessings?

The ploughed field that heralds the reduction in pollen this year and a chance to dig for artefacts.

M’s wonderful photographs.

Guardian angels and the spirits who watch over us.

The written word.
I was meditating on words in bed this morning, as you do. How, when you boil it down, they are just squiggles, lines in a particular shape that convert to everyone’s particular language. How they can mean so much, everything really to writers and readers, lovers of their very being.

Some words have been uplifting for me this week as I have been running on empty. Some were blogged, some in emails, some in good books of course.

I’ll finish with a good book then, the late Nuala O’Faolain’s memoir Are You Somebody? I am enjoying every one of the squiggles in this one.

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Did duit,
Caitx

Nightmare Hospital Stories (Part One)

Here's my bit for Chelsea, Wild Buttercups by my front door.

Dear Diary,

As it’s been Chelsea Flower show week I will start with a topical quotation.

The Victorian poet and novelist Robert Louis Stevenson once said, ‘Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds you plant‘. Horticulturalists will be reeling at that line, can you spot the mistake?

You sow seeds and you plant plants.

Perhaps it was different in Victorian times.


This is hopefully just a shortish blog that I meant to post ages ago. Life got in my way again and a nasty virus, well two actually: one attacked my dear computer and another one landed on me at roughly the same time. New Age folk say that when our car, or anything we own, electrical for example, has something wrong with it, whatever the ‘ailment’ it corresponds to something in ourselves. Well my computer had to go away but s/he has been fixed, I won’t go into details but what s/he had was very nasty and involved flies crawling and chewing into my screensaver. Ugh, it makes me feel ill again just thinking about it. So how does that relate to me having a nasty fluey virus at the same time? I always reckon viruses take a week to show themselves after you catch them, totally irrational I know. I read somewhere that it does apply to some of them but obviously not all. I worked back to a week before I fell ill and it was the day M and I went to a local hospital as he had an appointment for a scan. I say local but that is a lie, we don’t have a County Hospital in this part of Wales and we had to travel 60 miles to Hereford, abroad in fact!

The day started well. Dear Johnny Walker had lifted my spirits as he ‘sat in’ for Terry Wogan. The music was great, all was well with the world. M is not ill and it is just a routine check on his brain. (I have secret doubts that they will find one but I keep them to myself). I had taken a day’s leave from work so wanted to make the most of our ‘outing’. We set off for a pleasant drive through golden sunshine following along the valley of the Wye as it meanders from Wales into England. It’s a perfect May morning. Once into Radnorshire’s far reaches it starts to feel more like England; so different, it’s lusher, greener, the season always being so much more advanced than it is back at home. As we pass beside the views of the Black Mountains and Hay Bluff the mountains prepare to recede and be replaced by much softer, gentler hills. As the climate becomes more temperate the feeling of Welshness dissipates and as we cross the border from Powys into England I truly feel as if I am in another country.

But the idyllic journey continues. Miraculously there are no lorries, joy of joys no racing motorbikes and even very few cars. We speed along (not literally) listening to Radio 4. Woman’s Hour comes on and every item this morning seems specially for me. Gillian Clarke, the Welsh poet whose work I adore, is being interviewed. Even her spoken words have as much appeal and there is a soothing lilt to her tone of voice.


Here is one of her poems. I have posted another of her poems that I love, one called Marged when I blogged a while back about Where I Live.

This one was written on a train in October 1999, travelling home to Wales the day after the Paddington crash.

On The Train

Cradled through England between flooded fields
rocking, rocking the rails, my head-phones on,
the black box of my Walkman on the table.
Hot tea trembles in its plastic cup.
I'm thinking of you waking in our bed
thinking of me on the train. Too soon to phone.

The radio speaks in the suburbs, in commuter towns,
in cars unloading children at school gates,
is silenced in dark parkways down the line
before locks click and footprints track the frost
and trains slide out of stations in the dawn
dreaming their way towards the blazing bone-ship.

The vodaphone you are calling
may have been switched off.
Please call later. And calling later,
calling later their phones ring in the rubble
and in the rubble of suburban kitchens
the wolves howl into silent telephones.

I phone. No answer. Where are you now?
The train moves homeward through the morning
Tonight I'll be home safe, but talk to me, please.
Pick up the phone. Today I'm tolerant
of mobiles. Let them say it. I'll say it too.
Darling, I'm on the train.

Gillian Clarke

Then the Irish writer Nuala O’Faolain is featured and I receive a shock as I hear that she had passed away just a few days before. (God rest her soul). She was one of my favourite authors and I only recently bought Are you Somebody? The Accidental Memoir of a Dublin Woman. I love all her books.


Listening to a recording she made for Woman’s Hour a while ago she sounded full of life and very funny.



This is a great novel, I can recommend it.



We eventually arrive at the hospital and are lucky to find a space to park as it is not always that easy. We shall have to pay an arm and a leg for the privilege however to avoid being clamped.

Both desperate for the loo we make our way to the main building. The toilets are all closed. There is a barrier across the doorway so we suspect that they are being cleaned, though there is no sign to say so. The nearest ones are upstairs or in A & E which is quite a walk away. I decide to go to A & E to save going up any floors and we set off to another building. After a walk around A&E not seeming to see any toilet facilities we ask a passing nurse who points us in the right direction. She opens the door for us and motions us in, then she stops and looks a bit embarrassed. By this time I am really desperate and wonder why she is hesitating. She tells me that there are toilets in the Main Building and I explain that they are closed and that is why we have come here. I’ll use this one I say and M says well if you do you will have to mind yourself. I realise what he means then when I look down on the floor. There was what I can politely call excreta all over the floor and I am not exaggerating. I’ve never seen anything like it, not in all my nursing days nor in any public loo. I actually trained in this hospital before it was rebuilt and saw nothing like this. Luckily I am not squeamish and we hastily went off in search of another place to relieve ourselves. The nurse did not apologise (though to be fair it is not her fault) and I wondered if she would report it or not. However it worried me that an elderly person or someone with poor eyesight or even a child could easily have wandered into this toilet and trod in the stuff. I wished I had brought my camera with me and even considered buying a disposable one to take photos of some of the sights we had come across.

We ended up in the Eye Unit which is housed on the site of the old Lunatic Asylum (the vibes are terrible). At last we found a toilet each and that was a relief (excuse the pun). But M said the Men’s toilet was filthy and the bins were overflowing. The Ladies one was not clean either and there was an unsavoury smell if you know what I mean. In fact the whole hospital did not smell clean, not like it used to in the old days.

We made our way to X Ray and Scanning. As we sat in the over-large waiting room amongst the big pots of plants, Impressionist prints and soft furnishings, I saw across the room a big notice board plastered with (new) hospital promotional posters under a heading:

Improving the Patient Experience.

How I hate management-speak.

It would be funny if it wasn’t so damned serious and symptomatic of what is wrong with this country. What is called progress.

It symbolises everything these days. All clean and orderly on the surface. Statistically secure but s*** just below the surface, down where front line staff have to do daily battle to save lives, deal with the s*** and keep our public services going whatever they are.

Here endeth Part One.
You don't think this will be the only Nightmare Horror Story do you?

Bye for now,
Go mbeanna Dia duit,
Caitx

Record of the Month, Rockferry by Duffy

Record of the Week Poison Prince. Amy Macdonald

Very Special People

Johnny and dog Darcy

I'm going to start a Very Special People feature. Nominations anyone?

Today, the first is to be dear Johnny Walker who is 'sitting in' as they say for dear Tel Wogan on Radio 2 from 7 am to 9.30 am. At 8 am when I have had enough of Today on Radio 4 and my blood pressure has hit the roof I always switch to Radio 2 for some good music. Nothing against dear Terry but when Johnny sits in we have a simper-free zone, (no names mentioned), a lack of inane chatter and the ever-so-slightly sordid Janet and John chat but best of all we have Good Music, nay the Best Music.

Johnny's voice is melted chocolate washed down with wine and he shares my taste in music (or do I share his, we are fellow Arians?). I am a self-confessed night owl but Johnny makes my mornings more than bearable, highly enjoyable in fact.

God Bless you Johnny.

Suddenly it's Summer

Shirley Hughes - Self Portrait

Dear Diary,

One summer night, out on a flat headland, all but surrounded by the waters of the bay, the horizons were remote and distant rims on the edge of space."
Rachel Carson



I did talk about writing a blog or two about children’s book illustrators but that will come at a later date. I will make do today with posting a few pics by Shirley Hughes and Kim Lewis.




It’s been a long time since my last confession, it’s coming two weeks actually. I blame life and its habit of getting in the way of blogging. All blocks to writing were Reasons to be Cheerful though. Family commitments, visitors, household duties, busy days at work. All these things give me a need for more sleep which means more early nights and less time spent in front of the computer screen. I have also got the genealogy bug again and have been climbing up my family tree; this time I have been on my paternal female line which leads to Northumberland, well Weardale actually and the 1600’s. How exciting that is.

My garden is calling to me too along with the sunshine of course. For I am a fair weather gardener to be sure. All I can dream of is plants and planting, colour and scent and magical evenings to come in my riverside garden watching the night fall. Early mornings spent pottering outside in the flower beds and wandering in the field. How I love to potter. I should add it to my list of Interests, along with Cloudwatching, Sleeping and Taking Naps.

I am reading a lot too, another joyful pastime of course. My current book is The Island by Victoria Hislop, wife of Ian. I am only a third of the way through it but am finding the subject matter so depressing; however as it is our book group choice I have to read it. Why the book has been so highly rated I cannot yet understand but will reserve my final judgement until I have completed it. Our Purplecoo book group are reading When We Were Bad by Charlotte Mendelson.

So that will be my next must read book.

Talking of which I am compiling a list of five Must Read books for Purplecoo. I have six so far, they are:

Blue Sky July by Nia Wyn
Unless by Carol Shields
Running for the Hills by Horatio Clare
Charms for the Easy Life by Kaye Gibbons
The House on Beartown Road by Elizabeth Cohen
Fortune’s Rocks by Anita Shreve

It is so hard to whittle it down to just five. There are so many must read books. Perhaps I will do some every week.

Last night we had a real electrical storm. As I lay in bed right by the window, the near constant lightning flashed into my closed eyes and the thunder roared. It lasted for about an hour and a half and then eventually it rained. We don't have any curtains in the cottage, there is no need as we are not overlooked and they would obstruct the views. I was not afraid though as I love storms. I just felt very tired after work this morning and succumbed to the temptation of an afternoon nap.

A fellow writer in our writing group was obviously so taken with the subject of fear that he has chosen this month’s subject to write about as Intimidation (see my previous blog).

I think they go hand in hand, fear and intimidation, one being the effect of the other. So I am thinking around the subject but not feeling inspired. I think I may attempt a poem. To be honest I am more into brighter subjects at the moment. Talking of which here are some Blessings:


Sunshine and the promise of roses.

Scented Plants.

Herbs.

Trips to the garden centre and bringing home New Plants.

A new, more powerful lawn mower.

A new small apple tree that I have planted in the middle of a round bed in my back garden. She spoke to me in the tree section of the garden centre and I fell instantly in love with her. Then I discovered she is named for me, being called Katy. At home with me now and settled in her bed, she is loaded with white blossom that is already attracting the bees.

Summer clothes. Wish I had more, I have but a few.

Letting the Rayburn out, something we only do when it is Very Hot.

The waxing Moon.

Last but not least, being able to put washing out on the line. One of my passions, washing lines and I adore hanging out washing, could do it for a living.

Well we all have our little quirks don’t we?

What’s yours?


Before I sign off it is ages since I posted a much loved poem. Here is one by a newly discovered (by me) Irish poet called Fred Johnston. It is from my new poetry book Salmon Publishing - A Journey in Poetry 1981-2007


Inkscratch

For John Moriarty



One day more desolate than the rest
He climbed into the mountain and felt
The child-hug of stone upon stone.

The stone is warm under the rain,
The roads of the hurried world are
A long way below, varicose, narrow.

And how to describe a lake, grey
As sky, light as air, an absence in fields
Of gorse, a blow to the cheek, whitening?

The scribes are in their cradle-huts
Plotting the end of poetry. The heron is
Patient. If words come to him here, he’ll

Borrow them and speak them to a small
Room. There is a soft line of track
Punctuated by droppings, a paragraph

Beginning itself in sheep bleat
Higher up, a page turning in heather-lick:
The sun, drying the ink scratch of his days.



Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Caitx