Monty Don

Dear Diary,

The Solitary Digger Paul Henry

A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
1749-1832

This was going to be a rant.

I was going to blog  at length today about the NHS, about the daylight robbery that is the cost of parking In English hospitals (£9.50 yesterday for a stay of just over five hours). I was going to blog about the abysmal state of our NHS, the bad management, (the over-management). The waiting around without any information, the too many people walking round with bits of paper, the patronising attitude of some local practice nurses and radiographers, the groups of hospital nurses standing round talking while people are suffering…..stop me now.  I write as an ex-nurse and I know  there are many angels in the medical profession but not all are by any means. 

Of course it's not all bad.  I have so much  and so many people in the service to praise and may blog about them one day but I hear the horror stories on a regular basis now.

Rant over.

For reading a gem of a book in bed this morning has put me in a better frame of mind. Thank you Monty.

I just have to recommend this book to you if  you are even only slightly into gardening.
I mentioned it in an earlier blog ,  I was looking forward to reading it but was still only at the drooling stage.

Now I am about half way through.

I have read Monty Don’s books before because he is a lovely man and a good writer.  When someone’s writing is true and comes from the heart doesn’t it show?  I borrowed this copy of The Ivington Diaries from the library but I would love to own it and it would make a great Christmas present.

Many books can make you feel inadequate when you read them; many gardening and cookbooks often come into that category.  They are not inspiring then are they?  Monty writes with honesty and admits that there are days when he cannot garden, days when life and all its foibles gets in the way.  And he is honest about not doing all the work himself, his wife helps, his children help and he employs staff who he obviously appreciates and acknowledges their input.  So many people have fantastic magazine worthy gardens but never do a stroke of work in them themselves apart from a few cosmetic touches or the design.   But Monty works hard in the garden too and shows how it was started from absolute scratch.  I know Ivington as we toured the area when we were on my husband’s genealogy trail so that makes it even more close to home - it is not that far away.

It is not just about gardening.  It is laced with wisdom and the spirituality of  his natural surroundings shines through. And he mentions his pets and local people.   And good old common sense, useful tips and photos to drool over, Monty has an artistic eye for photography too.  I wish it was Spring because he has made me want to be out planning  and gardening myself. 

I haven’t checked if they have the same publisher but it is produced in the same format as Nigel Slater’s cookbooks (like the Kitchen Diaries and his latest one).  Nigel Slater is another man I admire so if you are looking for foody-book-type Christmas presents he is another author I would recommend. 

(I can’t believe it but I have just been guilty of mentioning the dreaded C word in October!.)

I will report back on The Ivington Diaries when I have read more as no doubt there are more treasures within its pages still to uncover.

And now for something completely different.  I have to leave you with a poem, for more distraction I read this poem this morning and will share it with you.

The Sunlight on the Garden

The sunlight on the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold;
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.

Our freedom as freelances
Advances towards its end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon, my friend,
We shall have no time for dances.

The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying

And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden.

 -- Louis MacNeice

Bye for now,

Go mbeannai Dia duit,

Cait

October

Dear Diary,

Just two of my favourite pics for you.

I adore harebells, they always appear at the end of summer.

Katherine Mansfield by Anne Estelle Rice

It’s a read-one-get-one-free day as I have posted two blogs for you - if you go to my other blog
Cait’s Photos you will see just a wee poem and a few photos I took yesterday on my morning walk in the garden and the field.

This year has flown - a really bad cliché for which I apologise.

October will soon be leaving us; she has been such a welcome guest this year, perfectly behaved, undemanding of my time garden-wise (the weeds seem to have gone to sleep already), no stormy outbursts or great floods of tears, and for me her stay has passed all too quickly.  She blessed us with endless dry spells, much needed sunshine, occasional morning and night frosts and her most beauteous gift of all, the show to beat all shows  - her morning mists in the valleys.

She tempted me outside more often than not and made my heart sing but as always happens during her stay, the dark evenings descend -  the human’s clock has fallen backwards now, an unsettling time for me and I ask again, is there still a need for this fiddling with the 24 hours by which we are ruled?  I was really tired on Saturday night and went to bed early but even on Sunday night I was tired again at 8 pm, my body thought it was nine.

November will arrive very soon and I am hard pushed to welcome him (why is this month masculine in my imagination?).  I shall try to be positive and think of his good aspects, log fires, comfort foods, layers of clothes, all things cosy really.  But I know the dreaded C word will be on everyone’s lips and this always throws me into a bit of a depression, as does Christmas itself.  The day itself is bearable when it comes but the whole season and the far too early over-hyped lead up to it with its other C word Consumerism, as well as other more personal reasons, make it for me a sad time.

January is a looked-forward-to-month, he is also male but he lifts me up again as I love new beginnings and challenges, resolutions and the like and lists, all things clean and new. There may be snowed-in days and the magical beauty they bring and there is always Spring not too far away.

Today though, October is as warm and sunny as summer and I am loath to be indoors - I have just walked the dogs in the field and really should be outside gardening or even 'just sitting' but I have lots do on the computer.  But thank you October for making this autumn as colourful and as beautiful as you have done. I have the rest of the week off and please God you will keep up this fine weather until you disappear to who knows where for another year.  And on Saturday, your final day with us, there will be a joyful celebration for it will be Halloween, the day when the veil between this world and the Other is the thinnest,

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Nice Song

Too many books, too little time

Dear Diary,

You can never have too much garlic, too much chocolate or too much sleep but can you have too many books? (No!).

I wrote very recently about the wonderful book that is Home by Marilynne Robinson and since then several kind people have recommended her other book Gilead which kind of goes with it as the subject matter is written alongside Home. I wouldn’t say you had to read Home first, it wouldn’t matter which you began with. I have almost finished Gilead and it is also a great a book in fact Robinson won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction with it.

I have also got her first novel Housekeeping which was very highly recommended by the book group member who suggested Home. This is a short novel written a good many years ago and l can’t wait to read it. But which book shall I read first?

It’s like buses, they all come at once. I have suddenly been inundated with new books to read - all requests from the excellent library service of course. What have I got?

John Banville’s The Infinities
William Trevor’s Love and Summer
Martin Sixsmith’s The Lost Child of Philomena Lee (the subject of which is too close to my heart).
Penelope Lively’s Family Album

In non-fiction I know I shall drool over Monty Don’s The Ivington Diaries. (M has an ancestor from Ivington which is a coincidence).
I also have Virginia Ironside’s The Virginia Monologues about the joys of ageing - I think I could write my own though!

And another joy to look forward to - I have treated myself and ordered a new book from Ireland - it has contributions from many well known poets - see below for details.

The Great Irish Book Week takes place from Saturday the 24th to Saturday the 31st October 2009. Poetry: Reading it, Writing it, Publishing it, edited and compiled by Salmon Poetry managing editor Jessie Lendennie and published by Salmon earlier this year, has been selected as one of the 30 Great Irish Books featured during Great Irish Book Week.

So let it rain, I won’t mind as I can curl up with a book.

Blessings?

We drink a lot of Yorkshire tea in this house.

A carpet of pink rose petals greeted me on the path this morning as I went out to feed the rose bushes with my old teabags - I read somewhere that as well as coffee grounds, roses like tea and they certainly seem to be doing well on it. I am still deadheading and they are rewarding me with lots of blooms.

Autumn and all it means. I have blogged about this many times and every year it is always the same so I won’t repeat myself but I have to say that these last few weeks have been perfect weather for me - I am not a summer sun worshipper - and I have appreciated the October frosts, the sunny days and of course the mists in the valleys. Sometimes I think I prefer autumn to summer, it seems that way after the miserable July and August we had this year here in Wales.

I had a message left on my answer phone yesterday by a dear friend that I have never met, it was a real surprise and so lovely to hear her voice. (We met up on Purplecoo).

Weekends. Don’t they come round quickly? I don’t mind though as they are special aren’t they and even if I have to work for half of every Saturday I always love Sundays. I hope you have a good one.

Before I leave you I would like to share a poem written by Dorothy Molloy, a great Irish poet who sadly died this year after a short illness.

The golden retriever grieves for her mate


The hooded crows roost early now,
November trees are black.
The sun goes down at 4 p.m.
and leaves a blood-stained track.

My antelope, my darling, my gazelle.

We calm her with valerian
and drops of chamomile,
infuse the roots of heliotrope
to soothe her for a while.

My antelope, my darling, my gazelle.

His last night was a rasping breath
that laboured up the stairs
and filled the house, and lodged behind
her sleepless eyes and ears.

My antelope, my darling, my gazelle.

She leans her head against our knees,
she follows us to bed
and lies stretched out upon the floor
as if she, too, were dead.

My antelope, my darling, my gazelle.
Copyright © The estate of Dorothy Molloy, 2009


Dorothy Molloy was born in Ballina, Co. Mayo in 1942. She studied languages at University College Dublin, after which she went to live in Madrid and Barcelona. During her time in Spain, she worked as a researcher, as a journalist and as an arts administrator. She also had considerable success as a painter, winning several prizes and exhibiting widely. After her return to Ireland in 1979, she continued painting but also began writing poetry.

Her first collection, Hare Soup, was accepted by Faber and Faber, but Dorothy contracted cancer and died ten days before its publication. The papers she left after her death contained enough unpublished poems for two further books, which have been assembled by her husband, Andrew Carpenter. The first of these posthumous collections, Gethsemane Day, was published by Faber and Faber in 2007. This volume, Long-distance Swimmer, is the final collection of her work.
Salmon Poetry, Knockeven,
Cliffs of Moher, County Clare, Ireland
www.salmonpoetry.com



Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

National Poetry Day

Dear Diary,

Anyone else watching Criminal Justice? I don't know why I put myself through such agony every night but I have started so I shall have to finish and watch two more episodes even though something tells me it is going to get much much worse.

Just a quick post today before I go off to work - it is National Poetry Day after all so I feel obliged to post a wee poem; here is my latest piece of homework for my writing group.

Enjoy the day and do seek out a poem for there are many treasures out there.

Retirement

One room contains him now
along with his commode,
his trouser press,
closet and chiffonier.
Tired of television and reading books on Hannibal,
he sits alone by the secretaire
and writes out his memoirs,
a transcript of a life that’s draining away,
somewhere down life’s plughole.
He mulls a lot on its proverbial depths
and other such foolish factors
yet still has faith in all his dreams
knowing there is richness enough
in profits from pastimes,
past periods of peace,
past friends,
past loves
and memories.
The third age crept up on him
but was welcomed like a new friend,
a true one,
honest and entirely straight,
its outstretched hand leading him gently to the end.
or rather to a passing-out, a returning to a light,
the home from whence he came.


Cait O’Connor

---

Best Song

Anticipation

Dear Diary,

I think it would be a good idea.

Mahatma Gandhi, when asked what he thought of Western civilization

1869 - 1948)

It would have been Gandhi's birthday today, I found it hard to pick a quote by him as there are so many absolute gems. There is to be a programme about his life on TV this weekend. That I must not miss.


I have a feast of books to read at the moment and as the hibernation season is not too far off I am looking forward to cosy days and nights of self-indulgence when I can curl up round the hearth or snuggle down under the duvet and simply lose myself. You can see what awaits me on my bedside table in the side panel of this blog. I am only too happy to escape the world sometimes, especially when I accidentally catch the TV news (I have in fact given up watching it).

I have just finished reading Home by the American writer Marilynne Robinson for our book group and I am very grateful to the group member who suggested it. If you haven’t read it, it is one of those titles that I would force upon you. I have been more than touched by it, it has left me with a chasm of sadness, a deeply felt sorrow for all the characters within its pages. Yet still I urge you to read it because it is brilliant and it will set you thinking.

When I began the book I thought Oh my God this is so slow - I don’t mind a slow pace, don’t get me wrong but this seemed painstakingly so. But I gradually got into it and adapted to its pace, I began to love it and in a strange way I felt myself become part of the home about which Marilynne was writing, it was quite a weird feeling - it seemed as if I too was a member of the family and was emotionally involved. It did make me weep and I know I am not the only one. This woman is a writer of very high calibre. Somewhere I read in a review that her prose has a musical quality, I understand what they mean; it is not exactly poetic prose or even lyrical but it has a steady rhythm and a beautiful melody within it. I am going to read her other titles Gilead and Housekeeping and will report back on those.

I have treated myself to the new book, the volume of poems which is Echoes of Memory by the dear, departed and very much missed John O’Donohue, I also bought a copy for my sister for her birthday, I hope she will love it. Here is a poem by him, not one from his new collection but one I hope you will appreciate.

Original Language English

c

When the rhythm of the heart becomes hectic,
Time takes on the strain until it breaks;
Then all the unattended stress falls in
On the mind like an endless, increasing weight,

The light in the mind becomes dim.
Things you could take in your stride before
Now become laborsome events of will.

Weariness invades your spirit.
Gravity begins falling inside you,
Dragging down every bone.

The ride you never valued has gone out.
And you are marooned on unsure ground.
Something within you has closed down;
And you cannot push yourself back to life.

You have been forced to enter empty time.
The desire that drove you has relinquished.
There is nothing else to do now but rest
And patiently learn to receive the self
You have forsaken for the race of days.

At first your thinking will darken
And sadness take over like listless weather.
The flow of unwept tears will frighten you.

You have traveled too fast over false ground;
Now your soul has come to take you back.

Take refuge in your senses, open up
To all the small miracles you rushed through.

Become inclined to watch the way of rain
When it falls slow and free.

Imitate the habit of twilight,
Taking time to open the well of color
That fostered the brightness of day.

Draw alongside the silence of stone
Until its calmness can claim you.
Be excessively gentle with yourself.

Stay clear of those vexed in spirit.
Learn to linger around someone of ease
Who feels they have all the time in the world.

Gradually, you will return to yourself,
Having learned a new respect for your heart
And the joy that dwells far within slow time.


John O'Donohue
1954-2008

-- from To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings, by John O'Donohue

I have even more to look forward to. David Gray’s new CD Draw the Line is on its way to me in the post as is Mark Knopfler’s CD Get Lucky.










So life is good, I can read and listen to music in the background. I can also write along to music, do you ever do that? What do you listen to?

And what are you reading at the moment? Do tell.

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Just pictures and a poem

Marcel Dyf - Village of Kerjouanao,France.

Dear Diary,

It seems too long since my last posting; life has been rather busy again. It is late at night so for now I am just going to post a poem I love and a couple of pics.

Winter Landscape - Breon O'Casey

The Breon O’ Casey pic is the sort of thing I would paint (if I could paint). I am hopeless at art and can’t even draw stick men but I have often been tempted to paint abstracts in blocks of colour. Finding this picture was strange because I have wanted to do something similar and I would have started with blues.

Blessings?

I have really enjoyed The Secret Life of Bees, it almost made me want to take up beekeeping., I am waiting for the DVD now but I am sure I will be disappointed. Books and films are never the same but then a book is a book and a film is a film and I guess we should not compare them. The style of writing of the Bees reminded me a little of Joanne Harris and of her book Chocolat, I don’t know why. I had to have a big mug of hot chocolate close by when I read that one - an essential accompaniment such was the book’s chocolatey-ness|! The film was very disappointing though.

We have hedgehogs nesting close by and a young one was outside the back door last night. I have been hearing that they are becoming rare and I must admit I hardly ever see them on the roads now so I was overjoyed to see our visitor.

The dry weather continues and we see the sun every day.
We light the woodburner in the evenings though and I almost look forward to winter and to dreams of cosy hibernation.

Sunday tomorrow, my favourite day of the week.

I promised you the poem,

Love after Love


The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.


Derek Walcott



That will do for now, my bed is calling,
Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Memories

Dear Diary,

Pleasure is the flower that passes; remembrance, the lasting perfume.

~Jean de Boufflers

Some plants bring memories to me that take me back to old homes, previous lives, pastimes and childhood days. One that always does this for me is the much-loved perennial the Michaelmas Daisy. It speaks to me of autumn, the season I love so with all its scents, its colours and its promises. I love this daisy’s hue, it is synonymous with autumn and I always want to wear its colour for it is kind and forgiving, slightly mysterious and flatters an ageing complexion.

Pink phlox always remind me of our old home, a little cottage in Sussex where they grew under the front window. They were new to me then, I loved them so and I wish now I had brought some with me to Wales all those years ago. Thoughts of West Sussex take me back to the country lane I used to walk each day with my two children and my two dogs. I walked this lane every day from when they were babies (or puppies in the case of the dogs) and always remember the white flowers of ‘milkmaid and the primroses that lined the lane and in the wood at the end there were my beloved bluebells and wild blue scabious.

Primroses were new to me when, as a young woman, I first moved out from London, I had never seen them growing in the wild and they grew profusely around the Surrey village that my adoptive parents moved to. I had hated leaving London and all my friends but soon fell in love with the countryside and it is a passion that has not faded (and plenty do!). Lasting passions, aren’t they wonderful, what are yours I wonder?

As a child in South London I seem to remember that there were antirrhinums in our garden and I have a vague recollection of there being pansies and marigolds (their scent is gorgeous isn’t it?). I still love pansies and my middle granddaughter does too. They are hardy little things in spite of their prettiness and their appearance of delicacy; they spread themselves upwards and outwards and last for ages without much watering or care. The winter ones cheer me all through the cold days, I usually pick the purpley, dark bluey ones.

I asked M if there are any such memories from his past and he mentions the hollyhocks that grew wild and untended in his dear mother’s garden. These are one of my favourite flowers but I find it difficult to keep them going here in the Welsh hills. M’s memories of autumn are of chestnutting; picking them, boiling them and then eating them with sore fingers. All this is alien to me being a child of the Smoke. He remembers picking wild raspberries and says that the Bramley apples in his mother’s garden were ‘as big as someone’s head‘. He also mentioned snapdragons, I called them antirrhinums earlier but wish I had used the name snapdragons as for one it is easier to spell and two it is also a more magical name. I wrote a silly little rambling poem about flowers once where I mention one:



Musings from the Flower Garden



Crocus.
Cheering,
reviving old certainties;
unfolding spring.
Snowdrop.
Woodland’s white drops,
proclaiming joy,
sweetly nestling like jewels
in ice-petalled drifts,
they resurrect our passions.
Harebell.
coyly she peeps.
reflecting gossamer blue,
Daffodil.
Parades among her fields of gold.
Mimosa.
I can almost taste her almondness
and her vanilla
in its mottled and powdery fluffiness.
Around me bees are thronging;
buzzing and barging
for the sweet delight
that is the orange pollen.
Before they are fed and dusted,
sated and in retreat
will the Dragon Snap?

Cait O’Connor


*


A little mouse lives close by my bird feeding station, its hole is clearly visible and he obviously keeps himself and his family well fed on what the birds drop from their beaks. Last night my collie Kitty wouldn’t come in from her last-thing-at-night outing - I thought she was lost - but I found her laying by the mousehole, glued to it in fact and she was most reluctant to leave it. I’ve never had a mousing dog before so I found it highly amusing.

Blessings?

Another Good Book. It’s not a new title but a borrower recommended The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd and I am really enjoying it. She said she was phoning all her friends and telling them that they must read it, I think she was right. It is also a film, I will wait until l I have read the book and then order the DVD through the library.

I also want to get hold of Alan Bennett’s new one - A Life like Other People’s. I so love this man’s writing.

Free Days - I am on leave from work this week - getting in practice for retirement perhaps? Sometimes I think it would be nice to be retired but I really love my job and for financial reasons will have to work until I drop anyway so it’s just as well.

Dry days - they are such a novelty and even if the sun doesn’t shine (like yesterday) they are a joy.

There is to be a fresh review of the sex offender’s law - probably after the outcry at the ridiculous measures suggested by the authorities. I blogged about this very recently.

Autumn, autumn, autumn, can’t you tell I just love it?

New beginnings - I can feel them stirring.


Bye for now,
Enjoy the day,
Cait

Not really a rant

Dear Diary,

One looks back with appreciation to the brilliant teachers, but with gratitude to those who touched our human feelings.  The curriculum is so much necessary raw material, but warmth is the vital element for the growing plant and for the soul of the child.  ~Carl Jung

I was in the Past Times shop recently in Shrewsbury and the Eleven-Plus Book caught my eye.  Genuine exam questions from yesteryear (what a lovely word yesteryear).    I purchased the book recently on a whim and partly because my middle grand-daughter is eleven and now goes to High School in a local market town.  (All secondary schools are called High Schools in Wales but in my day high schools were for the very bright indeed), 

Maybe I wanted to see if all the girls would be able to answer the questions, it might be a good test of  standards nowadays?    I did buy the book for S but still have it - she will get it but I haven’t got round to reading it yet.   Truth to tell though am I perhaps nervous at peeking at those kind of questions again?  Will I struggle with long division and the like?  (Yes!)

There were different exams set by different Exam Boards dependent upon where you lived.  I went to school in South London and from the age of eight I was lucky enough to go to an excellent junior school.  Before that I had been to an inferior school in an area not too far away but we had moved house so I changed schools.  As always, teaching is down to the quality of the teachers and I struck gold with Miss Bray (I think I have blogged about her before).  She was dedicated, round, gentle and kindly and she cared.  I was a bit of a lost and vulnerable child and she brought me out of myself a wee bit so I have a great deal to thank her for.  She would have been called a spinster in those days.  Remember that word?  Bit of an insult don’t you think, I hate labelling.  Come to think of it I was taught by many ‘spinsters’ at my grammar school, I guess married women gave up work in those days.  For reasons I won’t  bore you with I escaped an Irish Catholic education and from what I hear from friends and relatives who had one  I am not too sad about it.

I’m digressing again.

Back in those mists of yesteryear I passed the eleven-plus and to be honest (again) I just loved the kind of questions we were set.   I had been well prepared, I  loved challenges and loved words; not too good on the maths though but I knew my tables and I could add up and take away (what more do you need? - be honest now) so I must have got by in the arithmetic section. 

M is relaying the radio’s news to me, he is listening to the Today programme.  I have given up watching TV news and even avoid Today lately, preferring to scribble or read a novel.  I must say my blood pressure has lowered dramatically.  What M is telling me is old news in fact, the plans for all people mixing with children, even volunteers or visitors to schools to have to be CRB checked.  And people like authors  on school visits will have to pay (£80?) to be checked!  I know a couple of well known writers whose names I have forgotten have declined to do any more school visits which is such a great loss to the children involved.

This often-used phrase spills from my mouth:

 The world has gone mad..

Do you know anyone who hasn’t used this phrase?  I don’t.  I sometimes feel we are being invaded and under siege by an army of bureaucrats. God help us.  Just another nail in the coffin.  I know police checks have to be carried out on those who work with children.  I had one myself when I worked with them, in some jobs it is necessary but these people who sit in offices take everything to extremes.  Most child abuse takes place in the home in any case.  Extremism is something we should avoid - don’t you think it is the cause of most of the world’s troubles?  There should always be a place for compromise and good old common sense. (where has common sense gone?).

My brother told me that he was taking his wife’s cousin round South London recently on the heritage trail, the cousin was over from South Africa after many years away from the UK, he had left when he was a child.  They pulled up in the car outside his old school and the cousin pulled out his camera to take a pic for posterity.  Before my brother could say that would not go down well a teacher was making her way across the playground and admonishing them.  My brother explained the situation and voiced his doubts of any contravention of any actual law.   

What is the world coming to? 

Another well-worn phrase spills from me. 

I am not ranting, I am far too happy to rant today.   The sunny weather we have been having has revived me as it has the flowers in the garden; they are all bursting forth again and it is such a joy.   The sun is shining brightly and it is set fair for the weekend and please God, beyond.

Blessings are in order.

Last night’s moonlight.

Today’s sun on the water.

The grass which has been cut by M yesterday, his first chance for weeks and it was getting near knee high.

Wild Life in all its many forms.

Bless the birds and the bees, the garden is alive with both today. And I saw three wild ducks (mallards) fishing in our river, ducking and diving as they do.  They don’t visit often but I get really excited when they do.  I’m sure they were two parents teaching the young one how to fish (like the otters do with their young sometimes).  We have a really deep pool area in the river now which appeared after the Great Flood - I had visions of the girls swimming in there this summer but alas it has not been hot enough.

My fuchsias and montbretia which remind me of my roots in the best place in the world, the south west of Ireland.

Talking of roots I have been found on the Ancestry website by a relative who descends from an Irish couple who emigrated to London way back in yesteryear - we share a branch in our trees.  He lives in Canada and without the Ancestry site he would not have found me.  So this will be a final blessing along with the family search.org site or LDS as some folk call it (I do).  If you are interested in doing your family tree these two sites are brilliant.  Ancestry is very well worth the subscription and you can access its records free in all UK libraries.  LDS is free.

Well I have rattled on a bit again. 

I’d best be off and get the day started.

May yours be a happy one.
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

September

West Cork - Artist - Dee Pieters

Dear Diary,

The breezes taste
Of apple peel.
The air is full
Of smells to feel-
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
Burning brush,
New books, erasers,
Chalk, and such.
The bee, his hive,
Well-honeyed hum,
And Mother cuts
Chrysanthemums.
Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze."
- John Updike, September

My sister emailed me recently and talked about her love of the month of September; she mentioned the air of calm about it. It is the month of her birth which made me wonder, do we all have a fondness for the season during which we were born? I am a child of Spring and certainly think of it as my favourite time of year.

But I love September too and I felt its calm as I walked with the dogs in the field this morning; there was for once complete silence, no traffic of any kind could be heard, no foolhardy motorcyclists treating our Welsh roads like racetracks which happens every Sunday with accidents happening regular as clockwork, and often fatal.

I digress.

The air is balmy today and only the gentlest of drizzles caressed me on my way earlier this morning. West Cork weather I call it, my very favourite climate that suits my Celtic soul. There was a faint mist over the nearest mountain top and I wished I had brought my camera with me. Then quite suddenly the sun came out, full on this time and I felt sad that most holidaymakers have returned home - the adults back to work and the children back to their new terms at school and that they would miss seeing Wales as it can be in sunny weather. I thought again how lucky I am to live here in my little piece of Paradise.

September’s stillness has captured me as it always does, this month-in-waiting with her one foot in summer and another placed firmly forward into Autumn, the season that for me is always brimful of colour and delight. And newness: new starts, new notebooks, new projects getting underway. Stop me, I am getting excited now for I always wax lyrical about September and this year will be no exception. I don’t even mind winter except that it goes on just a little too long.
The hermit in me loves to hibernate you see and loves log fires, soups and all things cosy.

Talking of mist David Gray has a new single out. I read yesterday a journalist describing him as the musical equivalent of mist - I don’t think he meant it so but being a mist lover I would take that as a compliment myself - His new single is called Fugitive, the CD is called Draw the Line.





And if you want a good book to read, not too heavy (sorry this is an unintended pun) I have just read...




The Weight of Water by Penelope Evans. A good read that resonated with me as I live in a cottage by a river which is (partly) the theme of the book. Reading it I could certainly feel the weight of the water in her writing.

So blessings today?

Masses, but I will restrict myself to:

Silence, Solitude, Stillness and Calm.

David Gray’s words and music.

Feeling rested after a few days off work.

A new Anne Tyler novel to start today. Staying on the watery theme it is called Noah's Compass...



Another new book - The poet Denise Blake has a new book out whose cover is Barrie Maguire’s picture which I love so much - the little girl wrapped in the green fields of the map of Ireland (see below in earlier blog). It is a small world indeed as I only discovered this through a comment on a previous blog. I will post the title when I know it.

My genealogy work is going really well and I am still chasing and catching many dead people; however hard they try they just can’t escape me.

Bye for now,
May the sun shine on you today,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Let it Be

Dear Diary,

Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.

~Maya Angelou, Gather Together in My Name

When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree,
there will be an answer, let it be.
For though they may be parted there is still a chance that they will see,
there will be an answer. let it be.

Let it be, let it be, .....

And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light, that shines on me,
shine until tomorrow, let it be.
I wake up to the sound of music, mother Mary comes to me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be, let it be, .....

Sorry I have been absent for a while, I have been busy with family visitors and very enjoyable it was too even though the weather was not on its best behaviour.

While relaxing on the sofa last night I enjoyed a journey back into my past as I watched the programmes on BBC2 that were part of a BBC radio and television tribute to the Beatles.

The Beatles were the background to my teenage years, to my growing-into-a-woman years. I bought every one of their records, their photos adorned my bedroom wall and there was always one stuck under the desk of my lid at school - I could never choose between McCartney and George Harrison though nowadays George would be the winner, God rest his soul.

They had several good 'quotes':

Money Can't buy me Love


All You Need is Love


Give Peace a Chance


Let it Be was their last single, probably one of their best and definitely one I would take to my Desert Island. I tried to post it for you but it would not work so instead I have posted In My Life which is another favourite of mine.

Enjoy.

Midweek Ramblings

Dear Diary,

War does not determine who is right - only who is left. 

Bertrand Russell

Hell, it is a week since my last post, I really must try harder, it seems I have had lots to do and have not been able to put my mind to blogging.  This morning though I woke feeling the need to write down my thoughts, they are very random, I apologise in advance.

There are things I need to help me get going in the morning; things that make them bearable because I am a night owl and do not function well at day break.  What do I need?  Amber nectar first which is a big mug of Yorkshire Gold laced with local honey - though the Welsh stuff  is now £4.95 a jar which I cannot afford so I am reduced to buying the inferior supermarket jars, whatever is the best buy - it is usually from abroad.  I realise the honey is expensive because of its scarcity - the problem with disease that beekeepers are having.  Perhaps I should become a beekeeper myself?

My radio brings me back to reality and this morning and I have a treat in store - Johnny Walker - no not more amber nectar of a different kind but my favourite DJ who is sitting in for Terry Wogan.  He plays my favourite tracks but I don’t know how he knows they are my favourites?

So this morning I avoid Radio 4 and the Today programme, it is always doom and gloom as news always is and it unfailingly raises my blood pressure.  I get so angry about things especially what I hear on Radio 2 news today - the death of another soldier ten days after being blown up in Afghanistan.  It seems like the First World War to me sending young boys off on patrol (?) to their almost certain death.  And they are no more than boys, I am a mother of a son myself and I can only barely imagine the pain the mothers of these soldiers are going through.    I know one mother of a soldier out there who is a borrower in the library and she has become very quiet when she comes in - she used to be bright and bubbly.  It is difficult to know what to say to her.

 I think we should get out  of Afghanistan and soon.  When will Man ever understand the futility of war?  Which reminds me, someone has recommended a film directed by Clint Eastwood that is about this very subject, I must order it (I forget the title, anyone know?).

I digress, sorry.

Other things I need.  A shower and a short yoga session to get my blood circulating and relieve tension,  Then I need my cranberry juice, my organic porridge with cinnamon, ground almonds and fruit, my daily fix of ‘supplement’ pills, another mug of the amber stuff and then my day can begin.  Am I set in my ways would you say?

Johnny has played Chris Rea, Roxy Music, Eva Cassidy , George Harrison, Manfred Mann and many more lovely tracks.  I know they are old songs but the sign of a good songwriter is if the song  is still good twenty years later.  After all no-one says that classical music is old so it is not worth listening to.

Talking of classics I want to force a book on you if you haven’t already read it.  It is Deaf Sentence by David Lodge.  So laugh out loud funny,  so tearfully sad, so very moving.  I will say no more,  Just read it.

It’s not the weather to be outside today, apparently we are going to be in the tail end of a hurricane called Bill.  I may have a polish-fest in the cottage, (a very rare event for me getting out the duster) and some ‘proper’ nice smelling polish is called for.  I have a daily battle with cobwebs too as I never kill spiders, I only remove their webs.  (If you want to live and thrive, let a spider run alive - that is a gypsy saying).

Before I go I want to share with you this poem that won the recent Welsh Poetry Competition.

All I could say when I first read it was Wow.


The Origami Lesson



To make Derry Railway Station,
fold the gentle Foyle
beside this end, thus,
where the train breathes at a slight curve,
and for the white fence,
press the line
upon the middle crease
in a fine rain, then
unfold the sheeted roof wing by wing
in line with dim bridges
and the rounded wall.

For Evarethilion,
begin by folding lengthwise
and separating
amongst bright enamels.
To make the unearthly shine,
fold the top point –
which will be the blade –
into a garnet beast, and double back
the silver pommel
into the dotted fist.
Align the creases as if
a rainbow were a staircase
upon which
folded feet boldly tread.

The leaping gnu.
You may use the shimmer
from a lake amidst grassland,
but a hill will do.
Divide the top half into three hearts:
cow, horse and goat.
Take point X upon the hoof
and fold the top edge, thus,
upon its grunt,
so it is roughly equal
to the distance from
the far sun that pours
beneath black clouds to the brown,
dusty horizon.
To make the water,
turn the world over,
and crease.
Your gnu will fall from the mountain fold
towards sunset.
The valley fold will open upon it,
and his beautiful beard
will make a tasselled shadow.

John Galas


I shall sign off now; when I started writing this the pine trees outside my window were completely still, now they are starting to wave at me energetically and the aspens are quaking - Bill must be on his way.  I’m off to batten down a few hatches.  Sorry its been a bit of a ramble today.  Better than nothing I hope.

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Less is More

Time Passing By

The artist - Gyuri Lohmuller

Dear Diary,

fear less, hope more;
eat less, chew more;
whine less, breathe more;
talk less, say more;

love more and all good things will be yours.

Swedish Proverb.

I promised I would tell you about two books that I have enjoyed recently on the subject of time. The first was recommended to me by a fellow blogger and is called:

Ten Thoughts About Time. How to make more of the time in your life.

by Bodil Jonsson, a Swedish author

and by pure synchronicty (I don't believe in coincidences) I have picked a Swedish proverb to start my post.

When I read Mark's comment I looked the book up straightaway and luckily found it in our library catalogue so I put a request in for it and then (synchronicity again) I stumbled upon another on the same subject that embraces that less word word that is so dear to my heart at the moment. I thought the book was excellent as it seemed to make many practical suggestions for dealing with time.

It is called The Power of Less by Leo Babauta.

This is its blurb.

With the arrival of the 21st century we have encountered a mental and material explosion in the Western world: we have near-unlimited information at our fingertips, we can have children who are healthy and safe, and we have wealth and possessions beyond what most of the world can dream of. Yet we are more stressed than we have ever been: the majority of us are profoundly unhappy. But the flipside of our society is that we can choose what to accept, and what not to accept: what to keep, and what to lose, joyfully and consciously. With this handbook of simplicity, Leo Babauta shows us why less is powerful, the difference between what you want and what you need, and how to clear out what you don't.

This author also has a blog that needs no recommendation from me - it is in the top thirty blogs apparently but is (obviously) well worth a look, there are some great ideas there.

That’s all for today, my garden is calling me for some attention, I have a fig tree plant to repot, a bed to dig over, a seat to sit in and a Good Book to read - and heyho it is a fine day!

So bye for now,
Enjoy your time,
Cait

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.