Church on Sunday

Flowers and afternoon sunlight at St Mary's.

Dear Diary,

Just a short one today as I am rather busy - Monday chores to do and I am soon to be chasing the dead again.  It's an addiciton that doesn't damage my health - apart from the lack of sleep that I am suffering from which is caused by too many late nights on the Ancestry website.

Thank you for the comments on the previous post (self portrait poem) - it was written a bit tongue in cheek and I used a few untruths, sorry -  a little bit of poetic licence -  but some days I do feel like the archetypal grumpy old woman.  But I am not yet completely steely grey...not quite yet.

Yesterday we went to visit a church where one of M's ancestors was christened in 1730 - St Mary the Virgin's in Middleton-on-the-Hill which lies in deepest Herefordshire.  And I mean deepest - it took us ages to find the place; as usual it was a case of really poor signposting.  The area of Little Hereford is a literal maze of narrow lanes, farmland and scattered cottages, it felt like going back in time and we could imagine how remote it would have been when his distant grandfather lived there.  M has Huguenot roots so I am busy researching all about them.

This is the church, it is 12th century and was so very beautiful and peaceful.  The approach to it was across a straight track between two wide fields of barley, they were fields of gold indeed yesterday in the golden sunlight and the wide flat fields reminded me of Norfolk.  Yesterday was a real summer's day for a change - a perfect afternoon to be out and about.  I am pleased to say that all the churches we have visited in Herefordshire recently have been unlocked and so welcoming with their atmospheres of peace and perfect calm.

I have a thing about church windows. This one was very narrow.

Another sweet flower arrangement on a wall.

Before I go here is a poem I wrote that was inspired by my latest addiction.


Family Tree


Another day, another show, a drama in the making
but I wake to insignificance, hearing only a small whisper
for I am clothed in human form
and only chasing the ungrateful dead.
Tracing the past has narrowed my vision.
Is this how an addict feels?
For like a drug, it absorbs and excites me
yet shrinks me down in an unstoppable fashion
till I am the user at the break of dawn,
or in the dead of night when you may catch me
as I leap from branch to branch,
peeping at paper records, tapping at keys.

One man and one woman; it always ends with two
and their love and passion for the other;
‘tis the human trait we cannot help but recognise.
Then it dawns: we are all just part of One Big Pattern
almost holy and connected..

I travel back as far as only hope can
to reach the proud ones standing tall astride tree’s majesty.
Then I fade once more to narrowness and feel so small
not realising that I am still on stage now,
and it is not yet time to take my curtain call.


Cait O’Connor


Tomorrow I shall recommend two books for you that are really worth reading if you feel you don't have enough hours in a day.  They embrace the magic that lies in the word 'less' - something I have been thinking a lot about lately.

So do call again.

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Self Portrait

You use a glass mirror to see your face; you use works of art to see your soul

George Bernard Shaw

1856-1950

Self Portrait



Who is this old woman I catch sight of every day?
The face with wrinkly lines,the voice that seems to moan a lot
and always boasts of times gone by
when absolutely everything was so much better than today.
Her hair is steely grey now but she says she doesn’t care.
She says she’ll grow it long and throw the dyes and all her caution to the winds
and wear it in what old grannies called a bun.
She eats little and just loves her herbal brews,
treads carefully upon the stairs in case once more she falls.
She’s careless, loses words and patience,
names and glasses,
keys and memories.
(And doesn’t hear too well).
She hasn’t any vices, I cannot think of one at all.
She doesn’t drink, she doesn’t smoke,
she even tires at middle-day and sometimes takes a nap
and still retires to bed at night with only cocoa and a book
and tells me it is heavenly!
(Could she be more boring you may ask)?
She seems to know me very well, too bloody well in fact,
(we must be closely linked somehow?).
I really cannot fool her though however hard I try.
She’s seen it all and done it all
and brags to all and sundry
the fact that she’s a granny now and her three girls
are definitely the best and just the brightest in the world.
I kind of recognise her eyes and voice,
they seem familiar in a way.
But still I wonder who she is for
I cannot recognise her.
Her clothes are mostly purple now,
she doesn’t give a damn,
she knows just what she really wants
and what she will or will not ever do.
She’s been near death so values life
and loves her precious family.
And in some ways I envy her because
she’s become with age a lot more wise
(she’s read a lot you know)
and seems so happy in her skin.
I do enjoy her company
it’s almost like we’re kin.
But every time I see her face
she tells me she is me!
But it can’t be me, I feel so young!
Oh tell me please
where lives that soft young woman I once was
with my babies on my knee?

Cait O’Connor

PS Who invented mirrors? The swine!

Musings on Time

Dear Diary,

“The real dividing line between things we call work and the things we call leisure is that in leisure, however active we may be, we make our own choices and our own decisions. We feel for the time being that our life is our own.”

Anonymous

I woke up naturally again today, no alarm, no Radio 4, no Today programme which, much as I love it, does raise my blood pressure. Today is the last day of a couple of weeks’ annual leave/change of routine. Because I work part-time my holiday ‘extends’ even if I only take a few days off, one of the advantages I guess. Tomorrow I will be back in the library, I really love my job so no hardship there but I do love the freedom that no-work gives me. A taste of what future retirement will be like perhaps?

M and I  often try and guess the time when we don’t know it and I am usually spot-on or only a few minutes out in my estimation and this morning, just after eight o’clock was no exception. I must keep a kind of unconscious vigil on time in my brain which is rather worrying. I got to musing about the whole subject of time this morning so from now on this post is just a few random ramblings on the subject before I rise and ‘seize the day’ (or the moment).

There are gentle rains falling and I have much work still to do in the jungle - sorry garden - as most of my time off it has been raining. We could almost make hay with the garden cuttings alone. Talking of which we’ve just had a small spell of hot dry weather though and thank God, the local farmers have at last been able to finish making silage or hay and they have been working flat out. Our field has been done - my favourite time - all pollen banished now - and the dogs and I enjoyed an evening walk yesterday on the virginal grass stubbles, weaving our way through the shiny black wrapped bales of silage.

And these last few days I have found my garden again, albeit overgrown and buried amongst weeds and M has strimmed all the grass which had grown too high to mow. All my plans of clearing and creating ‘new’ flowerbeds have not come to fruition. Never mind, there is always another time, God willing.

How did I cope with time when I had ‘time off‘?

I chased time but it was always out of reach and was never letting me catch it. It has never hung on me, never been an empty vessel with me wondering how I could fill it - I have never been bored in my life - (there are always books aren’t there?). At break of day I would ask it to stretch for me so I could fill it only with pleasure, small tasks of joy rather than necessity perhaps, not chores of pain or work. I could have a spell of this, a stint of something else. I could be quiet and live only in the lull or go with the proverbial flow of soft time - have you tried this? It is truly energising. Usually chores jostled for my attention and worst of all there were those dreaded lists of ‘things to do today’ with each item fighting for dominance. Why do unpleasant tasks always weigh so heavily on our minds? - I have found it is sometimes easier to tackle them and get them out of the way first, doing them can be easier than not doing them.

Is there an angel of Time? I doubt it for Time is man-made like armies are and it marches onwards, it advances quick-time left to right and I feel and dread its linear regimentation, I crave the gentler pace. At certain times; the cooling of the day or at sunset or when I gardened or did my yoga then time became my best friend, at last she acquiesced and lay down around me, expanding in all directions, becoming at last circular which was always my Celtic soul’s unconscious intention.

How does time elapse and pass? People say ’Where does the time go?’ I would like to face them to the wall along with the clocks and live only by my own desires or be almost like the cradled infant just listening to my own body’s needs and rhythms. There are only moons and tides, the Sun and the planets, seasons and lifetimes, the future never will come but every moment is an ever-present gift to us.

I would love to rise with the dawning of the light and sleep with its fall. I would like to dream with the seasons and celebrate each of their own unique gifts. Time is just our present, it is but a moment of stillness and ‘stiller’ too if it is silent and is met with solitude.

I will sign off now; I feel that the time is right. I will try and remember each moment that life is but a dream and that we are all dreaming and creating our own lives with the energies of our thoughts. Perhaps we should dream away and not waste away each day of our all too short lives on planet Earth.

I must owe you a poem.

The Waking

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Theodore Roethke

May all your time be soft,

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Books

Dear Diary,

Sunflower

Vincent Van Gogh

It is the artist's business to create sunshine when the sun fails

Romain Rolland French writer 1866-1944

The weather is foul - where and why is the Sun hiding itself? Derek Brockway, our lovely Welsh TV weather man says it’s all to do with the Jet Stream that is sweeping over us - I’ve never heard of it before but I wish it would sweep somewhere else. I think I will be curling up with a good book later when I have done a little more work on the family tree. Before I do though I promised I would tell you what books I have been reading, so here goes, there are some old, some new.


The Story of Lucy Gault - William Trevor. I love William Trevor books and always thought I had read this one but surprisingly it turned out I hadn’t. I happen to believe it is his best.

Now another Irish author - I hope I am not too biased.

Brooklyn by Colm Toibin

This man writes so well, I have read all his books and this one is so lovely. It goes its way slowly, gently but so so smoothly and I am sure you will enjoy it.

The Road Home by Rose Tremain. I am reading this at the moment and I don’t like putting it down. It is not a ‘happy’ read, it’s about an economic migrant and doesn't exactly lift my mood in this grey weather but I will persevere as it is such good writing. I recommend it highly, every sentence is just perfect and a joy to read.

I am just about to read the new Salley Vickers. Did you know why she spells her name Salley by the way - it’s all down to Yeats and his poem Down by the Salley Gardens. Yeats was her father’s favourite poet. Salley means ‘willow’.

Also on my to-read shelf is The Reader by Bernhard Schlink - this has been recommended to me by two people, one is my daughter. I don’t think this will be a cheerful book either but I will read and report on it.

I have really enjoyed David Lodge’s Deaf Sentence - I won’t say any more as the Purplecoo Book Group have chosen it for discussion in a couple of month’s time. I would force it on you though as a must-read. Lodge is another of my favourite authors - he makes me laugh out loud. This book has more than just humour though……….

I am sure to find a laugh or two as well in Lucy Mangan’s
My Family and Other Disasters. I used to enjoy her extremely funny columns in The Guardian.

In a car boot sale recently I found a Diana Cooper book on angels - Angel Answers. If, like me, you believe in angels and have questions to ask, you will enjoy this one.

For my ever-present poetry-hunger I have borrowed from the library’s new additions:


Long-Haul Travellers by Sheenagh Pugh

And more poetry-food has been bought in Hay (as very cheap bargains)

Not in these Shoes by Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch.


All Alcoholics are Charmers (great title and written by Martina Evans who grew up in Cork).

Exemplary Damages by Dennis O’Driscoll, another Irish poet (Tipperary born).

Last but so very far from least comes a great favourite of mine, the great Kerry writer Brendan Kennelly and his book of three-liners called Now.

Here is a taste … I will open it at random., I am a great believer in oracling, what will it tell me I wonder?

Looking forward, it seemed like eternity.

Looking back now, it’s a moment.

I’ll settle for now.

When words make love to each other

some beautiful children are born

and the occasional monster.

How much of a man is lost in success?

Quite a lot she thinks, looking at the man

To whom she almost said yes.

Before I go I will give you a song version of the aforementioned poem: I sing this around the house or in the car myself when no-one is around.

My favourite YouTube version of the song could not be embedded - do go over and listen to Maura O’Connell and Karen Mathesa singing it together, it sent shivers down me.

Here are the words.

DOWN by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white
feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the
tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not
agree.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white
hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

Well I will sign off now, there are more book titles I could suggest but I will save them for another time.

What are you reading?

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Powis Castle

Before Summer Rain

Suddenly, from all the green around you,
something-you don't know what-has disappeared;
you feel it creeping closer to the window,
in total silence. From the nearby wood

you hear the urgent whistling of a plover,
reminding you of someone's Saint Jerome:
so much solitude and passion come
from that one voice, whose fierce request the downpour

will grant. The walls, with their ancient portraits, glide
away from us, cautiously, as though
they weren't supposed to hear what we are saying.

And reflected on the faded tapestries now;
the chill, uncertain sunlight of those long
childhood hours when you were so afraid.

Raine Marie Rilke
Translated by Stephen Mitchell

Dear Diary,

I must apologise for not blogging for ages. Life got in the way as it often does, along with a change in routine.

Here is my latest effort before I make my way to the Ark.

I have to keep reminding myself it is summer and as I write these words the river is rising, its now earthy brown water is lapping at the bottom of the bridge and is already over the bank in places. It has rained solidly all morning, lightly in the main but with occasional very strong and angry bursts. If we are going to be flooded there is nothing we can do to prevent it; I am quite philosophical now. I can’t remember when I last hung washing out to dry(you might recall that is one of my peculiar pleasures).

So I sit upstairs looking out of the study window and posting you a few summery pics taken last weekend at Powis Castle, near Welshpool. I hope their bright colours will cheer you. It was probably the only sunny day we have had for some time. And would you believe it, though it is a long way from home we met one of our neighbours there. The gardens are beautiful, with gorgeous flowerbeds set on terraces overlooking twenty plus acres of grass and woodland.

I took a few pics of the blossoms.

A shady spot!

A camera-shy mother peahen and her babes

I have taken a couple of weeks off work but my dreams of working in the garden and rewarding myself by sitting on my deckchair by the river with a Good Book have all but vanished. It has even been chilly and extra layers of clothing and our new central heating have been employed at times.

So what have I been doing? I have been chasing the dead - working on our family trees, tying up loose ends and doing some more detective work. Escaping into the past I guess but very enjoyable, albeit extremely addictive. I have found a few gems of information and am still on the case.

I have been reading too and will post next about some of the Good Books that I would force upon you.

I will sign off now as I have to go out this afternoon, I just hope I don’t return to a flooded cottage.

Bye for now,
Go mbeanna Dia duit,
Cait

Memory banks - a deposit and a withdrawal.

A Memory Tree

Each item, each ornament,
each bauble, bangle, a memory
a special moment in our lives
remembered each year in the decorating
the dressing of the tree, under which the presents
will be placed, connections to special times,
milestones in our family
birthdays, firsts and more
family history too, of ornaments
given and gotten from
earlier saints we have known

Raymond A Foss

Dear Diary,

Fond memory brings the light of other days around me

Thomas More

Aries (Mar21-Apr20)

A piece of music, whiff of perfume or magazine article might remind you of times gone by. Don't fight the feeling; revisit a long forgotten territory and savour this trip down memory lane. You might feel uplifted that some experiences from years ago feel like it happened yesterday. Sharing this with others could stir up a few more old memories. This gives you a chance to celebrate how interesting at times, your life has been.

Synchronicity at work again. The above is my horoscope courtesy of Russell Grant.

I went to my daughter’s graduation ceremony recently, she obtained a BA in English and History and I have feelings of great pride at her achievements, not least because she is a mother of three and has been through some difficult times that coincided with her studies, so I am doubly proud of her.

The memory of that occasion will stay with me and will go into my happy memory bank.

Along with that feeling of great joy the degree ceremony took me back to the days before I was a mother. Thirty years in fact in - a past life - when I worked at a university in a (scientific) departmental office as a secretary for a Professor and through the job met many postgraduate students as well as a large number of younger undergraduates. Much groundbreaking research was carried out there and it still is.

These were the days of electric typewriters, IBM Golfballs, anyone remember those? (I am showing my age now but what the heck, I still feel exactly the same). The post-grads were always in and out of the office and we would type anything they wanted. There were lots of symposiums, conferences etc and we were always included in the social activities, they were wonderful times.

I am digressing.

At the weekend I was thinking back to those happy days and something made me Google the name of one of the post-grads; I can honestly say that all the students were extremely nice but this one in particular, who was from Cyprus, was probably the nicest; he always had a big smile and would bring gifts, send cards on our birthdays, that sort of thing. We saw all the students through their studies, typing their long and detailed scientific theses privately in our spare time and we rejoiced with them when they obtained their doctorates.

Anyway, just one click of my mouse on Saturday and to my pleasant surprise I found him and even more exciting I learned that he is now a Professor himself in the same university. I sent him a quick email, I didn’t even think he would remember me but a reply came yesterday to say that he did and (coincidentally again) he is having lunch this week with the lovely woman who used to be in charge of us in the office, he still meets her two or three times a year for lunch and they reminisce together. It was good to hear that they both have the same strong and very fond memories of the old days as I do, he mentioned the camaraderie, the fun and the spirit within the department which was indeed something special. Now the commercial pressures on universities mean that those days will never come again. But we can look back and as he said nostalgia is a wonderful thing.

I started with a quote, here’s another to end with:

The timeless in you is aware of life’s timelessness and knows that yesterday is but today’s memory and tomorrow is today’s dream.

Kahlil Gibran

That’s all for now,
May all your memories be happy ones,
Cait

Favourites - A Meme

A favourite picture by Monet, a favourite artist

Dear Diary,

My heart? that's my second favourite organ.

Woody Allen,

I promised to do this meme for dear Frances so here goes.

I think it will be a disappointment though, so apologies in advance.



Five favourite songs?

I am no good at favourites because I find it impossible to choose a favourite anything, I just cannot whittle down my many many loves to just one. I suppose it’s a bit like when you have children, or grandchildren… you could never have a favourite, you would never have one as you love them all equally don’t you?

And I have favourite songs that change frequently. At the moment there are two.

Ohio see previous blog and you can hear it there as well.

I have really fallen in love with a voice and its song though and it is Gurrumul singing Wyathul and you can hear that as well on a previous blog (see below).

I am currently into Paolo Nutini as well and love his song Candy. You can hear that in a previous blog as well. My son sings this one now and does a brilliant job with it.

Johnny Walker has been presenting Wogan’s morning show on Radio 2 for the last fortnight and he has of course been playing excellent music. I don’t dislike Terry Wogan but I do wish Johnny would take over the programme, it would be nice to get rid of the inane and sometimes vulgar schoolboy humour that is on Wogan’s slot now and the lack of good music to boot.

I am digressing as usual.

Other songs I have enjoyed this week?

My son has written a new song which I love and it is on my brain.

I have Paul Brady in my CD player and also the highly underrated Jack Savoretti. I have just been listening to Foreigner’s I want to know what Love Is, that is one of my Desert Island Discs (I will blog those one day).

Five Films?

Even harder this one. I don’t watch a lot of films.

Waiting to be watched is On the Black Hill, the book by Bruce Chatwin is a classic, you must read it. Also waiting is the Jane Austen Book Club. The last film I watched was with my youngest granddaughter and it was The Yes Man with Jim Carey, we both enjoyed it, it was funny but kind of had a message too.

These are the latest films I have enjoyed.

• The Yes Man
• Sixty-six
• The Changeling
• The Constant Gardener
• The Duchess
• Taken
• Ghost Town (Ricky Gervaise)
• Nights in Rodanth

Five Crushes?

Hells Bells this is hard. I don’t know if I ever had a crush on anyone? I must have done back in the mists of time, but so long ago I can’t remember.

If it has to be a crush on a person I certainly don’t have any now, no-one springs to mind at all, I must be getting old. I admire some people, the Dalai Lama, Tony Benn, Nelson Mandela for example and I had a soft spot for Spike Milligan. I like the aforementioned Johnny Walker. I like Barack Obama too, he is so eloquent in his speech and in his writing and I like what he has to say.

Now I suppose I have crushes on songs, singers, musicians, poets, writers, artists, things of beauty.


Five Random Things?

Things that make life worth living I guess.

For me they are

Words
Art
Nature's beauty
Truth
Peace
Last but not least,
definitely not least
Love.
And yes that makes Six.


And finally,






Sorry it was so boring and unimaginative.

Bye for now,
Cait.

Remember - Tom Rush

Dear Johnny Walker played this the other morning and had me in fits. I hope it will brighten your day.

Angels

Dear Diary,

Yes, there are kind angels here in cyberland and though they may be relative strangers they still perform miracles.

If you have noticed my header picture before you may have also noticed that I was wishing it didn't have huge ugly pillars and a horrible metal gate in front of it?

Well guess what? A miracle has been performed and this is the good angel (and wonderful artist) that did it.

Elizabeth Ryan

Here are some examples of her beautiful artworks. All views of Ireland.

Enjoy.

If one looks closely enough, one can see angels in every piece of art.
~Adeline Cullen Ray

We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another.

~Luciano de Crescenzo


Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Gurrumul - Wyathul

It's like buses, you don't get one piece of music from me, you get three in a row.

I heard this track on the radio today as I stood idly stirring over my stove (I know my place!). It stopped me in my tracks. This is a live version from YouTube and I find it very moving. Brought a tear to my eye it did.

The artist has been blind since birth.

Enjoy.

The Low Anthem - To Ohio

I can't believe it is a week since my last posting.

It's Friday again and I have another song for you, one that my son asked me to listen to because he loves it. I listened and I loved it too.


To Ohio

I left Louisiana on the rail line, oo oo
I left Louisiana on the rail line, oo oo
I was trying to get to Ohio
Trying to get to Ohio

Lost my love before her time, oo oo
Lost my love before her time, oo oo
On the way to Ohio On the way to Ohio
Now every new love is just a shadow, oo
Every new love is just a shadow, oo

'Cause once you've known love you don't know how to find love, oo
Yeah once you've found love you don't know how to find new love
All the way to Ohio All the way to Ohio

Heard her voice come through the pines in Ohio
I heard her voice singing in the pines in Ohio
She sang bless your soul you crossed that line to Ohio
Bless your soul you crossed that line oo oo
All the way to Ohio
All the way to Ohio

I can see clearly now

I caught this old tune on an advert recently and it brought back memories of sunny, happy days when I was a young woman. I loved the simple song then. I still love it.

One of the comments on YouTube was a hug to my soul. That is exactly what the song does to me.

Enjoy.

I can see clearly now


I can see clearly now, the rain is gone,
I can see all obstacles in my way
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind
It’s gonna be a bright, bright Sun-Shiny day.

I think I can make it now, the pain is gone
All of the bad feelings have disappeared
Here is the rainbow I’ve been praying for
It’s gonna be a bright, bright Sun-Shiny day.

Look all around, there’s nothing but blue skies
Look straight ahead, nothing but blue skies

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone,
I can see all obstacles in my way
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind
It’s gonna be a bright, bright Sun-Shiny day.


Johnny Nash

Rainy day joys

At Castle Combe - Thomas Hunn

Dear Diary,

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.

Pablo Picasso

A rainy day means a kind of a welcome break from playing catch-up in the garden. I have taken a couple of days off work to do so and I mainly need to do battle with a part of the garden I call the elder bed. Ground elder to be exact and anyone who has this in their flower beds will understand what a ******** this plant is. I have decided to dig out the whole bed and plant some tall, strong, very-spreading, beautiful cottagey plants/shrubs that will hide, if not fully suppress this pernicious weed. Suggestions welcome. The other alternative is to remove all the plants, apply Round-Up and leave the bed for two years. I have never used weed killer so that option, though eminently sensible, will not be one I will take up. I have never been sensible in my life, more’s the pity sometimes methinks.

I had planned to visit a garden today - Katharine Swift’s garden in Shropshire at Morville Hall. I read her book The Morville Hours and loved it so because it is such a beautiful piece of writing. It is in my force-upon-you list. A friend has been to her garden and insists that I go too, it’s a longish drive but she says it is worth it. I am hoping Sunday will be a nice day so we can go then and take some photos.

I take days off from work as the mood or the weather reports take me because we don’t often do holidays. We escaped to Wales and to be honest now live in the sort of place that we used to holiday in. Ireland is out this year, the exchange rate isn’t good and the ferries are so expensive as is petrol and accommodation. Then we have our dogs and the cat, one dog (Finn) is elderly, stone deaf, his legs are getting weak and he is getting quite anxious so we are loath to leave him for long. Sometimes I think holidays are more trouble than they are worth and I am happy just sitting by the river with a book.

Talking of books, it was writing group last night, I enjoyed it very much and some good ideas for future projects were suggested, then later we adjourned to one of the local pubs for more discussion. I hadn’t been to work yesterday but was thrilled to find some books that I had requested were waiting for me. I felt like a borrower as I brought my bag of new books away with me. I requested them via the New Additions section of the library website - a great way to see what the library has recently purchased. There is something wonderful about a new book isn’t there?

I have also borrowed a DVD called Sixty-Six that was recommended by a borrower as a great ‘family-type’ movie.

Would you like to peek into my bag of books?



Gillian Clarke’s latest poetry collection. A Recipe for Water. She is a huge favourite of mine. A Welsh poet who was Wales’ National poet last year. I have read a few of these poems this morning in bed and they are so beautiful, I am not disappointed.



Notes from the Garden, edited by Ruth Petrie - A Collection of the Best Garden Writing from the Guardian.



Garden Painters A book on contemporary artists selected by Ariel Luke.



Emotional Healing for the Inner Child by Anne Cummings, another Welsh author. I am interested in the concept of the inner child, how the child in us influences our psyche and our adult behaviour.

I have just noticed that all books are non-fiction - much as I love them I am so longing for a really good novel to get lost in. Suggestions welcome!

I must post a poem, do you like this one? It's by Gillian Clarke, not from her new collection but one she wrote for a special occasion. I can hear her wonderful Welsh lilt as I read these words that are most moving and most true.


New Year, 2009

for Barack Obama


Venus in the arc of the young moon
is a boat the arms of a bay,
the sky clear to infinity
but for the trailing gossamer
of a transatlantic plane.
The old year and the old era dead,
pushed burning out to sea
bearing the bones of heroes, tyrants,
ideologues, thieves and deceivers
in a smoke of burning money.
The dream is over. Glaciers will melt.
Seas will rise to swallow golden islands.
Somewhere a volcano may whelm a city,
earth shake its skin like an old horse,
a hurricane topple a town to rubble.
Yet tonight, under the cold beauty
of the moon and Venus, something like hope begins,
as if times can turn, the world change course,
as if truth can speak, good men come to power,
and words have meaning again.
Maybe black-hearted boys in love with death
won't blow themselves and us to smithereens.
Maybe guns will fall silent, the powerful
cease slaughtering the weak, the rich
will not gorge as the poor starve.
Hope spoke the word 'Yes', the word 'we', the word 'can',
and a thousand British teenagers at Poetry Live*
rose to their feet in a single yell of joy -
black, white, Christian, Muslim, Jew,
faithful and faithless. We are all in this together.
Ie, gallwn ni.**




** Yes we can, Welsh


Gillian Clarke


Any blessings today?

Seeing friends and sharing ideas.
Creativity.
New pictures.
New books.
New poems.
Soft, gentle, Irish rain.

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Ruin

Roofless now, she is dressed just in a cloud
that is gentle; wispy, billowing like soft smoke.
She does not stand, she nestles,
cwched in the cwm beside the river’s course,
a simple cottage in a spiritual place.
Her sky is wider now; its blueness deeper
and generous in its magnitude
for such a lone and humble dwelling.
Rows of golden buttercups line her ancient path,
sheep-bitten but still emboldened with their jewel-bright glow.
Solid and warm, the greystone of the walls remain
and I am drawn to touch, tune in and just to listen
for a voice.
But all is quiet.
There is no frenzy here as her silence is the truthful kind,
like being in a chapel without its sermons
or a church without its hymns,
I stand alone and sense
just a plain and wholly perfect attitude of Peace.


Cait O’Connor

In which I make a confession

Dear Diary,

We live at the level of our language. Whatever we can articulate we can imagine or explore. All you have to do to educate a child is leave him alone and teach him to read. The rest is brainwashing.

Ellen Gilchrist

OK I am going to make a confession now. For several weeks now I have been buying The Mail on Sunday. There, that’s got that out and over with. I used to buy the Guardian on a Saturday but it was expensive and all I enjoyed was the Review section, mainly the book reviews and the poetry. And the peek into Writers’ Rooms, I loved that. But I had no need of Business news or Travel or Sport and didn’t want to read Politics in such detail. Life’s too short don’t you know? Then I discovered the Guardian online so didn’t really need to buy the paper. And all the other papers are online too which is great. However I did need to know what was on TV but it was time consuming checking the TV listings online. So I started buying the Mail, only on a Sunday I hasten to add! I suspect it is aimed at women and to be honest the magazine is more like a woman’s magazine. Just lately I have found myself enjoying some of the articles and this week is no exception. I ignore Liz Jones’ articles though, (how did that woman get such a high profile position on the paper)? The other woman Suzanne Moore is a good writer, she speaks very Good Sense.

I digress as usual. Now to the nitty gritty.

I have never ever been a fan of the columnist Peter Hitchens but he has stolen my (literal) thunder as his column today is about the two very things that, such was my anger, I was going to blog about this morning! He has expressed my feelings perfectly and has saved me writing about them myself.

Do go and read it and let me know your views. Two concerns are MMR and home schooling and parental choice. You may/ may not agree with me or Hitchens.

Vince Cable is a man I do admire, he seems to be one of the very few politicians with an excellent brain and he sees things as they are (and as they are going to be). I have tried in vain to put up a link to his excellent article in today’s Mail but please do go and read it online for yourself. He recently underwent emergency surgery for appendicitis and has written such a true account of what is wrong with our NHS. As an ex-nurse I can only echo every word he writes as they all ring true to me. Thank God we do have some dedicated staff still working on bravely for us under such stress and under the most horrendous management regimes. Or should I say mis-management.

Vince Cable is the best Prime Minister we have never had and why he is not leader of the Liberal Democrats God alone knows but it is One Big Mistake (their thinking being that he doesn’t look young and trendy enough for them and won’t attract younger voters methinks).

I apologise if this blog has been a bit of a rant on such a sunny Sunday but the subject of Peter Hitchen’s article has been festering within me all week. I thought I was alone in my anger. I also thought it ironical that the day that home schoolers came under the microscope for being possible potential child abusers, a nursery worker in Plymouth was up before the courts for sexual abuse charges regarding children in a public nursery.

The words thin end and wedge are playing a great part in my thoughts of late and in my concerns. What worries me is that so many of our society seem to be asleep and literally sleepwalking into the arms of Big Brother - the younger generation especially seem to be particularly passive and accepting of our governance as being quite ’normal’. The words ’brain’ and ’washing’ come to mind. One day they may wake up and realise that they have no freedom of choice left in their lives and it may be too late.


Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Plates

Dear Diary,

It is perhaps a more fortunate destiny to have a taste for collecting shells than to be born a millionaire   Robert Louis Stevenson 1850-1894

Elizabeth in New York suggested we write about plates today which I thought was a nice idea but I also wondered what on earth I could write about.  I admit to being a plate lover and a very long time collector of second hand ones from charity shops, car boot sales, jumble sales (remember those?), antique shops, markets etc.  Whenever I spot a beautiful bargain I’ll grab it.  I dislike matching sets of china and prefer a real mix of crockery designs.  I also dislike matching tiles and the ones in my kitchen are a mixture of ‘odd’ ones I have collected along the way.

We are quite accident-prone in this house and breakages happen often, especially with anything made of glass but it always breaks my heart if a much-loved piece of china is smashed.

I do keep plain white sets for everyday use though; these are the really cheap and basic sets and I have to admit that food always looks best on a plain white background.

I like just looking at my pretty plates,  some are kept in drawers in my kitchen dresser.   Some are on my other old Welsh dresser in the parlour.

Most are very old.   I like to serve pieces of cake on a pretty tea plate, anything afternoon teaish really.  For now I have just dug out a few old photos of plates in my cottage but I have some really nice ones that I have yet to photograph - I was too busy today as this morning was spent catching up on my perpetual weeding and this afternoon I had to go out on numerous errands and to Hay for a dental check-up which meant a two hour round trip in the car.  I promise to post some new'old plate' pics as soon as I can.

Like a lot of folk I really love blue and white crockery and I do have some of those.  I love jugs too and have some hanging up in the snug.  I love to buy new mugs too and have seen a gorgeous one for sale.  I stumbled across it only yesterday on  Dovegreyreader's blog

I am very tempted!  Particularly as Little Women is a favourite childhood book of mine.

I have many collecting passions; some are rather strange, (apart from books of course).  I can’t resist basketware, doormats (yes I did say doormats, that is the strange one), tea towels, patchwork and rag rugs.  I also collect bookmarks.  There are others but I had better stop now as I am straying away from the subject of plates.  I can feel more subjects for blogs coming on Elizabeth!  Thank you for this one.

I quite like the concept of being set a subject, it makes a change from a meme.

Keep them coming!

Bye for now,
Cait.

The Last Post

No. not my last ever blog posting.  Just a piece of music that always touches my heart.  I heard it a lot over the weekend because of the D-Day reunions  in Normandy.

New Discoveries and No Pain

Dear Diary,

Nothing is so beautiful as spring -- when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.

Gerald Manley Hopkins

It’s Friday!

Many blessings today. I had a good night’s sleep after going to bed at a reasonable time; for once I avoided Question Time as I was sleepy and felt I couldn’t take much more political discussion in these dark, dark days. My back is better thanks to my treatment on Wednesday and I spent the morning in the garden making a start on the Big Weed. I restricted myself to just a morning’s work but may have another little go this evening, it is quite enjoyable really and rewarding to see some plants once more! The sun shone but was not too strong so it was just perfect for me to get on with weed pulling. And all around me the birds were singing - I refilled their feeders as a reward. Best news of all is that I heard the cuckoo, it was very close by and cuckooing away madly.



I have many new finds to write about, the first is a new author who has written her first novel and it is on the shortlist for this year's Orange prize. It is The Wilderness by Samantha Harvey. I have only just started it but it is beautifully written, I will report back.

Isn't it a beautiful cover?

I am also reading Irma Kurtz’s new book About Time and enjoying it very much - all about growing old disgracefully.

Not such a great cover!

I am soon going to add a list to my blog sidebar of books that I would ‘force upon you’, ones that I think you really must read. I would like your suggestions as well so do let me know if you find any gems.

I saw another great programme last night on BBC4 that was part of their Poetry Season. It was presented by the great poet Owen Sheers and his subject was Lynnette Roberts, a Carmarthenshire poet (1909-1995 - born in Argentina of Welsh stock) who I am ashamed to say I had never heard of before. Dylan Thomas stole the limelight from her methinks. Here is a wee extract from the poem he featured.

From Llanybri

If you come my way that is...
Between now and then, I will offer you
A fist full of rock cress fresh from the bank
The valley tips of garlic red with dew
Cooler than shallots, a breath you can swank

In the village when you come! At noon-day
I will offer you a choice bowl of cowl
Served with a 'lover's' spoon and a chopped spray
Of leeks or savori fach, not used now

In the old way you'll understand! The din
Of children singing through the eyelet sheds
Ringing 'smith hoops, chasing the butt of hens;
Or I can offer you Cwmcelyn spread

With quartz stones, from the wild scratchings of men;
You will have to go carefully with clogs
Or thick shoes for it's treacherous the fen,
The East and West Marshes also have bogs.


Lynette Roberts

I have also discovered a new artist, you may well know of her but I didn't - her name is Sherree Valentine Daines and I saw one of her paintings on the front of a Country Life magazine that comes to the library. I love paintings of children and this artist has done many of those.
The two pics at the top are also by this gifted artist.



That’s all for today,
May all your weeds be wildflowers
Bye for now,
Cait.

Morning Musings

And in the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years.

Abraham Lincoln, American 16th US President who helped to bring about the emancipation of slaves.

Dear Diary,

Apologies for being absent for far too many days; the clement weather has drawn me outside away from the desk and my strained back has been painful but touch wood it seems better these last few days. Rest and sleep are always the best thing. I have an appointment with my cranial osteopath this afternoon and she is a true miracle-worker. It is such a gentle way of treating and I cannot understand how it works but it does and that is all that matters. I am convinced that different complementary therapies suit different people.

I had a little wander round taking a few photos of the garden in the early morning.

The garden is becoming overrun with weeds as, because of my back, I have not been able to do any gardening. I am quite depressed about that. There are still many blossoms though which I am enjoying and many bees are too which pleases me and doubly so as we have a beekeeper as a neighbour. We do have a few housemartins nesting in the eaves, I was worried that they hadn't arrived; their numbers diminish each year though which is a shame. I haven't heard the cuckoo but it has been heard a few miles away. The dippers are nesting under the bridge. (ssshhh). The red kites and buzzards are around, the herons too and the wild ducks. Foxes, squirrels, all manner of creatures are in the vicinity and when I take the dogs in the field all they want to do is sniff and follow their trails.

M and I have just been whitewashing the outside of our garage, a job long overdue but satisfying to do once started. There is pleasure in knowing the paint will soon dry because here in Wales we are blessed with yet another very hot day.

I received my Irish books newsletter by email this morning and two of the reviews jumped out at me, one is about Great Blasket, my favourite island off the Dingle peninsula in County Kerry and the second is about Time, or rather the lack of it and tips on making it stretch. I could certainly do with some of those. Here are the reviews in case you are interested.

Blasket Spirit: Stories from the Islands by Anita Fennelly
(Paperback; 13 Euro / 18 USD / 10 UK; 210 pages)

Seeking solitude after personal crisis, Anita Fennelly spent a
summer alone on the Great Blasket Island. This is her account, written by candlelight, of the gradual thawing of her personal
isolation through the friendship of the characters of Blasket
Island life today: fishermen, ferrymen, backpackers, islanders
descendants, a dolphin, a weaver, a trio of seals and even a
former taoiseach. Anita weaves a tapestry of tales: ghost stories
told by the fireside, stories of love and hatred, stories
celebrating womanhood. Ultimately, Anita’s own story is one of
healing, survival and hope. Blasket Spirit reveals a timeless
place where the souls of the past and present are inextricably
linked with the emotional and physical struggles of island life.
Into this story of personal healing and recovery, the island
stories, its people and places and wildlife are interwoven to
form an original and multi-layered memoir.

----------------------------------------

Not Enough Hours: The Secrets of Making Every Second Count
by Owen Fitzpatrick
(Large Format Paperback; 14 Euro / 19 USD / 11 UK; 382 pages)

Have you taken on far more than you can handle? Is your life an
exhausting cycle of commuting, work, housework, children and bed?
Find it impossible to say no? Does the pace of modern life leave
you breathless? Are there just not enough hours in your day? Then
this is the book for you! We've all heard of the credit crunch
but many of us also face a time crunch every day, where we just
can't seem to fit everything into 24 hours. The world seems to be
moving at a faster speed than ever. And in Ireland, we have a
unique approach to time. Owen Fitzpatrick, presenter of RTA's
Not Enough Hours, shows how you can take control of your life so
that you make the most of every second. He describes where our
concept of time comes from, and how people s perception of time
differs. He profiles the seven time victims - the workaholic, the
perfectionist, the walk over, the hurrier, the worrier, the busy
bee and the time stranger and outlines the six time eaters. His
TimeWise programme explains in simple terms how to solve all of
your time problems in four easy steps analyse, prioritise,
organise, actualise. And he brings it all down to earth with tips
on finding time for yourself, time for love, time for children,
time for work, and even time for household chores. With a wealth
of practical examples from the RTÉ series and from other
people's lives, Not Enough Hours is a simple, easy-to-read,
no-nonsense guide for anybody who wants to have the time of their
lives. You'll save yourself a lot of time by reading it!


I am in despair about the state of our democracy. Our disgraced politicians are behaving like rats, devouring each other as the ship goes down and instead of getting on with their jobs of running the country they are now out to destroy their leader and take him down with them. There are villains, nay criminals in all parties and they are getting away with their crimes!

(Would we? No!)

God knows what the answer is, save complete root and branch reform.

Do we get the politicians we deserve I wonder? Some folk (me included) have said it all started going downhill with Margaret Thatcher’s dictatorship when selfish greed and the pursuit of riches became most people’s aim in life and rather than the personal qualities of a person’s character that was important, it was how much money one had that was equated with status (and b***** everyone else!). Society as a concept was dismissed and it was every man for himself (or woman for herself). It was because of this climate in the 1980’s that we dropped out and escaped from Surrey/ Sussex to the wilds of Wales as we wanted to live a simple life and be apart from that mindset.

I was listening to the radio the other day and caught part of an interview with an American male. He seemed to be talking such sense, seemed so gentle and intelligent - it took a few minutes for me to realise it was Barack Obama! Would that we had someone in the UK as eloquent and committed to purpose as the US President appears to be.

Blessings?

Memories of the magic of Great Blasket and being alone with M on the island many years ago.

Writing by candlelight - that appeals to me.

My new solar/wind up radio - I have two now, one for upstairs and one down. Better reception and free leccy!

Flowers.

Sunshine.

Cranial Osteopathy, sleep and rest.

Ah well that’s all for now,

Enjoy the day and may each second stretch for you.

God bless,

Cait.

PS I have posted a few pics and a short poem on my Cait’s photos blog.

Dear John

Dear Diary,

Healing, Papa would tell me is not a science but the intuitive art of wooing nature.

W H Auden
1907-1973

I watched an excellent programme on BBC2 last night about the life of the Metaphysical poet John Donne. It was part of the wonderful Poetry Season programmes that are on BBC radio and television at the moment; this one was presented by Simon Schama and the wonderful Irish actress Fiona Shaw recited extracts from Donne’s poems and how well she did this too. Donne’s wife Anne came from Loseley Manor near Guildford which I know well as I used to live close by. And after they were married they lived by the river Wey at Pyrford, near Woking.

They showed this painting of Donne last night and I kept looking at it because it reminded me of someone.

He was attractive, would you agree? - Dark Mediterranean good looks, swarthy, romantic. And just look at those artistic hands…


Jack Savoretti. Can you see the likeness? If you have not heard of him he is a wonderful singer/songwriter who should be more well-known.

I’ve always been a fan of John Donne, especially back in the mists of time when I too was young and romantic; in fact I have a verse of his somewhere that I copied out when I was in my twenties, I kept it for years andI am sure I still have it but I am so annoyed because I can't find it now and neither can I find the lines anywhere on the net. Ah well, I shall keep looking. Here is a taster anyway.


No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were. Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

Meditation 17
Devotions upon Emergent Occasions


SONG.


GO and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.




Air And Angels


TWICE or thrice had I loved thee,
Before I knew thy face or name ;
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame
Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be.
Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing did I see.
But since my soul, whose child love is,
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,
More subtle than the parent is
Love must not be, but take a body too ;
And therefore what thou wert, and who,
I bid Love ask, and now
That it assume thy body, I allow,
And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.

Whilst thus to ballast love I thought,
And so more steadily to have gone,
With wares which would sink admiration,
I saw I had love's pinnace overfraught ;
Thy every hair for love to work upon
Is much too much ; some fitter must be sought ;
For, nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme, and scattering bright, can love inhere ;
Then as an angel face and wings
Of air, not pure as it, yet pure doth wear,
So thy love may be my love's sphere ;
Just such disparity
As is 'twixt air's and angels' purity,
'Twixt women's love, and men's, will ever be.




The Sun Rising


Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late schoolboys, and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me
Whether both the'Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear: "All here in one bed lay."

She'is all states, and all princes I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compar'd to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy'as we,
In that the world's contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.







And just to prove that I am still a romantic - here is a taste of Jack. I must still be romantic because this video made me cry.


Without - Jack Savoretti


Enjoy.






Blessings?

Sleep, naps, clean sheets and summer days.

May days with the lightest of showers and warm sweet sunshine.

And kindly acts and romance.

Self-seeders.

In the garden and on the page.

Or in a song.

Poets, voices in a melody; their words our inspiration.


Bye for now,
Cait.