I’ve had a really lovely birthday today. Woke up to fresh orange juice and cards from P, from friends and the cats’ own paw-printed one, before coffee, croissants and home-made plum jam for breakfast.
We then set out to Trentham to have a ride on the ‘Miss Elizabeth’ across the lake and back. The ride was wonderful, the weather just right and, it being the first trip of the day, the boat wasn’t crowded. We saw herons sitting in their rather ponderous and to me, slightly spooky, way on the edges of the island heronry. Swallows and dragon flies were swooping over the water and little rowing boats bobbed about in the wake of our boat. I have to say it was all rather perfect.
After this we had coffee and cake at one of the cafes in the retail park, which was by now packed with visitors, and then made our way into the Italian gardens. So much has happened in there since we visited late last season. The formal gardens were lovely and colourful, the lower garden having particularly interesting planting, the upper garden near the old church and orangery was a little bit ‘municipal’ for my taste but I guess this is how it was in it’s heyday. The fountains and lake views were wonderfully clear and bright in the early afternoon light. After wondering around the gardens we sat in green and white stripy deckchairs and watched the boats on the lake, then we ventured onto the woodland walk, looked at the little ‘back yard gardens’ and then I ventured into the ‘Barfuss’ – P declined to go in, but I left my shoes and rolled up my trousers and in I went, the walk was so invigorating, the mud between the toes very squelchy but somehow enjoyable and I think the best walking surface was the pine cones as they had been softened by those who had gone before me and felt warm and dry underfoot. Then back to the foot showers to get rid of all the mud that had collected between my toes – bliss.
Home late afternoon to sit in the garden and look forward to a feast of home made veggie lasagne, courtesy of P, with a nice rose wine and ice cream to follow. How wonderful is that?
Over the last three weeks we’ve travelled from Aberaeron on the Welsh Coast to Salthouse on the Norfolk Coast and many places in between. Aberaeron is a lovely little Georgian town with purpose built harbour surrounded by small terraced houses painted every colour you can imagine ranging from delicate pinks and lilacs, through subtle greens and blues to garish purple, red and yellow, but somehow being at the sea side it looks right and is strangely complemented by the honey ice cream for sale on the harbour side in as many flavours as there were house colours.
Harbour, Aberaeron
In complete contrast were the sun bleached colours of the pebble beach and dunes at Salthouse where we sat and watched the terns wheeling over the sea and disappearing as quickly as they had appeared, maybe heading for the little café on the main road which was full to bursting with folk who, after visiting the modern art installations at the local church were enjoying the local delicacies of crab and samphire.
Sunset, Old Hunstanton
Since our return we have had a friend to stay with us and enjoyed trips locally and now almost completely broke until pay day* we have spent the last week walking, in sections, the Trent and Mersey canal tow path from Barlaston in the south to the Harecastle tunnel in the north, and it has been amazing.
* P announced today that we could live on potatoes and vinegar both of which we seem to have in abundance joking that if it was good enough for Byron then it will do for us. Well, I seem to recall in the film made by Robert Bolt** and starring, if I remember correctly his then wife, Sarah Miles, as Lady Caroline Lamb, much was made of Lord Byron dining on potatoes and vinegar.
** Years ago when I did my English A level we studied the play A Man for All Seasons by Robert Bolt. Even now I still remember two quotes from this play. One is, of course, part of Sir Thomas More's speech at his trial and goes something like “I do none harm, I say none harm and I think none harm and if this be not enough to keep a man alive, in good faith, I long not to live” The other one is when Sir Thomas is visited in prison by his wife who brings him food. I remember this quote rather like I remember the one from Little Women which goes “Is this a slipper I see before me? No, it’s a toasting fork with mother’s slipper on it.” Anyhow, the second quote from A Man for All Seasons is “You still make superlative custard Alice.”
Although I always enjoy a holiday once I'm on my way, I find the chaos surrounding getting ready for it really tiresome.Days before I'm trying to keep clothes clean so I don't have to keep washing, yet I still manage to have last minute washing and ironing. Also I have to clean the house from top to bottom in case the cat sitters should think I'm a really dirty lazy person. Also lawns have to be cut and the garden left tidy - just in case. Of what I don't know.I make lists and cross things off and then make more lists, throwing things that we need to take with us into a basket as I think of them, things like umbrella, spare glasses, phone charger, book to read, note pad and pencil just in case I'm moved suddenly to write a sonnet or two, kitchen sink........!I usually settle down when I'm about a couple of hours into the outward journey but until then I'm chasing my tail and fretting about what hasn't been done. Anyway, Wales here we come, will be back in a couple of weeks.
Today we visited the new Monkey Forest at Trentham Gardens. I wasn't sure about this new venture but now I've seen them in their tranquil, leafy habitat, I don't mind it so much. The staff are helpful and friendly and quick to sort out any problems that may occur. One monkey came to sit on a seat quite close to us and watched us with as much interest as we were watching him, then he sloped off after a couple of other members of his colony and went to feed nearby. A couple of other males were grooming and playing with a baby, apparently the males spend a lot of time looking after the young ones.
Last evening was the presentation of certificates to the competition winners from the All Write Course that has been held at the city library from April to July. It was a nice evening; the two groups, Monday evening and Friday afternoon (mine) joined together with the writers and poets, who had done workshops throughout the course, and the course leader. Special guest was novelist Kate Long author of The Bad Mother’s Handbook and Swallowing Grandma. The latter is her latest novel and at the end of the evening she read a small and very funny extract from it.
Our Friday group did particularly well with the poetry and prose entries and I was very pleased to receive from Kate Long a Certificate of Highly Commended for the story I had entered. Adjudicator of all the entries was Roger Elkin (editor of Envoi magazine). He seemed to think my story a ‘romance’ and ‘sexy’. If you can call the final performance of a cellist who is dying of cancer and plans to commit suicide that evening a romance or even sexy well, okay, but I didn’t see it that way. I was pleased to have been chosen though, and so pleased for all the nice folks I've spent quite a few Friday afternoons with over the past month or so.
I had two hours this morning in which to do the huge pile of ironing that had grown over the last few days, it having been too hot to even contemplate getting out the ironing board. I had just started the dreaded job when I heard familiar heart-sinking noises from the room above. That familiar, thud, run and growl which means one of the cats has brought a mouse into the house. I switched off the iron and ran upstairs. Usually with our female cat I can just take the mouse from her and carry it out to safety under the hedge but her brother was involved in the chase which started in the bedroom. Every time I reached out to try and pick the mouse up it scooted off. Now this was the Olympic athlete of all mice, I’ve never seen one move as quickly. It ran out of the main bedroom, ran past the study door (thank God) and into the spare bedroom. I moved just about every piece of furniture to find it and the cats had now followed and chased it out into the bathroom, after shutting all the doors and laying a towel down to stop it getting under the airing cupboard door I try to catch it but to no avail.
It heads off down the stairs, almost throwing itself down each stair with both cats and me giving chase it veers to the right and into the kitchen. I shut the lounge door and then the kitchen door. Good we have it cornered in the kitchen. It has taken up residence under the dresser, which is full of heavy crockery and china and the top is cluttered with cookery books on a rack far too heavy to move. I place a humane trap at one end and lunge under the other with a mop handle but every time the mouse approaches the trap it backs off and I have to start again. I decide to shut the door on it and the cats and leave it to its fate. I hear pounces and mews and go back in. One of the cats has the mouse cornered and I manage to throw the tea towel over it and scoop it up. I run with it to the top of the garden, let it go under the hedge, shouting run, quick run. It does. I needn’t have worried both cats were running around the dresser thinking it was still there.
Just before our meal was ready this evening there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find a man standing there.
“If you could save the world from all the greed, violence and wars there are now, would you want to?” he asks.
“Well, of course” I reply, “who wouldn’t, but that would be impossible.”
He clutches his red bible fervently “I’m afraid we are just about to eat” I try to stop him from going any further “Sorry.”
“It smells very nice” he replied very courteously “May I come back later and talk to you Mrs err…”
I tell him I prefer not to give my name.
“That’s ok” he replies “I’m Desmond.”
“Well, Desmond, thank you for calling.”
He didn’t come back.
So, today is Midsummer. The very word sounds magical, teeming with enchantment. No wonder it is the stuff of myth and magic. Shakespeare certainly thought so and he was right. Not many miles from the Lincolnshire town where P and I lived for over twelve years before moving over here, is an outdoor theatre where, for three months every summer, come hell or high water*, two or three Shakespeare plays were performed ‘al fresco.’ Every year, a group of us would book seats, take a picnic and laze in the evening sun waiting for the performance to begin.
We had, over the years seen some wonderful performances, but none more so than when we went to see a performance of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ on 24th June 1992** the memory of which is still with me now. The evening was clear and warm, a perfect night for an outdoor performance. There was magic in the air as the play began and we, the audience were swept into it from the very first line. I was taken completely by surprise by the animatronics or special effects used not only for Bottom’s ass’s head but by those used for the fairies’ wings. The costumes of both Oberon and Titania were splendidly dynamic and alive, their wings waved in their anger and vexation and quivered in pleasure; they suddenly became more than mere mortals, having an almost dream like quality in the now dimming evening light. I can say, without a doubt that this was the most stunning performance of this play that I have every seen, and I have seen several.
* Luckily the audience are seated under a canopy (or they were then) but the actors had to perform no matter what the weather was doing. I remember one year, it absolutely poured with rain during the performance. The actresses’ dresses were darkening around the hems as the water soaked in and seeped upwards. At one point the scene was a balcony and the actor involved had to speak lovelorn lines about the beautiful night and the moon and etc and the audience, I’m ashamed to say, just dissolved into laughter, he waited for us to subside and then carried on delivering his lines and had us believe that we too could see that glorious full moon. Well played.
** I know, but I don’t apologise for the fact that I keep all my theatre programmes and usually put the tickets inside, so I know exactly what I saw and when I saw it.
On Saturday we drove over to the health food shop at Market Drayton to get the Shipton Mill Flour that P likes to use in his bread making. We love the journey over there as the countryside on that part of the Staffordshire/Shropshire border is just wonderful. When we first moved over to this part of the country we rented a property out that way for a couple of years before moving into the city to be closer to our work. I used to love the bus journey into Hanley through Ashley, Blackbrook, by Maer, into Baldwin’s Gate and Whitmore before getting to Newcastle and then up to the city. Today we were behind two very slow farm vehicles but this didn’t seem to matter as slower was preferable to the speed with which a lorry had hurtled past us on the Trentham road swerving to avoid us as we slowed down at the amber light and he cut across on red. Luckily the car coming across the junction stopped god knows how the driver of the lorry missed hitting one or the other of us. Bad driving, mate!
We had decided to also have a walk along the canal and have a mid morning cuppa at Woodies but when we got there it had closed. The old mill building had been stripped and emptied of all the glorious things that used to be there including the little train that ran around a track just under the ceiling. We used to enjoy watching it going round and round as we drank our coffee. What a shame. I’m guessing that there wasn’t enough trade, although it always seemed busy whenever we went last year. The walk from Betton Mill to Tyrley locks and back is a lovely one and quite easy to do at any time of the year. We did the walk about three times last year on our own and then with friends who will all be sad to hear that Woodies no longer exists.
I’ve just been reading an excellent article, written by Sue Arnold, in today’s Guardian. In this article she was discussing the news that this Government (who should know better)* are cutting down on funding Adult Education which in turn will affect that beloved national institution, evening classes. This would be such a shame. I know that, over the years, I, for one, have benefited greatly from evening classes. I left school at fifteen, not because I was thick, I had passed my eleven plus and got to grammar school and was an avid reader, almost like a chain smoker, I always had one book on the go and the next one waiting to be picked up as soon as the current read was finished. The reason was that because I was quiet, shy and not the prettiest flower in the vase I was picked on and bullied so as soon as I could I removed myself from the situation and went out into the world of work.
When I got to eighteen I decided I wanted to learn so over the next ten years ( at my own expense) I studied for and passed three O levels, did LAMDA courses in speech and drama, joined a Am Dram group attached to the local art college, and passed three A levels in English, History and History of Art. I then took a couple of years out when I got married but by 1980 both P and I had enrolled for Open University, he studying sciences and me studying Arts. It took us six years of hard work to get our degrees. P went on to do teaching qualifications whilst I studied for the Museums Association diploma, and various courses relating to tourism. In the last few years I have done various courses at the local colleges for Creative Writing.
I think it would be such a shame if this type of class were to disappear completely as they are of great benefit to the many people, who, for one reason or another can’t complete their education at school or get to University at the time and age they are supposed to.
* unless my history is at fault, weren’t the Labour party or at least members** of it instigators and founders of the Open University?
**The names of Harold Wilson and Jennie Lee spring to mind.
Tuesday evening the rather smart dark green balloon from Trentham Gardens passed slowly overhead. It took ages for it to get close enough for us to be able to read the word Trentham on its side but as it got closer to us we could hear the gas boost and see the flames shooting up from the basket into the balloon, the people were like little dots. I guess if they are going to make balloon rides part of their ‘things to do’ itinerary then we may see it more often. It was a beautiful night for floating along in a balloon though I did wonder where they would land as they were headed over towards the city.
Talking of Trentham so many lovely things have happened there over the last year or two. We go, usually once a week, to walk around the lake and watch the grebes and herons and lately the geese with their fluffy goslings. We are still waiting for the access path up to the Duke of Sutherland’s statue to open though because I long to walk up to the top and view the lake and Italian garden from there. We have to wait though, presumably for the access road to the new monkey forest to be completed, as the monkey house is due to open in July then we may not have to wait for much longer. I really like the new garden centre (not so much a garden centre as a lifestyle statement) and the retail village but I’m not sure about the monkeys (well Barbary Macaques). I dare say it will be a huge tourist attraction and bring in bus loads from all over but the tranquility will be lost. Given the monkeys and the new passenger boat and the proposed new boat house restaurant then the tranquility will definitely be lost but I suppose things can’t stay the same forever.
Had a lovely wander around Ashbourne today, got there about 9.30a.m. and had a good look at the antique shops and the book shop and the super second hand book stall on the market, didn’t see anything we wanted to purchase but really enjoyed looking. Had a cup of coffee in the café bar near the bridge and then drove up to the garden centre before heading home via what we call the Roman road which actually runs from the outskirts of Derby to Caverswall, Blythe Bridge and into Stoke, we picked it up at Cubley and came through Rocester and past the JCB factory where people walk and enjoy the lakes around the factory, there are some interesting water birds and many folks stop and park up and get an ice cream from the van and just sit and watch the fountain in the middle of the lake.Got backhome and mowed the lawns, they always look so much better after a cut. The new bird bath looks wonderful bathed in sunlight.
I feel I have been rather neglectful of this blog recently, finding it hard, not to find the time to write, but to actually know what to say. I have therefore made a resolution that I must write something, even if it is no more than two lines every day to get myself into the swing of things again. I don’t know why I’m particularly lacking in inspiration, June is nearly here, the sun is shining, the birds are singing and yet for some reason things still seem grey. I can’t concentrate for very long on reading anymore and my favourite TV programmes seem so shallow and tedious. I have written quite a lot today though. I have started a story about juggling with one’s priorities in life and completed two exercises from the previous two weeks writing course homework a dialogue piece about an argument or misunderstanding and one of two character descriptions. So I have sort of been productive.
I’ll be back tomorrow.
Friday was the All Write meeting at Hanley Library. I really enjoy these meetings and there is a nice lively crowd of people who attend. I like listening to them read out their work and today one of them had brought along a trial piece of dialogue and had produced four copies so that others could join in and read the parts, this certainly livened things up and was quite entertaining. I’m constantly surprised at how good people are and sometimes feel quite inadequate; their ideas for stories and poems are excellent.
On the bus home a young woman came to sit next to me, I’d seen her at the bus stop in her afghan coat and flowery head scarf, tied in a knot at the back, clutching a rather flamboyant wine glass in one hand and a huge bag in the other. I watched, fascinated as she managed to clutch the wine glass and her MP3 player in one hand whilst she struggled to break bits off a Toblerone bar with the other. She had more than one ring on every digit and more than one ring in both her ears and her nose. She saw me looking at her glass and started to explain to me how she had decorated it with suns and moons and then described the other pieces she had decorated. We had a nice conversation which whiled away the journey time on the rather overcrowded bus.
Saturday we wandered around Bakewell, popping in and out of the lovely little shops, arcades and interesting alley ways, had coffee in the café over the farmer’s market shop and walked by the river. Here we saw swans, ducks and geese with their young and a pair of coots who had decided to nest on a little ‘island’ close to the bridge and the seats where everyone gathers to eat their fish and chips or their ice creams (depending on the weather – yesterday there was a mixture of both!) We then ventured to the Chatsworth Garden Centre for lunch and here we picked up a great bird bath for only £16.99. We’d wanted one for ages to replace the one that was frost shattered last year and now we have it. Only, of course, today we have had to spruce up the garden again so that the bird bath looks good in its new home.
During this week, in the potteries town* which is the nearest to where I live there have been two major incidents, a murder and a fire on one of the main shopping streets. This fire gutted an already empty and semi-derelict building and made it unsafe so major parts of the town had to be sealed off whilst building experts secured it. The murder we know little about yet but a young mother of two was found in an alleyway almost opposite the Gladstone Museum at two in the afternoon, in the local paper there was a picture of her on CCTV just over an hour before she was found dead. A man was arrested almost immediately and charged a day or so after, and thank goodness for that but it does make you feel very uneasy. All you can say is why?
Yesterday, to escape the confines of the city we ventured out to our favourite garden.** It is set in beautiful countryside on the Staffordshire/Cheshire/Shropshire border. Constructed in an old quarry, now full of the most beautiful rhododendrons and azaleas in every colour imaginable, it is so pleasing on the eye. Each year when we visit we find something new has been added, another corner has reached maturity and more and more people have been delighted by their visit, including us.
Well, our tadpoles have developed legs. About a month ago we took some tadpoles from the garden pond and put then in a bowl in doors to save them from becoming newt food. They have prospered so well and are now fat and healthy and ready to be returned to the garden. Not to the main pond but to a small sunken container that has been set up a little away from it. Last night the container was filled with pond water and weed ready to receive them. Today they will go to their new home and hopefully soon we will have some little frogs.
* The city of Stoke on Trent is made up of six towns, not five*** being from north to south Tunstall, Burslem, Hanley, Stoke, Fenton and Longton.
** It is The Dorothy Clive Garden
*** Local author Arnold Bennett, left out Fenton when he wrote Anna of the Five Towns.
On Friday I was wandering, in the sunshine, through the market. The stalls were bright, cheerful and welcoming with flags and balloons dancing in the breeze. The stall holders were calling to each other and to the passers by. I hovered around one or two stalls; the smell of the olives, so many different varieties, drew me in and then I was hooked. I dallied around the cheese counter, eyed up the crusty fresh bread, the brioche and the croissants and then the intricately plaited bunches of garlic which nestled at the side of the rich red strawberries and luscious looking asparagus. I moved on to the Breton biscuits; they had those tasty butter ones and the gorgeous prune tart. Mmm. The crepe stand was doing excellent business, a crepe and a coffee was just the thing for lunch. I sat at the table watching people drifting from stall to stall. The sun was warm the food was tasty and the most wonderful thing was the smell of the cut lavender on the stall opposite – it was warm, heady and sensual. I drifted away into a gentle reverie “Bonjour Madam” said the man serving the crepes, “c’est tout?” enquired the woman on the biscuit stall as she weighed out biscuits for her customers.
Then, all of a sudden I was jolted out of my dream. “Ey-up duck, where’s tha bin?”
“Up Marks, shug, ar’t catchin’t bus home?”. Oh no, drat, I wasn’t in Brittany at all, but on Piccadilly, Hanley. Still, it was nice while it lasted.
So we have another election looming. The feeling of security goes out of the window and in comes that uneasy feeling in the pit of the stomach that things may get worse.* I mutter to myself every day, “Oh, please don’t let MH get to be PM.” I cringe every time I see him on television because he brings back memories of those awful, fearful Thatcher years and will be forever associated with her in my memory. I could just about tolerate a Conservative victory, if I really had to, but, please God, not with him at the helm. I know I will support Labour, I always do, even though I was very upset with TB when he took us into the war against the wishes of the UN and the rest of Europe and a lot of us Brits too. At that time I was really ashamed of and aghast at what we had done, but I can’t, in all honesty vote for any other party. I will vote for the party and all it has stood for in the past; not for its present leader because he probably won't be PM for the whole five years if they get in. It would be against my very being to step away from my beliefs, no matter how archaic others may think they are, it would seem like letting down my ancestors who for generations until the last two, have worked down the mines. My great grandfather was killed in an awful pit cage accident, my grandfather died from pneumoconiosis or “miners lung”. Generations before them struggled for survival in poor conditions and for low wages. My 5 x great grandfather was a prospector who traveled, in the 1780s, from the Welsh Borders and the Forest of Dean into Derbyshire with a gang of men and they would open up coal seams and try to get local business men interested. No doubt they would all have been issued with settlement orders naming the parish of their birth. What a precarious life. On the other side my great - great grandfather was a tailor who came down into England from Fife, Scotland, again I assume looking for work and again, I would imagine settlement orders were an issue.
* I don’t want to go back to those days of worry, when either one or the other of us was unemployed because of redundancy,** when we had to move from the area we had grown up in, getting further away from our families. Luckily, unlike my ancestors, we didn’t need settlement orders in case we became a burden on the parish we moved to.
** by sheer luck we were never unemployed at the same time so we always worked on the principle of one wage for two when taking up rental agreements or seeking mortgages – just in case it should ever happen again.
Yesterday I walked the two miles to our local library in order to renew my library ticket.* I strolled into the newly refurbished library unaware of the confusion that lay ahead. Actually my ticket ran out last year but because I’d been doing an OU writing course and then had succumbed to the Waterstones’ 3 for 2 offer on books a couple of times last year and then been tempted by one or two books in Tesco for £3.73 each and also bought a couple of magazines with free books, I hadn’t needed to go to the library.** So, I went up to the counter and asked very nicely if I could renew my ticket.
Well, the answer was no, not unless I had proof of my address on me. As a non-driver I don’t have a driver’s license so I was a bit stuck. I only had bank cards on me and they don’t have an address on. I said I could come back with my passport, national insurance card or medical card to prove I was who I said I was, but no, it has to be a letter with my address on received in the post that day or quite recently. ‘Don’t you get junk mail?’ one of the librarians asked ‘I get loads.’ Well yes, as it happens I do, but I couldn’t see how a piece of junk mail would be as reliable in identifying me as a passport or medical card. Anyhow, the only letter I’d had that day was one telling me I had won some fantastic gift if only I would ring the attached 0900 number and it had been shredded. Therefore, until I can prove that I am really and truly me I can’t have a new library ticket. I’m just waiting to receive a letter with my name and address on so I can trip down to the library again holding it in my sticky mitt.*** You know, I suppose they have their job to do, I might be trying to steal someone’s identity but if I was, borrowing books from the library would be the least of my concerns.
* I know, what an exciting life I lead.
** You are right, shame on me, I should support my local bookshop and not these huge high street stores, but I’ve applied for a job twice at the local bookshop and never even had an interview so I feel disinclined to put my money in their coffers.
*** I did have two letters today but not “official” ones – they were both hand written ones from friends so they will not do.
Highlight of today – the lovely letters mentioned above.
Today’s gripe – it has taken me hours to clean the spare bedroom and rid it of all the cat fluff and crud. Also I bet one of the cats was responsible for the headless baby bird I found on the lawn this morning. Why do I love cats so much when they do this?
It’s hard to gather my thoughts together enough to recount the things I’ve seen and done over the last few days. I was so looking forward to my trip into Wales to meet up with friends and I wasn’t disappointed. I set out on Tuesday morning from Stoke Station on a coach up to Crewe, yes I know, I just assume that the trains to Crewe weren’t running that day. We took a circuitous route via Kidsgrove and Alsager stations, and I began to worry I wouldn’t get there on time to catch my train down to Shrewsbury. I needn’t have worried as, in the end, I had plenty of time to spare. At Shrewsbury I met Pauline from her train and we popped into town to have lunch at the art gallery just up from the station. We were back at the station in time to catch the Swansea train.
This train travels through the most delightful countryside, meandering past the Long Mynd at Church Stretton over the viaduct at Knucklas and into Wales. Our friend Susanna was waiting at the station in the little village where she lives and where we were staying at the local bed & breakfast which is also a museum, tea rooms, art gallery and craft workshops.* We had supper at Susanna’s little cottage overlooking her splendid garden whilst watching the birds on her feeders, including Goldfinch, chaffinch, nuthatch, great tits and blue tits. What a super display. We strolled back through the village to the guest house still amused by the fact that when we arrived my room still seemed to be occupied by someone else. It turned out that the brother of the owner had been staying and gone back to London and left his things. I had already moved to another room which on such a cold night was altogether cosier, then I found that I couldn’t get the hot tap to work on my bath but Pauline managed to sort it. All this caused much amusement.**
Next day, after breakfast*** we set out with Susanna to Rhayader to have lunch with her sister and brother-in-law and then to drive to the Elan Valley. The Valley is quite spectacular and on the drive we saw several red kites wheeling around in the sky, apparently there is a farm nearby where people can go and watch them being fed. We walked awhile at the side of one of the reservoirs and then went down to the visitor centre near the water cascade where we found out how the land was developed and the feat of engineering that went into the supplying of water to Birmingham and the Midlands.
I brought home such wonderful memories of the Elan Valley that I have to go back again soon with Paul so he can see the Red Kites.
* I may write more on this place later.** Also amusement the next morning when Pauline set off the smoke alarm with her hair dryer.
*** the marmalade should have been in the museum.
Well, the writing class on Friday went well. We all had to read out the pieces we’d written for homework, based on the theme of childhood memories last week. This week’s homework is to write about a piece of music and why and how it appeals to you. Now this sounds easy, but where do you start? There are so many different pieces of music that appeal to me and for different reasons. Should it be the first piece of music you ever heard? If so then I would have to chose ‘The Cuckoo Waltz’ because I remember my father used to put the record (a 78 rpm) on the turntable and play it and waltz me around standing on his feet. I must have been about four years old. Or what about ‘Andy Pandy is coming to play tra, la la, la, la la’ - apparently I used to cry when Teddy disappeared into the toy basket at the end. I remember having to sing ‘Rose of England’ at a school concert, then there was the school hymn I think it was “Ye Holy Angels Bright” and my favourite hymns “Glorious things of thee are spoken” and “I give to you my Country” – not sure if they are the titles or the first lines. Next memories, well I fell in love with the golden face and voice of Scott Walker - I only have to hear the first few notes of “The sun ain’t gonna shine anymore” and the back of my neck prickles. Robert Knight’s “Everlasting Love” and the Supremes “Reflections” remind me of dances at the youth club. Or what about Waterloo Sunset written by one of the best ever English song writers, Ray Davies. I also like to play Jimi Hendrix very loudly at times to cheer myself up, I remember seeing him on stage years and years ago and I can still see the bandana and the purple crushed velvet suit and the larger than life image of something special. But where do you stop with music that means something to you? There are many classical pieces including Pachelbel’s Canon in D, Vaughan Williams’s “Fantasia on a Theme from Thomas Tallis”, Barber’s “Adagio” and the theme music from the ‘Mission’ in fact almost anything by Ennio Morricone, or the whole of the Carmina Burana, or Michael Nyman’s music from "The Draughtsman’s Contract" So I’m going to have to choose one of these to write about. Maybe I’ll write about Waterloo Sunset or the Vaughan Williams or perhaps I should try Hendrix?
Highlight of the day – getting lots of gardening done this afternoon and getting ready for my three day trip into Wales on Tuesday.
Today’s gripe - rain stopped the gardening before we had finished – the garden will never dry.
I was sitting in the conservatory this morning, drinking coffee, looking out at the garden with its brand new spring colours and I got to thinking what other sights, tastes and smells make you feel safe and happy. I always enjoy my first sip of newly made coffee after the aroma of making it has filled the house and I love the taste of fresh apricots*, gooseberries and mangoes. Smells would have to be lavender, torn basil leaves and freshly squeezed lemon or lime. One of my favourite sensations is walking barefoot in the sand with the sound and smell of the surf drifting into my consciousness** also the smell of the garden early in the morning when the sun has been up just a little while and the grass is still damp from the dew. I also love it when, very rarely nowadays, I wake up warm and comfortable after a good night’s sleep, that moment between waking and being fully conscious is wonderful. The feel of a warm, furry, purring cat on your lap when you are feeling down. Just a few of my favourite things.
* especially when bought early from a market stall in France and taken back to our lodgings to eat with warm fresh baguette, greengage preserve and – you’ve guessed - freshly made coffee.
** quite hard to do in Stoke, I admit, but usually managed two or three times a year, sometimes at Cherrueix or St-Jean-Le-Thomas, sometimes on the Welsh coast near Criccieth, last year on the Yorkshire coast, in the rain, but I still loved every minute. How wonderful is Staithes in the pouring rain? I thought it was breathtakingly beautiful and atmospheric.
Highlight of the day – there isn’t going to be a bus strike after all, so I don’t have to walk the two plus miles up to Hanley in order to get to my writing course. I don’t mind the walking, I’ve done it before it’s just the noise of the traffic on the main roads I have to walk along – could I suspend all belief and pretend I’m walking barefoot on the beach at Cherrueix ? Nope!!
Today’s gripe – happened yesterday actually, in Tesco. Why do people have to ‘push’ from behind in the queue? They come right up behind you with their trolly in the back of your legs, come right down and stand almost behind you while you are paying – very rude! Sometimes they have a partner in crime who is getting their bags ready to fill whilst you are still filling yours. They watch your every move, eagle eyed, ready to pounce, even before you have moved away from the checkout. Don’t do it! Thanks.
