Old fashioned bread pudding

The proof of the pudding is in the eating. By a small sample we may judge of the whole piece.

Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
1547-1616

Delia Smith’s Old Fashioned Bread Pudding.


8 oz bread brown or white (225g) - cut off crusts
Half pint milk (275 ml)
2 oz butter, melted (50g)
3 oz soft brown sugar (75g) - or white if needs be
2 level teaspoons mixed spice
1 egg beaten
6 oz mixed fruit (175g)
Grated rind of half an orange
Freshly grated nutmeg

Pre-heat oven to Gas 4, 350F (180C)

A 2 - 2 and a half pint (1.25-1.5 litre) baking dish, buttered.

Break bread into pieces, place in bowl.
Pour milk over, stir, leave for 30 minutes till well soaked.

Add melted butter, sugar, mixed spice and egg.
Beat with a fork till no lumps remain then stir in fruit and rind.
Put in dish and sprinkle with nutmeg.
Bake for about one and a quarter hours.

Nice hot with custard.
Also nice cold.

Morsels

Dear Diary,

When you have only two pennies left in the world, buy a loaf of bread with one and a lily with the other. 

Chinese Proverb

 

 

The tulip photo was taken by M.  The tulips are from my garden and they are in a vase with a few sprigs of my ribes sanguinem - flowering redcurrant.


And now a poem:

The Back of the Refrigerator


It’s like the subway

In the middle of rush hour

Where some year old mayonnaise

Nudges yesterday’s tuna

For a place in this coveted no-man’s-land

Where leftovers reign supreme

And for this food     

It’s the end of the line.


Ellen Fuchs

I am posting a recipe today that is so easy to make and  really delicious.  Great for days like today when I had nothing planned and nothing much in the fridge. 

And it’s cheap too!.


Onion, bacon and potato hotpot

(I won’t give any measures, I just adapt it to however many people I am feeding).


Peel and slice up some potatoes, red ones or any variety that have a good flavour.
Slice up some onions.
Cut up some back bacon with scissors into bite-sized pieces.
Chuck it all in a casserole/gratin dish and mix up together.
Pour in a carton of cream.  I used Elmlea which is only slightly healthier.
Add enough milk to make enough ‘sauce’ to just coat/nearly cover the ingredients.
Add loads of grated cheese and stir in some mustard powder.
Give it all a good shake.
Cover with lid or foil.
Bake for one hour covered at Gas no. 6
Bake for one hour uncovered at about 4.
Don’t let it dry out, check occasionally, add more milk/cream if it does.
It is done when the potatoes are cooked. It may take longer depending on the thickness of the potatoes.

You can make this by adding home made cheese sauce but to save time today I just slung in  cream and milk and grated cheese.

You can also save cooking time by gently frying the onions and/or parboiling the potatoes and very gently frying the bacon first but I think it always tastes even better if all is cooked from ‘raw’.  It is the sort of dish that you can leave and go work in the garden then come in (exhausted) and just cook some green veg. to go with it.  Cabbage is lovely  in the winter or broccoli and cauliflower which is what we had today.


We also had Bread Pudding today, another family favourite.  I once worked with a woman who called it Irish Wedding Cake! All I can say is it might be cheaper but in my opinion it tastes much, much nicer than wedding cake.  It is something I was given as a child but the recipe I use now is dear old St Delia’s and if anyone would like it let me know.  It is great for using up leftover bread.

I'll finish with another wee poem.

The Cabbage and the Rose

I wonder if the cabbage knows

He is less lovely than the Rose;

Or does he squat in smug content,

A source of noble nourishment;

Or if he pities for her sins

The Rose who has no vitamins;

Or if the one thing his green heart knows --

That self-same fire that warms the Rose?

Anonymous

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

A Lazy Day

Boreas 1903

John Williams Waterhouse

1849-1917

I just love this painting

Dear Diary,

Laziness is nothing more than the habit of resting before you get tired.

Jules Renard
1864-1910

I have had a really lazy day today. It started well with a teeny lazy lie-in and then at breakfast-time I had a surprise visit from my favourite daughter, always a delight to see her. After she left I had a little potter in the garden, refilled the bird, squirrel and pheasant feeders, washed Tonto (my car, don’t ask) just because I felt like it, this chore doesn’t happen often but it had reached the stage of dirtiness where I was beginning to feel ashamed. Then M and I took a trip to Hay which is always pleasurable for a bibliophile. Our dentist is in Hay and M had an appointment; it’s a long drive but I never mind as the scenery along the Wye is so beautiful.

Earlier this week a friend C was telling me about an Arvon writing course she had attended recently and she spoke of a young poet called Clare Pollard who was ‘teaching’ there . C had been quite impressed by her writing. I searched the library catalogue to see if we had any of her books in the county but there was nothing. Today I was in a bookshop in Hay and what should I be led to but a slim volume of Clare Pollard’s poems. Synchronicity, that ‘window into the divine’ at work once more.

(I bought the book for said friend).

Here is a poem by said poet.


For My Future Daughter


Try not to think too deeply,
try not to think too well.
Heaven is in small details,
labyrinths lead to hell.
Take comfort from the squirrel,
take comfort from the moon —
like a hot-buttered crumpet,
a kind face in your room.
And if you are now older
take comfort in his smell,
the fact he's cooked you dinner,
the fact he treats you well.
Try not to think too deeply.
You never can be good.
You'll never find a home that
is not marked with some blood.
And sorry that I brought you
to a world where that's true.
The Protestants hate Catholics.
The Arabs hate the Jews,
and half the world hates you, dear.
But I loved your warm head
before I'd even planned you.
I pictured you in bed
and kissed that absent soft-spot,
and though I am not there,
shut your eyes, squeeze my hand tight,
and though I won't be there
in some way I'll be there, dear.
That is how we persist.
My sweet thing, do forgive me
for selfishness. I kiss
you wherever you are now
and hope you're glad of life —
despite the violent weather,
despite the sudden knife —
and that you love that one gift,
that rare thrill of I am
as death pans out around you.
Hope that you do not damn
this mother who loved life so,
she hoped she'd live within
you, after: ball your fist, dear,
and feel your nails dig in.


Clare Pollard


I found a book on roses in Hay too which I hope will make a perfect gift for another dear friend. Here is a picture I found within it.

It is The Shrine by John William Waterhouse 1895. It is in the Christopher Wood Gallery, London.

I also bought a lovely book (for myself) on a favourite place of mine - Dublin. (Well you can’t go to Hay and not buy a book or two can you?) The Hay Festival is coming up soon and my daughter and I are deciding who we would like to go and see, always a hard choice that one.

The rest of today I have lazed about on the sofa, just reading and watching TV. Such decadence… but I have to work on Saturdays so I don’t feel guilty for being idle on a Friday. My body was telling me to rest and just for once I was not arguing.

That’s all for now,

An early night, a bit more reading,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Momentous Occasions

Dear Diary,

I am struggling to write a poem, never a good idea, a poem usually flies in and calls me to write, beginning with a line or two, coming as a flash from who-knows-where. They call it the well of imagination don‘t they?

Our writing group homework this month is to write about a ‘momentous occasion’ and the subject has been mulling around in my head because I know what I want to write but the words won’t come; it’s as if the occasions I have chosen as subject matter are so momentous they have been filed away in the hard drive of my being as a video recording. I heard the other day that those moments we all recollect - times like when Kennedy was assassinated, John Lennon shot, Princess Diana died etc - we all remember exactly where we were when we heard the news and when we recall it to mind we see the scene again; who else was there, what we said etc as there is a special part of our brains that stores all these little details. I am always taken back to the spot, the event is replayed before my eyes and I can give the commentary word for word.

I want to write about holding my new babies, both of them; it would be disloyal to say the first was more ‘important’ as both events have equal measure of emotion. The same feeling comes when you hold a new grandchild. These occasions are my most momentous in the sense that they are joyful but the word joyful is somehow inadequate as an adjective - there is no word to describe the extreme happiness on these birth-days. Perhaps that is why I find it hard to write a poem about it as there are no words fit for purpose. For it is but a moment... but the joy, the bliss, the feeling of fulfilment lasts a lifetime and beyond and cannot be distilled into an instant.

There are so many momentous occasions in life  -   births, deaths, achievements of varying kinds, meetings of soul mates, falling in love. Seeing a ghost. I may dig out the blog I wrote some time ago about my experience of the paranormal.  Finding my family and my roots was also momentous, something particular to me and those like me who have grown up without a sense of identity for a great part of their lives.

Of course not all momentous occasions are good ones.

There are bad moments of course, some so bad that I shall not ever consign them to paper as I do not want to give them energy. As the cliché goes ‘into each life some rain must fall’ - well I have had more than some - I have had torrents!

I decided to take another tack on the subject and write about moments as an abstract concept and while driving to work one morning this week I became inspired and had practically a whole poem come to me. I vowed to write the lines down when I reached the library but after opening up and the arrival of a borrower, all was lost. It still nags at me now because I was pleased with some of the lines that had flown into my head.

Some folks write on trains; is there something about passive movement through space, combined with solitude that sometimes stimulates creativity?

Changing the subject now.

We have two cock pheasants living on our little holding of land, they are both quite tame - one we call Hopalong as he is lame on one leg and the other is Buck (Buck Jones?), I looked out of the window the other day and saw Buck up on the bird feeding station, feeding from a seed-feeder!  I took a photo through the window but it has not come out very clearly as the  window was dirty (No, surely not?). Also the seed-feeder was near-empty so all in all it does not make for a good picture. (Note to self - clean window, fill feeder, watch and wait).

Sammy Squirrel is a regular now outside the kitchen window and he nibbles the nuts on both feeding stations in the back and the front gardens. The housemartins haven’t arrived yet and I live in fear that they will not return as each year their numbers diminish. We are having the cottage re-painted this year so I hope that won’t upset them.

Everything in the garden is bursting into life, including the weeds. I have never seen so many dandelions as I have this year - someone said that this heralds a hot summer. I am torn between leaving them as their bright yellow flowers are cheering, especially on the roadside verges but they would take over a garden given half a chance so I hack them off with the hoe. I am like a fellow blogger who goes by the name of Perpetual Weeder, it is a job that never ends - is it just us? I refuse to use chemicals so everything has to be dug up by hand and my body suffers the next day if I overdo it (and I am always prone to overdoing it). Buttercups are coming up too; I love their sunny yellowness but have to be ruthless with these plants though I do leave a few clumps around as they as so pretty. If only they could contain themselves and not creep around trying to take over the whole show.

Time for Blessings I think.

Blossoms which are everywhere.
Inspiration - when it comes.
Treasured Moments stored in my memory.
Bluebell woods, pure heaven, I saw my first one this year in the Brecon Beacons yesterday.
New Life in all its forms.

I’ll sign off now,

Have a good day and may it be filled with the very best kind of moments,

Cait

A Short Break

Dear Diary.

I am enjoying

A not-coffee break. I have given up coffee, chocolate and alcohol to try and reduce my migraine- triggers. I sometimes wonder if life is worth living.

I am drinking

A giant midnight blue mugful of ginseng, gingko and lemon-grass tea. It is meant to give me get up and go.

(I have only just sat down but never mind.).

I am eating

Nothing as I had a proper Sunday morning breakfast - a fry-up of eggs, bacon and tomatoes at 11.30 am!

I am wearing

Gardening jeans and a purple top. Purple is a special colour don’t you know?


I am looking out the window at

Sheep and lambs, the river and new mown grass (cannot call our grass a lawn by any stretch of the imagination).


Who is by my side?

Only Molly the cat who is sound asleep in her basket. The dogs are outside sunning themselves.


I have been

Weeding which is my perpetual pastime at this time of year. I never use chemicals so it is hard work. Satisfying when it is done though.

(Why are my eyes so often drawn to only the weeds and not to the blossom in the garden?).


After this I am going to

Go out in the garden with my wee camera and take some pictures of

Blossom.


I would rather be

Writing or just lounging.

I am thinking about

The Duchess, the DVD I watched last night. I recommend it highly if you haven’t seen it. I thought it was a beautiful production and couldn’t help thinking of the life of Princess Diana throughout the film which tells the story of the life of a Duchess of Devonshire. I shall say no more, I don’t want to spoil it for you.

My sister C who lives in Sussex has been on my mind also our mother and other relatives who have passed into Spirit.

I am also thinking of fresh air and how I love it so. The pure Welsh mountain air is like wine.

Dinner tonight?

Good question..

I am looking forward to

Sitting in the weed-free garden with a Good Book but I don’t think that will ever happen do you?

Hoping to

Win the lottery so a friend and I can open a Dog and Donkey sanctuary. No luck this week.

Music playing?

None as I am ‘not stopping’. I can hear the sounds of snooker in the room below as M is watching it on TV. I actually watched some myself last night and learned how it works, hope I don't get hooked!

Well I must go as the urge to get up and go has come upon me, the herbal tea must have worked its magic. I am off on a blossom hunt; watch this space for pics!

Bye for now,

Cait

A Poet's Passing

Dear Diary,

It is a coincidence that I am posting about another female poet today and one who, some years ago, was once in the running for the position of Poet Laureate but was unsuccessful.

U A Fanthorpe passed away this week at the age of 79 and I am therefore posting this again in her memory. This has always been one of my favourite poems and its theme is one close to my heart, namely the needless and soul-destroying academic 'dissection' of pieces of literature.

It features another one of my favourite wordsmiths, Laurie Lee.


Dear Mr Lee,


Mr Smart says it’s rude to call you Laurie, but that’s
how I think of you, having lived with you
really all year), Dear Mr Lee
(Laurie) I just want you to know
I used to hate English, and Mr Smart
is roughly my least favourite person,
and as for Shakespeare (we’re doing him too)
I think he’s a national disaster, with all those jokes
that Mr Smart has to explain why they’re jokes,
and even then no one thinks they’re funny,
And T. Hughes and P. Larkin and that lot
in our anthology, not exactly a laugh a minute,
pretty gloomy really, so that’s why
I wanted to say Dear Laurie (sorry) your book’s
the one that made up for the others, if you
could see my copy you’d know it’s lived
with me, stained with Coke and Kitkat
and when I had a cold, and I often
take you to bed with me to cheer me up
so Dear Laurie, I want to say sorry,
I didn’t want to write a character-sketch
of your mother under headings, it seemed
wrong somehow when you’d made her so lovely,
and I didn’t much like those questions
about social welfare in the rural community
and the seasons as perceived by an adolescent,
I didn’t think you’d want your book
read that way, but bits of it I know by heart,
and I wish I had your uncles and your half-sisters
and lived in Slad, though Mr Smart says your view
of the class struggle is naïve, and the examiners
won’t be impressed by me knowing so much by heart,
they’ll be looking for terse and cogent answers
to their questions, but I’m not much good at terse and cogent,
I’d just like to be like you, not mind about being poor,
see everything bright and strange, the way you do,
and I’ve got the next one out of the Public Library,
about Spain, and I asked Mum about learning
to play the fiddle, but Mr Smart says Spain isn’t
like that any more, it’s all Timeshare villas
and Torremolinos, and how old were you
when you became a poet? (Mr Smart says for anyone
with my punctuation to consider poetry as a career
is enough to make the angels weep).
PS Dear Laurie, please don’t feel guilty for
me failing the exam, it wasn’t your fault,
it was mine, and Shakespeare’s
and maybe Mr Smart’s, I still love Cider
it hasn’t made any difference.


U A Fanthorpe

The First of May

Dear Diary,

Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen”


Leonardo Da Vinci
1452-1519

It’s May Day!


A little poem for you.



May Day


I will start with a wee poem,

Why not?

A new day,

A new month.

A new Poet Laurate.

A woman!

Carol Ann Duffy,

Congratulations!



I am posting below two of my favourite poems by Carol Ann Duffy. I understand that Carol Ann's mother is Irish and her grandparents come from Carlow and Hackestown.

I always imagine that In Your Mind is written about Ireland but I am probably wrong…perhaps someone will enlighten me?





In Your Mind


The other country, is it anticipated or half-remembered?
Its language is muffled by the rain which falls all afternoon
one autumn in England, and in your mind
you put aside your work and head for the airport
with a credit card and a warm coat you will leave
on the plane. The past fades like newsprint in the sun.

You know people there. Their faces are photographs
on the wrong side of your eyes. A beautiful boy
in the bar on the harbour serves you a drink – what? –
asks you if men could possibly land on the moon.
A moon like an orange drawn by a child. No.
Never. You watch it peel itself into the sea.

Sleep. The rasp of carpentry wakes you. On the wall,
a painting lost for thirty years renders the room yours.
Of course. You go to your job, right at the old hotel, left,
then left again. You love this job. Apt sounds
mark the passing of the hours. Seagulls. Bells. A flute
practising scales. You swap a coin for a fish on the way home.

Then suddenly you are lost but not lost, dawdling
on the blue bridge, watching six swans vanish
under your feet. The certainty of place turns on the lights
all over town, turns up the scent on the air. For a moment
you are there, in the other country, knowing its name.
And then a desk. A newspaper. A window. English rain.


Carol Ann Duffy



Prayer


Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims1 sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

Pray for us now. 2 Grade I piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child's name as though they named their loss.

Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer -
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.


Carol Ann Duffy




Bye for now,
Enjoy the month,
Go mbeannai Dia Duit,
Cait

A Meme

Dear Diary.


I promised I would do it so here goes.

I’ll try and be brief, you have probably read this one as it has been tackled by others so many times before.

What are my current obsessions?

Photography is my latest craze and I have opened another blog for some pics.

My others you know about. Poetry, books, music, Ireland…….

Which item of clothing am I wearing most?

Jeans I suppose and scarves and shawls but to be honest (as they say in Wales) I am bored with all of my clothes.

What’s for dinner?

Roast chicken (lemony and garlicky). Got the recipe from Nigel Slater’s Appetite, a great cookbook.
Roast potatoes, stuffing, broccoli, carrots.
Delia’s toffee pudding.

Last thing I bought?

A photography book!

What am I listening to?

A friend sent me a song on the subject of watching clouds as we both love this pastime. The song is sung by Abby Dobson., an Australian singer.

What would I say to the person who inspired me to do this post?

Willow, your blog is fantastic!

Favourite holiday destination?

Ireland

A canal boat holiday in France maybe, or Ireland or the UK.

Anywhere I would like to visit before I die?

New England
New York

Reading right now?

One of Us - A fabulous novel by Melissa Benn who is the daughter of my hero Tony Benn.

Guilty pleasure?

Buying a magazine occasionally. No delete that, they are always a disappointment.
Buying books?

First Spring thing?

Picking snowdrops from my garden.

Best thing I ate or drank lately?

Butterscotch cake made by M.

Which Spring flower am I most anxious to see?

Snowdrops, bluebells.

Care to share some wisdom?

Only kindness matters.

Is there a television programme that I enjoy at the moment?

All the Small Things


That’s all folks and if you’ve got this far then thanks for reading..


I am tagging Milla and anyone else who fancies having a go.

(Remove one question and add one of your own making)

Bye for now,

Cait

Just a poem for now, back soon

Out of Hiding


Someone said my name in the garden,

while I grew smaller
in the spreading shadow of the peonies,

grew larger by my absence to another,
grew older among the ants, ancient

under the opening heads of the flowers,
new to myself, and stranger.

When I heard my name again, it sounded far,
like the name of the child next door,
or a favorite cousin visiting for the summer,

while the quiet seemed my true name,
a near and inaudible singing
born of hidden ground.

Quiet to quiet, I called back.
And the birds declared my whereabouts all morning.



Li-Young Lee

If you love poetry

Achill Head - Paul Henry

Dear Diary,


Below is a piece taken from a blog I read, it is about a journalist's interview with an American poet. I hope she won’t mind me repeating it here but I thought others might like the last line.

*
This is the extract.

I can't tell you what we talked about; I need to save that for my story. But I will share his last quote, since it was so lovely. I said, Why poetry? Why not prose? And he answered immediately; he said,
Why dancing? Why not just walk around?

*

Then quite by chance I received this poem in an email tonight, also on the theme of poetry. So I thought I would share this with you also. Pablo Neruda is a favourite poet of mine.


Poetry


And it was at that age... Poetry arrived in search of me.
I don't know, I don't know where it came from,
from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices,
they were not words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone,
there I was without a face and it touched me.

I did not know what to say,
my mouth had no way with names
my eyes were blind, and something started in my soul, fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering that fire
and I wrote the first faint line, faint, without substance,
pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened and open,
planets, palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated, riddled with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void,
likeness, image of mystery,
I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

Pablo Neruda
1904-1973

That's all for now,
Cait

A little award ceremony

Dear Diary,


I must thank the very kind blogger at Third-Storey Window for giving me the Premio Splashdown award in the form of the little picture below. It was a complete surprise to me. ( I am very much into angels but have never been called one before!).

Third-Storey Window is a favourite blog of mine - a real haven for bibliophiles like me. Go visit - you can spend ages there - so much to enjoy.


I would like to pass this award on to other 'angels' in cyberspace:





Cowgirl because she is an inspiration and is touched by angels for sure. There are beautiful photos of New Zealand to see and great writing. Do go over and visit.

I like to visit The Keeping Room because it has everything I love therein. The room is so cosy and welcoming, there are beautiful photos, so much to read and there is poetry too. An harmonious place to linger.

Three Dog Blog is another much-loved haunt of mine as the writings here are superb and it is crammed full of gems to inspire me. One not to miss. (I am a dog lover but you don't have to be to enjoy it).

Last but not least I must mention Camilla and Edward, the quality of the writing here is just outstanding, it is a magical, beautiful blog, a treat for the senses. A must-read.

There are others I could mention but I had better stop at four. Aren’t we blessed to have so many wonderful ‘angelic’ blogs to read?

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait,

Easter Sunday

Easter Sunday



An Easter Sunday morning walk beside the precious mountain stream
amongst the carpets of sweet celandine and purple violets at their edge.
Peeping shyly, hiding, coy and timid in their beauty.
While clumps of primroses, so full and brightly yellow are
not the least bit bashful of their hue as they
compete with golden daffodils along the river’s bank.
While all around is greening and every plant and shrub is budding, simply bursting into life.
And all the while the river sings her song
and birds join in the chorus as she flows.
But I detect a brightness in their tune,
a tinkling sound of joyfulness is in their melody,
as if they too can tell it’s Spring and
they can also see and feel God’s beauty in our midst.


Cait O’Connor

The Butterfly's Tale

A glasswing butterfly

This is homework for my writing group. I had to write something incorporating these seven words - we each chose one at random from the dictionary:

chance, butterfly, responsible, drab, firefly, tube, fastidious

The Butterfly’s Tale


(A very short story)

"Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you"

Nathaniel Hawthorne

Along with the hordes, an unusual butterfly flew in the just-opened carriage door of the London tube. A very rare irridescent glasswing butterfly that shone like sunlight on stained glass in colours of blue, green, rusty gold and white. Its effect amongst we travellers was like that of a rainbow on a dullish day.

Enlightened onlookers in the carriage suspected it to be a just-passed soul fluttering by, as they do, to comfort a grieving loved one.

(I knew better).

One lucky lady found a seat. If I was kind I would say she was nondescript but if I was honest I would say she was prim and proper looking, glasses perched on the edge of her nose, sad-eyed and clothes far too drab (a librarian?).

A man stood near to her and looked around with the air of someone who thought himself a wee bit superior. If I was kind I would say he was clean and smartly turned out but if I am to be honest he seemed to me dull and far too fastidious for his own good (an accountant?).

The atmosphere, which had previously been cheerless and dark, grew brighter as glowing sparks from the butterfly started to burn as it landed on the windowpane between the dull accountant and the sad librarian. Their eyes were drawn to it and then to each other and, as they say in books, a smile passed between them.

(We psychic ones call it energy).

I knew a passion was ignited in that moment and perhaps (as I have the Gift) only I saw it, but the butterfly was slowly undergoing a metamorphosis and its sparks became flames.

The creature had become a firefly.

(My spell had worked).

And then I too had a flash, a flash of the fortune teller, the true sign of a witch,

(It happens a lot).

In their future lives together as man and wife the dull but now happy accountant and the sad but now fulfilled librarian would describe how they met as pure Chance and Chance alone was responsible.

(But as I told you, I know better).

Dreams

Another Paul Henry picture for you
(you can just make out the donkey!)

This is a long range photo of an empty cottage taken recently.
My kind of place, a very tiny dream cottage perhaps?

Imagine all the people living life in peace.
You may say I'm a dreamer,
but I'm not the only one.
I hope someday you'll join us
and the world will live as one.

John Lennon

No person has the right to rain on your dream

Marian Wright Edelman

Quite by chance and following on from the wish list theme of the previous post, my favourite daughter sent me this poem today.

Hold fast your dreams

Hold fast your dreams! Within your heart
Keep one still, secret spot Where dreams may go,
And, sheltered so, May thrive and grow
Where doubt and fear are not. O keep a place apart,
Within your heart,
For little dreams to go!
Think still of lovely things that are not true.
Let wish and magic work at will in you.
Be sometimes blind to sorrow.
Make believe! Forget the calm that lies In disillusioned eyes.
Though we all know that we must die,
Yes you and I May walk like gods and be
Even now at home in immortality.
We see so many ugly things— Deceits and wrongs and quarrelings;
We know, alas we know
How quickly fade The color in the west,
The bloom upon the flower,
The bloom upon the breast
And youth's blind hour.
Yet keep within your heart
A place apart Where little dreams may go
May thrive and grow.

Hold fast—hold fast your dreams!


Louise Driscoll

That's all for now but before I go I shall leave you with a song, one by the artist I am listening to tonight.

I wanted to post a song on the dream theme but it was very hard as there are so many I like: Jack Savoretti, Fleetwood Mac to name just two but I felt like hearing Roy Orbison's voice again and here is his lovely song.

In Dreams:

A Wishlist - A Meme

Two new babies

If I were to wish for anything, I should not wish for wealth and power, but for the passionate sense of potential -- for the eye which, ever young and ardent, sees the possible. Pleasure disappoints; possibility never.” Soren Kierkegaard 1813-1855

A Romany Caravan by the Sea

An old red VW Camper Van

Perhaps it is the gypsy in my soul?

If you fancy doing this Meme why not start your own wishlist. Include only wild and/or impractial dreams; try not to write about those too seriously achievable desires.

Start with as many as you like and keep the list tucked away so you can add to it as and whenever. But let me know when you do......

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Apologies

Dear Diary,

Patience is the mother of will.

- Gurdjieff

Lady Godiva  -  John Collier

So sorry not to have posted for ages. My computer has been playing up and when it has been working it has been on a go-slow and just at the time I was trying to open another blog to store some of my photos. I have succeeded at last but it has not been without a lot of swearing! I lost the lot at one stage and had to re-post all over again, bit by bit. My patience has been tested!

(Did you not see the smoke rising?)

So I have little to say here today but will return tomorrow. Just wanted to say do go and have a look at the new blog with the original name of Cait's Photos, though it is still 'under construction' as they say in techno-land.

(http://caitsphotos.blogspot.com/ )


You will find the odd poem scattered about the place, they seem to mix well, poems and pictures, would you not agree?

See you soon,


Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Vernal Equinox

Dear Diary,

Pastures New

Sir James Guthrie

James Guthrie - Another artist I have discovered (Scottish). I found a little print in a charity shop and now it hangs in my study.

And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.

Ezra Pound

Another Friday has hit me and unfortunately I have not blogged since the last one. Life has been a bit hectic but hopefully I will be able to do a few more posts next week. I am also starting another blog where I am going to stick a few of my photos but it is not up and running yet. I have the photography bug at the moment and M and I are going off on little outings with our cameras, He is an excellent photographer with years of experience but I am new to the game.

The Vernal Equinox or First Day of Spring has arrived and as I log on today I am reminded of this by the Google logo and very attractive it is too.

Not that I need much reminding it is Spring as today is a day full of glory, warm sunshine, hardly any wind but a definite air of optimism in the breeze. Lots of folk outside and doing and the birds too are busy as ever - best of all is the fact that the dippers are nesting under the bridge once more. I have been pottering outside myself, perhaps this is my favourite hobby and I am currently enjoying waking up the garden and planning how I am going to dress her this year. Our daffodils are just coming out; they are flowering far later than most areas as we are so behind up here in the hills. I actually bought a bunch of buds the other day and when they opened up their scent flooded the kitchen. I have never come across such smelly daffodils!

There are plenty of lambs around of course and last weekend I took a few snaps of those at my daughter and SIL’s farm. I just missed one being born but did see Mum cleaning her baby. This warm dry weather at lambing time is a blessing for the farmers.

Triplets!

It's going to be a big day tomorrow rugby-wise and as ever I am to be drawn in two directions as Wales are playing Ireland in Cardiff. I guess I won’t mind who wins really, but whoever loses I will feel for. Perhaps I should hope the best team on the day wins, wouldn’t that be the sensible way of looking at it? And I shall enjoy both anthems before the match.


A few quick blessings?

Singing. As when people combine their voices in an anthem, singing together can be an emotional experience. I was reminded of this one when M and I drove two of the granddaughters back home one dark evening this week - a twenty minute drive over the mountains to their farm. My car radio is de-programmed at the moment so we had to make our own music and some of the time the four of us were all singing different songs. (We are a family of eccentrics!). Then we united and sang a few of the old ones ending with the wonderful compositions from Simon and Garfunkel, a few from the Bridge over Troubled Water album. My girls are lucky in that they have grown up in a musical household as did our children and have been introduced to a lot of the ‘old stuff’ (and they love it too).

A new (American) author that I was introduced to by my daughter who is reading her for her English degree. Grace Paley. I am hoping to read her Collected Short Stories soon.

The joy of re-discovery..

I have rediscovered one of my own much-loved poetry books Staying Alive, Real Poems for Unreal Times edited by Neil Astley. I heartily recommend it to you as it is crammed chock full of gems. You can open it anywhere and find something special. Here is one where I did just that, the book opened quite by chance at a wonderful poem by an Irish poet born in Cork.

(Oracling is another blessing sometimes).


Swineherd


When all this is over, said the swineherd,
I mean to retire, where
Nobody will have heard about my special skills
And conversation is mainly about the weather.

I intend to learn how to make coffee, at least as well
As the Portuguese lay-sister in the kitchen
And polish the brass fenders everyday.
I want to lie awake at night
Listening to cream crawling to the top of the jug
And the water laying soft in the cistern.

I want to see an orchard where the trees grow in straight lines
And the yellow fox finds shelter between the navy-blue trunks,
Where it gets dark early in summer
And the apple-blossom is allowed to wither on the bough.


Eilean Ni Chuilleanain



Before I go and also on the theme of Ireland I am sorry not to have posted on St Paddy’s Day. So, a little late, here is a little Irish blessing for you all that I have only just discovered.


The Blessing of Light, Rain and Earth



May the blessing of Light be on you
light without and light within.
May the blessed sunlight shine on you
And warm your heart till it glows
Like a great peat fire, so that the stranger
may come and warm himself at it
and also a friend
And may the light shine out of the two eyes of you
Like a candle set in the windows of a house
Bidding the wanderer to come in out of the storm.

And may the blessing of the Rain be upon you, the soft sweet rain.
May it fall upon your spirit so that all the little flowers may spring up
And shed their sweetness on the air
And may the blessing of the Great Rains be on you
May they beat upon your spirit and wash it fair and clean
And leave there many a shining pool where the blue of heaven shines
And sometimes a star.

And may the blessing of the Earth be upon you, the great round earth
May you ever have a kindly greeting for them you pass
As you're going along the roads
May the earth be soft under you when you rest upon it
Tire at the end of the day
And may it rest easy over you
When at the last you lay out under it
May it rest so lightly over you
That your soul may be out from under it quickly
And up, and off, and on its way to God.


I shall have to sign off now; I have places to go and people to see,

I’d rather be blogging.

See you soon,

Cait.

New Discoveries

A little Breton girl.
George Clausen
(M's grandmother was one of these and probably around the same era).

I do not seek I find
Pablo Picasso

Dear Diary,

It is already Friday again.

I am going to write a few words about the blessings that are New Discoveries and how one discovery can lead to another. The first is a book that led me to an artist by the name of George Clausen. No doubt you have heard of him but I hadn’t - or maybe I had but had forgotten his name (most likely) and no doubt the artist will lead me on to other delights. I will let you know.



The book, which was published in 2001, is Now is the Time by Sister Stanislaus Kennedy and I believe it was a bestseller in Ireland some years ago. I was led to this book via an American-Irish mailing list of which I am a member. I do not live in America but somehow discovered a rather good site for all things Irish that appeal to the Irish diaspora.

As usual I digress. I receive a book list from this American site every so often - new publications - fiction and non-fiction (including poetry!) and all by Irish authors or with an Irish connection somehow. The latest email mentioned a few spiritual books by a woman called Sister Stanislaus Kennedy who grew up on the Dingle peninsula (as did my mother). I looked on Amazon and found a copy going cheap so I sent off for it and it arrived very quickly. I have only just started reading her spiritual reflections but here is a taster, a description of what the book contains.

From the back cover:

Now is the Time became an instant bestseller when it was first published, and in this expanded edition, which includes five new entries, Stan's message remains the same: we have the time, if we make the choice to take time ... Now is the Time is an inspiring book for everyone; young or old, male or female, for the converted or those who are irreligious or plain disaffected. Even people for whom a spiritual view of the world is a closed book should try opening this one. Now is the Time looks beyond the boundaries of any one faith or church and draws on the great spiritual and philosophical traditions of east and west. As Sister Stan focuses on a line of poetry from one of the world's great authors, an idea from a psychotherapist or philosopher, or a proverb from oriental wisdom, she weaves her own thoughts around them in a way that presents them afresh, and allows us to see them from a new perspective. Widely loved as a committed social activist and tireless worker on behalf of people in need, Sister Stan reveals an entirely different side of her nature - the reflective, contemplative and the spiritual – and offers us an inspiring and thought-provoking work of vision.

The book's cover is a beautiful work of art in itself. A painting by, you’ve guessed it, Sir George Clausen. I can only find the tiniest picture of it which you can see above. It is meant to be called the Haymaker but I am not so sure having looked online. It is supposed to be in the Hugh Lane Municipal Gallery in Dublin. I have only been to their National Gallery.

Changing the subject, but keeping the theme of discovery, the rest of this post shows photos I took of a ruined mill not far from here. I have been doing a bit of detective work for someone in the state of Utah, USA, who is researching his family tree. It’s a long story but a borrower of mine was contacted by him as he discovered her email address online (she is secretary of a local history society). She told me how he was drawing a blank on one of the properties on a census return so I got on the case as I happen to live in the same area. Anyway, to cut a long story short, a friend of mine asked someone else and a long-gone property that no-one had been able to find for this man was discovered. I took some photos last weekend and I shall email them to him along with some of the local chapel where he has many relatives buried, some in the 1800’s. No doubt when this man comes to Wales, as he is planning to, there will be a big gathering of the clans as there are still many living in these parts with the same surname!

Before I go here is a poem.

but if a living dance upon dead minds

but if a living dance upon dead minds
why,it is love;but at the earliest spear
of sun perfectly should disappear
moon's utmost magic,or stones speak or one
name control more incredible splendor than
our merely universe, love's also there:
and being here imprisoned,tortured here
love everywhere exploding maims and blinds
(but surely does not forget,perish, sleep
cannot be photographed,measured;disdains
the trivial labelling of punctual brains...
-Who wields a poem huger than the grave?
from only Whom shall time no refuge keep
though all the weird worlds must be opened?

e e cummings

So that’s all for today.
Isn’t the internet wonderful?
And aren’t new discoveries exciting as well?

Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Blogger's Block

Dear Diary,

No kind action ever stops with itself. One kind action leads to another. Good example is followed. A single act of kindness throws out roots in all directions, and the roots spring up and make new trees. The greatest work that kindness does to others is that it makes them kind themselves.

Amelia Earhart

Please forgive me as I have blogger’s block today but as I haven’t posted for so long I thought I had better pen just a few words. Perhaps things will improve when the Full Moon is past, I always feel unsettled in the week leading up to it.

Life got in the way as well last week, as it often does but my worries and problems have thankfully dissipated.

So today’s will be a short one as inspiration is hard to find but there will be blessings, pictures and a wee poem of mine that I wrote last week.

Blessings?

Signs of spring that I noted on my walk this morning. Catkins, crocuses, daphne, lungwort, tiny daffodils coming into flower and sunshine that was doing its best to warm me in spite of the bitterness of the cold wind.

My grocery delivery. This is a new venture in these rural parts of Wales. The Asda lorry comes to the door and I am able to order online.

My new heating system is installed and will soon be up and running. Economy 10 should be working on Friday and in the long run we should be spending a lot less on keeping the cottage warm.

Book group tonight which I am looking forward to as I have enjoyed the choice this month. It is Spilling the Beans by Clarissa Dickson-Wright. Although I am not a fan of all her exploits (foxhunting and hare coursing are just two examples) I found her life story a really good read. I am in that state of wanting to find another Good Read to lose myself in and will be away soon to dig one out from the big pile I always have waiting for me.

I always look forward to reading other people’s blogs as well so they are also a blessing. When my ideas run dry I can while away so much time enjoying others who seem never to have such a problem. I have not read any for a while now but I am on the case.

I shall leave you with the little poem.

Mothering



It’s an umbilical cord thing,
in the sense that we are connected throughout lifetimes
(and beyond)
though our babies may have grown and flown
and may even now have children of their own.
They will come and they will go
and each parting is not remotely sweet
but rather it is sorrow

The years we held our children close and safe
enfolded in our arms
seem like a fleeting moment lost in space.
And along with pangs of labour
and the agonising throes of each ensuing birth,
why did no-one ever give us warning
of the worry and the yearning
and the lifelong pain a mother feels
that is the constant tugging
at this instrument of love we call the heart


Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Blessings mostly

For no reason other than I love cottages and their windows.

An Irish cottage window.

Dear Diary,

“Advocates of capitalism are very apt to appeal to the sacred principles of liberty, which are embodied in one maxim: The fortunate must not be restrained in the exercise of tyranny over the unfortunate”

Bertrand Russell 1872-1890

A short blog today methinks. I could write reams about the fnancial situation, the greed that exists in our society and how money is indeed at the root of most evil. But I won't. Not today anyway.

Just Blessings.





It will soon be World Book Day.

To be honest every day is book day for me.
And I like nothing more than discovering a Good Read especially by recommendations from other bibliophiles.. I am in two book groups, one virtual, one at the library.. I also read loads of reviews of course and adore booky blogs.






I shall post some much-loved titles here from time to time so do watch this space. Just for today I will mention The Story of Edgar Sawtelle again. A fantastic book, especially if you are a dog-lover as I am. But you don’t have to be. Just read it.

And talking of just for today (I will not worry) I want to mention Self-Reiki. It is meant to be especially powerful. It certainly works as I had a deep and dreamless sleep last night and it has made me feel quite rested.

I always look forward to new music releases by my favourite artists. I can’t wait to hear U2’s new CD which is out on March 2nd.

Classic TV and radio programmes. Life would be sad without them.

Radio 4, I love it so and did enjoy Desert Island Discs this morning. I hardly ever miss it. Today it was David Walliams and I found it quite revealing. His music, which was like a sound track to his life so far, was full of longing and loss. So many funny, creative souls have their sad, dark and melancholic side don’t they? Coincidentally, the book he chose to take to his desert island was a collection of Philip Larkin’s poems. I featured the poem Days by Larkin in my last blogpost.

I also featured the recipe for M's fruit cake in my last posting.

Talking of which, here is the proof:


And now I am off to cut myself a slice and a lump of mature cheddar cheese to go with it. Can anyone recommend a really strong cheddar by the way? We just can't seem to find a good one. I may then curl up with Anita Shreve (Testimony) and a cuppa or two and I may drift off to sleep, who knows? I have to stay up tonight as there is a very important rugby match to watch - Wales are playing France in the Six Nations. Fingers and everything crossed Cymru!

But I shall end with Larkin once more in honour of David Walliams and Desert Island Discs. I shall post my own island record choice as soon as I get aroundtuit (anyone know who sells those?).

Dublinesque

Down stucco sidestreets,
Where light is pewter
And afternoon mist
Brings lights on in shops
Above race-guides and rosaries,
A funeral passes.

The hearse is ahead,
But after there follows
A troop of streetwalkers
In wide flowered hats,
Leg-of-mutton sleeves,
And ankle-length dresses.

There is an air of great friendliness,
As if they were honouring
One they were fond of;
Some caper a few steps,
Skirts held skilfully
(Someone claps time),

And of great sadness also.
As they wend away
A voice is heard singing
Of Kitty, or Katy,
As if the name meant once
All love, all beauty.





Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait