Scenes From Rural Life

How many feet attached to how many legs

shall I use for my shopping trip today?

Two legs good, three legs even better ?

Hi sheep!

What do you think?

Can you give me some advice?

I suppose having four legs makes the question irrelevant for you?

Baaa!

Protect your lambs against cold and predators.

Young broom or good pasture thy ewes do require

Warm barn and in safety their lambs do desire.

Look often well to them, for foxes and dogs

For pits and for brambles, for vermin and hogs.

Tusser: Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry, 1573.

Let's buy some eggs first. 

Fresh eggs, laid by genuinely free-rage hens wandering about in the farmyard.

Cow pat and straw still attached.

Money in the bag and on we go.

All week the shoot has been busy in the hills and fields around Valley's End.

The season is about to come to an end, so perhaps

we'll bag a brace or two for the freezer.

There's never any need for a stalking horse, behind whose shoulders the gun

must shelter. Pheasants round here are bred in enclosures, well-fed and fat, and

released for the shoot.

They are almost tame, too lazy to fly up until the beaters stumble over them.

Not much sport in that.

The blackbird in my garden is better off.

Seeds and nuts, fat and apples, supplied on demand, and no guns allowed.

It won't be long before the big males like this one, 

start chasing younger males and females 

to expel the males and impress the females. 

Napoleon has started already.

Laundry service?

Unlikely.

Or Taxi Service?

Quite likely eventually.

In the country, everything is mended and re-used.

Online Tax Return

Piggy Bank - Wikimedia Commons

Please, Mister Taxman,

Let me file my tax return

before the deadline.

Haiku My Heart 

@ recuerda mi corazon

For two weeks

my efforts to file online,

sadly, were thwarted.

The deadline is close;

stop the red pens, the warnings,

the shrieking sirens,

please, do not fine me,

accept my details as true;

I'm trying my best.

It's true, for two weeks I have been trying to file my online tax return; the deadline is 31st Jan. I'm an online tax virgin and was willing to accept that I might have made mistakes, but no more. It wasn't my calculations that were wrong, no, my personal details didn't please the tax gods. Do I know my name? Birthday ? Address ?  Reference Numbers ? Yes, I do! 

I have gone for online advice and was fobbed off with long, incomprehensible, pre-packaged, one-size-fits-all advice. I have spent long hours listening to tinned music (music? hardly) while waiting to speak to lovely chaps called Brian, Mark and Dennis to give individual advice. Even though two of them went through my return with me online, they ended up by scratching their heads (I could hear it) and sending me onwards and upwards.

I wish I had counted the actual number of times I attempted to solve the puzzle by myself, going step-by-step through the pages presented on my screen, only coming up against X - warning - three errors on page, or correct personal details,  or must be filled in. A crash scene, with blue lights flashing and sirens blaring and dozens of policemen would have been less frightening.

So, this morning, a day before the deadline, I drove to the Tax Office in the nearest town to look for help. The place was shut, the building up for sale. A big sign said Enquiries with Messrs. Scrappit & Floggit, Agents for the Big Society.

With wobbly lip and tears of frustration, after another long, very personal conversation with another lovely chap at the end of a helpline, I had another go. Dear Reader, you may not believe this, but doing exactly the same as before, giving exactly the same answers in exactly the same places, I got through to the end. 

Somebody, somewhere, relented, threw a little switch maybe, or more likely, realised that they got it wrong and that I DO know my personal details even if they don't.

I've hardly been around in the blogosphere for the last three days, now you know why.  Normal service will be resumed.

PS: for my English readers who may want to attempt to file a return online for the first time:

You are given an emergency Nat. Ins. number, which bears no resemblance to a normal one and may, or may not, be accepted in subsequent dealings with the Inland Revenue. Beware!

Hansel and Gretel and the Rock Festival

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 50

Mum and Dad had put their foot down. They were adamant.

“You are not going to the disco, and that’s final. I don’t care how many of your friends are allowed to go, you are not going. You are too young, ask us in a year or so and we’ll think again.”

Brother and sister were crushed. They’d told their friends that they’d all go together to the rave to be held in a large barn on the outskirts of the local town, just four miles away from their village.

The place was called ‘Escape’ and that’s what it appeared to be to the village kids, a place where you could get away from boring adults and their restrictions.

Gretel stamped her foot. “I hate them”, she wailed, “they never let us do anything. I bet Hannah’s Mum lets her go.”

Hansel scowled. “Serve them right if we just went without their stupid permission.”

The seed was sown.

The Saturday of the rave was bright and cold. There’d been snow overnight, the countryside looked cheerful and inviting in the sunshine.

Still sore, Hansel and Gretel kept to their rooms after lunch. Mum was busy in the kitchen and Dad was tinkering in the garage.  The party was to start at four pm and last till seven, when the kids who’d been allowed to go would be picked up and ferried home again.

Hansel burst into Gretel’s room. “Come on, get your coat on, we’re going,” he commanded. Gretel was ready for him, she’d already got her sparkly silver top on under her jumper and her black leggins under her jeans. “If we go now, by the path through the wood and across Farmer Giles’ field, we’ll get there by four. We’ll cadge a lift home and Mum and Dad will never know that we’ve been out.”

They sneaked out by the French doors into the garden and ran. As planned they got to the barn in good time, the music had only just started and not many of their friends had arrived as early as they had. But a group of much older boys and girls from the town were there, standing at one end of the barn in private huddles, with a skinny, tall boy going from group to group, handing them something.

Gretel stared. “They’re not meant to be here.” she said curiously. “They’re a bit old, aren’t they,” she added. Hannah agreed. “Keep away from them, they’re bad news. Some of them are druggies.”

Gretel shuddered. She soon forgot all about them as she started dancing with the other girls, all of them in a circle, with the boys doing their own thing somewhere else. She felt a little guilty at having come without permission, but where was the harm; she and Hansel would be home again soon, with Mum and Dad none the wiser.

The music got louder, the barn heated up and the girls stopped for a drink of water. The tall boy was loitering by the improvised bar. He eyed Gretel, who was tall and looked older than her fourteen years, appreciatively. “Fancy a little booster?” he asked. “Ever tried it?” Gretel found it hard to get away from him in the crush. “Here you are, have a bit, just a quarter won’t do you any harm. Try it, it’s free.”

He took her by the arm and manhandled her out of the crush by the bar. and out by the barn door. “Get off me, let go of my arm, I don’t want your booster.” She was alarmed now. He gripped her a little harder. “Come on, be nice, have a little fun.”  

Suddenly, Hansel appeared. He was only thirteen and much smaller than the tall boy. “Hey, leave my sister alone”, he shouted; the tall boy turned and laughed. “Says who?”  Hansel threw a feeble punch at him. The boy side-stepped him and laughed louder, letting go of Gretel’s arm.  Furiously, Hansel picked up a thick broomstick leaning against the barn wall. He swung it, hitting the tall boy on the side of his head. At the same time Gretel shoved him hard and the boy staggered and fell back into the snow, momentarily winded.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Gretel said, “home, Hansel.” They ran to pick up their coats and legged it, back through Farmer Giles’ field and into the woods that would lead them home.

Gretel could have sworn that she saw a large pale arrow pointing them homewards, back on the right path.

From Hags To (Not Quite) Bitches

Celtic Hags - Korrigans

This has been a week for parties, two lunches and a dinner party. And before you think that my life is a series of brilliant social occasions, let me quickly put you right, this was very unusual. The social scene in January is normally as dull and dreary and grey as the January sky.

Still having Beloved’s seemingly innocent but very appreciative exclamation ringing in my ears:  “Aren’t Italian women beautifully groomed!”  while watching a TV show set in Rome, I decided to do something for my outer woman – internally, I am extremely well-groomed, it just doesn’t show up on the outside.

Three parties in one week called for a visit to the hairdresser. I know what I owe myself, after all. That these well-groomed, beautiful women were all twenty years younger than me and more than thirty years younger than Beloved didn’t seem to matter. Nothing ventured nothing gained.

While I was getting my coat and bag upstairs an ominous clunking and thudding sound reached me.

A few moments later a voice hailed me:
“Dearest (!), are you there?”
The ‘are you there’ is part of the ritual on these occasions.

“Just a mo, I’m coming”.

“Dearest (!), I’ve done something.”
This very gently, an apology and a hint of fear already in the tone.

“I’ve got the car out of the garage for you. The rake fell over, hit the window and smashed it. I’ve smashed the side window.”

Our garage is not one of these tidy places you see on TV or in ads, it’s full of junk, gardening tools, two thirds empty cans of paint, shelves with bottles of home-made wine, sacks of dog food and bird food, large terracotta pots and tubs that would crack if left outside in winter, yard brooms, etc. It all works. Everything is stacked and shoe-horned  in and secured, and there is enough room for the car too, provided you snap back the wing mirrors and stop when you hit the tennis ball hanging from the ceiling on a string at one end  and line up the front right hand car door exactly with the door leading into the workroom. It’s easy. A child could do it.

The window was smashed to pieces; there was no chance that I’d be able to use our one and only car.

I am a picture of restraint at these times. I promise I stopped cursing after five minutes and asked politely: “what happened?”

“Well, ‘somebody’ must have shifted the bird seed bucket which shifted the spade which pushed the rake and loosened it from its holder. The wing mirror must have accidentally nudged it which made it fall forward at exactly the moment the window was in its path downwards.”

We never established who the ‘somebody’ was, presumably some unknown intruder in the dead of night; the explanation itself couldn’t have been more logical. And detailed. And well thought out.

I went to all three parties well-groomed only on the inside; nobody seemed to mind.

Beloved and I are speaking again.

January Fireworks

'V' For Victory

Bold Snowdrops Rising

Innocence Reborn

Haiku My Heart
recuerda mi corazon

Who says that January has to be 

dreary and dull.

If you are lucky and catch the moment of glory

you can end up with pure gold.

Bowles' Golden Grass

The frosted Leaves of a Heuchera

A  Golden Fountain of Deschampsia

To add to the cheerful message of this post, here is some excellent advice to shun winter melancholy at this dark season:-

He that is become mad with sadness and heaviness, to him ought fair to be spoken and made merry; many things should be promised him, and some given. If it is a man, let him be refreshed with women, for the same avoideth anger; but if it be a woman, let her be refreshed with men; the same bringeth them soon to their senses.


John Hollybush in  The Homish Apothecary 1561

The Three Spinners or How To Profit From Idleness And Deceit

WILLOW's MAGPIE No. 49

A long time ago, a poor hard-working mother was cursed with an idle daughter who simply refused to bolster the household finances by helping her mother at the spinning wheel.

Finally mother lost all patience and smacked her daughter until she cried. The Queen happened to be riding by at that exact moment. She heard the girl cry and, being soft-hearted, came to inquire the reason for the racket.

Mother was ashamed of her lazy daughter. Instead of owning up, she said that her daughter wanted to spin all day but that she didn’t have the money to provide the flax.

“Poor girl”, said the Queen. “Come with me to the palace, I have plenty of flax and you’ll be able to spin to your heart’s content”.

At the palace the Queen showed the girl three rooms filled with flax.

“Spin me this flax”, she said, “ and when you have done so, you shall have my eldest son for a husband. You may be a poor peasant girl, but you are wonderfully industrious; that’s dowry enough”.

Left to get on with it, the girl burst into tears. She was even worse off here than at home. She went to the window, weeping desperately.

Three old women were standing outside, gossiping. One had a broad, flat foot, the second had a long, drooping underlip and the third had a huge thumb. “Why are you crying such bitter tears, pretty girl”, they asked.

The girl sobbed out her story.

“Well, here’s what we’ll do for you”, said the ugly women, “we’ll do the spinning for you if you invite us to your wedding to the Queen’s son. You’ll have to promise, mind”.

Instantly, the girl’s tears dried up. “Come in, come now”, she said, “don’t delay, you could start right away. I promise to do as you ask and invite you to the wedding.

No sooner said than done. The women came in and began their spinning. One drew the thread and trod the wheel, the next wetted the thread, the third twisted it and struck the table with her finger, and as often as she spun it a skein of thread fell to the ground, spun in the finest manner possible. When they were not working the girl hid the women in her own chamber where nobody else was allowed to enter.

One after the other the rooms were emptied of flax. Every time the Queen came to check on progress, the girl showed her the great quantity of thread spun. When all the work had been done, the three women left. “Don’t forget your promise and invite us to the wedding. It will make your fortune.

The Queen was delighted, mightily she praised the girl for her industriousness. “It shall be as I promised, you shall marry the crown prince. We will prepare for the wedding immediately”.

“May I ask a favour”, the girl said. “I have three dear old aunts who have been very kind to me. May I invite them to the wedding?”

The Queen consulted her son. “We don’t see why not”, they said.

In due course the wedding feast began and three old women entered, dressed in strange apparel; the girl embraced them and said “welcome, dear aunts”.

The Prince saw them, saw how ugly they were and looked at his new bride.  Could they really be closely related? His pretty girl and these ugly old crones?

“Hello there, ladies,” he said politely, not wanting them to see that he was in shock. “Welcome and all that, but do tell me how you came by the massive foot, the lip hanging down to your chest and the malformed hand”, looking at each of them in turn.

“By treading the spinning wheel”, the first one said.
“By licking the thread”, the second one said.
“By twisting the thread”, the third one said.

Hearing that, the Prince instantly decided that he’d be the man in his household, to put his foot down and forbid his pretty new bride ever to touch a spinning wheel again, no matter how much she cried and pined for it.

The Alphabet Game - 'A' is for . . . . .

Thyme

Recently I have noticed that two bloggers, Madame Butterfly, of A New Start, and Ellen, of Stuff From Ellen's Head,  both of whose blogs I enjoy reading, have started to post Alphabet posts without being members of a meme group. The meme groups all have many members already, so I thought I’d copy Madame Butterfly and Ellen and do a set of my own. A further reason is, of course, that I can simply stop doing them if I lose interest.

Here goes:

A is for Aromatherapy

What could be sweeter than to be welcomed by your gentle practitioner with an indulgent smile and a warm hug and be sent to a fragrant little room pervaded by the scent of essential oils, some wiffly-waffly music barely perceptible in the background. Ranged around the walls are some bookshelves holding books on complementary therapies, a small desk, a pair of comfortable chairs and a pile of thick, clean towels on a stool in the corner. In the centre  stands the couch, a contraption already covered in towels,  two small cushions and a headrest at one end, which can be removed.

The whole set-up speaks of luxurious relaxation without being in the least luxuriously appointed, or horrendously expensive.

My friend Jilly has been a complementary health practitioner for two decades and she is very good at it; she is less good at making a good living at it.

When I rang her for an appointment after we first came here, I wanted a facial, a beauty treatment. “I don’t do beauty treatments”, she said, “I work with the whole body, not just the outer layer”.

I didn’t know people like her existed then. Deeply involved in what were then called ‘Alternative Treatments’, and the whole philosophy surrounding them, I found her remarkably sensible in spite of her other-worldly kindness and spiritual warmth. I had had some very unfortunate experiences in London and paid a lot of money for treatments which had had no effect at all.

I have been addicted to Jilly and her healing hands ever since my first treatment. She has helped me through some very rough patches. Jilly practices several therapies but my favourite is Aromatherapy Deep Tissue Massage.  BUPA  provides a clear and unflowery, detailed, article on Aromatherapy for those who are interested to learn more.

This is what Jilly herself has to say:

The ancient Egyptians were probably the first to discover the healing power of natural plant oil. The aromas emanating from flowers, herbs and trees are due to potent, volatile essences found within tiny glands in the plant. Once extracted and distilled hey are called essential oils.


The aromatherapist skillfully selects the right combination of oils for each individual. These essential oils are then massaged into the body, producing a feeling of blissful relaxation.


Essential oils penetrate through the skin, taking their healing properties deep down into the system, thus ensuring good blood and lymph circulation through the body.


Aromatherapy treats a whole range of disorders including back pain, stress, tension, sciatica, sinusitis, allergies, eczema, asthma, migraine, insomnia, arthritis, and many more.

With Jilly I know I am in very good hands. This time, after a prolonged spell without any treatment and a stressful few weeks, the massage is very painful. The knots in my back, my shoulders, my neck, arms and legs need a lot of manipulation before they yield and loosen; but Jilly gets to them. I squeal and she says “sorry”, but she doesn’t give up.

When I leave her, I ache all over, but I also walk tall again, with my neck rising from my shoulders, not sunk into them.

Not a miracle, just a good aromatherapy massage and a good practitioner.

Fun With (Sort Of) Haiku

Night meanderings,

sleep evades restless Friko,

she dreams up Haiku.

Joined Haiku My Heart

only two returned her call.

A muted welcome.

She will try once more,

perhaps they'll notice her now.

If they don't, too bad.

o-o-o-o-o

Cyberspace Glory.

Another lucky blogger

made Blogger of Note.

All over blogland

spelling mistakes, poor grammar.

Who taught the teachers?

o-o-o-o-o

Enough fun.

Stop her, somebody.

Technically,

these may be haiku,

as in 5-7-5.

But lyrically,

they are to Classic Haiku

what finger exercises

are to Chopin Études.

Sorry Rebecca, your site is lovely and I really don't mean to belittle your artistic endeavours, which have great merit. But it's late, I'm exhausted, and my head won't leave me alone. I promise to do better another time.

Introducing Musicians

WILLOW'S MAGPIE TALES No. 48

Every orchestral player, so scenario-writers would have you believe, carries a conductor's baton in his case. This is not true: open any instrument case in any bandroom at any time, and you will find a near-black bow-tie or flimsy scarf, seven old assorted programmes, an outdated lottery ticket, a sandwich and a dirty duster.

There may also be an instrument of some sort, but there will be no more sign of a conductor's baton than of a poached egg. Probably less.

There is a great deal of romantic nonsense written about musicians. Novelists endeavour to convince the public that members of the profession wear an air of glory, and manage to infuse them with a spirit of romance and adventure, that is denied other mortals. A musician's life is, in reality, as prosaic as any; there is no more glory attached to it than to the lot of a shop assistant, and no more adventure than to the life of a travelling salesman.

The concert goer is, perhaps, more deluded than one who knows less about music. After weeks of happy anticipation he listens, entranced, whilst sixty black-clad performers play his favourite symphony. It is only natural that he should place these beings on a mental pedestal, and imagine that if they do have the same sordid necessities and vices as the rest of the species, they at least forget about them whilst they are playing for his benefit.

The concert goer also holds the idea that musicians play chamber music in all their leisure moments. The opposite view is also widely held: that musicians play poker whenever they are off duty, and are too sharp to admit that they are on an easy racket. The two opinions, in a nutshell, are that musicians are either long-haired or bald. Some of them are, of course, but never at the same time.

The first thing a player does when he comes on to a stage, having made sure that he has the best available chair and sufficient room to play, is to study the audience. Very attractive members of the audience, male or female, will occasion an appreciative titter. Critics will cause mournful glances in the direction of the conductor, blaming him in advance for the performance's shortcomings.  Any player spying a fixer - these exalted beings rarely attend concerts - will keep the sighting to him/herself and play like they've never played before. Getting on to the A-list of a well-known fixer is what every musician aspires to; fixers have such sought-after money-spinners as light music sessions, film sessions and TV jingles in their gift. Jingles pay the most for the least effort.

Musicians develop, very early in their careers, a fine technique of conversation with the public. They will size a layman up from his first sentence, and adapt their remarks to suit his taste, on the principle that every member of an audience is a potential employer, or at least a possible supper. There is no propaganda for musicians, only for music, and it is incumbent on every player to convince as many people as he can that he is a fine artist and a nice chap and that the orchestra to which he belongs is the finest in the country.

During their career, most players adopt a fatalistic attitude, and have difficulty in keeping up the attitudes that are expected of them. They would really much rather be at home painting the bathroom or sorting their stamp collection.

BLOGGING - Anonymously ?

Quite recently it has become known to some here at Valley’s End that I am a blogger. It’s my own fault, I foolishly let the cat out of the bag myself to the local news and information journal who published some of my reminiscences and they are wanting a few more.

Then there’s family. Apart from Beloved very few knew; neither did local friends. Those few who knew didn’t care and rarely read, so I was quite safe.

All this may be about to change; it’s amazing how these things spread; one person knows – all know. I don’t care how many people in cyberspace read my blogs, the more the merrier; but once your cover is blown amongst your nearest and not so dearest, you need to watch your step.

I very rarely write about family – they might not like it; besides, we aren’t close enough for them to be in the forefront of my daily thoughts. (Let me reassure all of you who have just gasped in horror at my callous words: it would be different if anything catastrophic happened to any of them).

The past is different, you can’t hurt the feelings of the dead.

I have written about Valley’s End, of course, and will continue to do so; although I never mention real names, I sincerely hope nobody recognizes themselves. I am also hoping that it is true what they say, that a character in a book, a biography, or even a blog, never sees themselves as others see them. And if they do, they usually see themselves as the person who is described favourably, sympathetically, never as the unpleasant character, or worse, the butt of everybody’s jokes.

I believe that an ordinary blog post, depending on reading time, has a shelf life of about, say, five minutes? Maybe less. One reads, one digests, one comments, one moves on. In time, one gets to know more about one’s favourite fellow bloggers, you might even correspond outside blogland; you get to like people with whom you have something in common. A steady drip feed about personal stuff begins to make an impression.

There’s problem number one: your blogging pals know stuff about the people you mention in your blog.

Problem number two is when those whom you mention in your blog, however obliquely, feel that you are discussing private matters which are nobody’s business.

Problem number three is when it’s family you talk about and you are not one hundred percent complimentary. Family might just resent you talking about them, full stop.

So what to do?

I know several bloggers who blogged under their own names, who had to close blogs and start new, anonymous, ones because family members objected to what they had written; family members felt their privacy had been invaded. I can understand that, I too would like to choose what is known about me and my life.

There are many of you who revel in reporting on family matters, usually because family life is so idyllic that you simply have to share it. I love some of these blogs, they give me an idea of what I’m missing. You are allowing me to stand at a window looking in on a fairy tale. “Mrs. Cynic Saboteur” that I am – a phrase coined for me by a dear friend and confidante – doesn’t quite believe in the fairy tale, of course; nobody’s life is perfect all the time. No children are permanently sweetness and light, no husbands, wives, siblings never overstep boundaries.

Those bits mercifully remain hidden from view, which is only right and proper.

I don’t know how many of you who write about work, the office, colleagues, school, etc., or friends and social contacts, are known as bloggers; most of the ones I read, with pleasure, appear to be anonymous. If you are unfailingly kind and deeply understanding as well as unobservant about your fellow man and woman, I probably give up reading your blog. Not that that need worry you, of course, we all do what we like doing best.

There is one group for whom it seems not to matter if anyone knows who they are: the dreamers, poets, artists, writers of prose rather than personal blog posts, who never put a foot wrong. If you have nobody who resents you, nobody who actively wants you to stop blogging because they fear an indiscretion, well, you have only yourselves to blame.

Finally, it gives me great pleasure to be a member of this wonderful community for as long as you’ll have me; I love you all. (well, most of you).

Haiku My Heart

I just came across this invitation on 

Marilyn's blog

 and thought 'why not'.

It's bedtime, the owls are hooting in the beech tree outside my window.

Why not turn them into a haiku.

Owls in the blue night

calling across the valley.

A sliver of Moon

please join us for

..."haiku my heart at recuerda mi corazon"

herel

No, Not Again.

You’d think there’s nothing easier than getting a fully functioning car out of the garage this morning to go to the next town, a mere matter of a 20 minute drive away? Forget it. We’ve had more of the pretty white stuff.

I want it gone. Now.

Living in the furthest rural reaches of the country makes for a very exciting life. You can have hours of fun indoors, looking out on snow and ice, mud and floods, all shrouded picturesquely in mist and fog and impenetrably dull grey skies, and practice swearing, cursing, beating the husband – well, it’s not done to beat the dog, is it? -  shouting, railing against the fates, anything you’d like to call it. In fact, while you are swearing, cursing, etc. you could not only invent new curses, you could also find a whole new set of phrases by which to call the activity.

My, what a pleasure.

Sorry to go all whingeing and whining and moaning on you once again – I am getting good at it, don’t you think? – but I was all set for a pleasant morning of beautification and pampering; and I am not one to forgo such pleasures without a tantrum.

Besides, I look in dire need of some restoration work.

There was nothing for it but to give in with a seriously bad grace and grab a tin of polish and some rags and vent my fury on a couple of pieces of furniture that have been standing around, not earning their keep, but getting duller and more and more stained and finger-marked, and give them a polish to make them squeak, the first for more than a year.

It helped. I am now too exhausted to swear.

I also noticed just now, when I was walking the dog, that the tree I have thought of as an ‘ash’ up to now turns into  a dropoffilia in this weather.

Of This And That

Of Rivers

What a difference a week makes.

These two photos were taken from the same spot

of the same part of the river.

I am not at all sure which view and temperature I prefer.

Muddy brown meltwater, dull skies and drizzle,

or last week's frozen river and clear, cold days.

Of Gardens

The water in the water butt is still frozen solid.

The butt measures three feet by two feet

and holds over 200 litres of water.

It was toppled by its own weight.

Wonder how long it will take to melt?

Of  The Twelfth And Last day Of Christmas

This was once the most festive day of the twelve, its celebrations ruled by the King of the Bean and the Queen of the Pea - respectively the man and the woman who found the concealed bean and pea in their slice of Twelfth Cake, If a woman chanced on the bean, however, she could choose the King; while a man, who got the 'pea slice' could select the Queen.

Of Molehills And Snowdrops

The early snowdrops are very late this year, 

The last few years they were out and in full bloom by Christmas.

But molehills have appeared everywhere.

To destroy moles, take some white or black hellebore, the white of an egg, some wheat flour,

milk and a little sweet wine, or mead, make it up into a paste and put pellets of the size of a nut into their holes, which being greedily eaten by them, will occasion their death.

The New Gardener's Calendar 1779

And, finally, of Labradors : first there were two,

then there were three.

What Is That Thing ?

WILLOW'S MAGPIE 47

Polished purple-black metal, 

shiny, smooth,

with rounded, hollowed out curves

meeting in a sturdy foot,

small, rounded protuberances

emanating.

A small object,

ornament,

missile,

sculpture,

implement,

weapon?

Its purpose lost,

like long-forgotten tools

on dusty shelves,

unloved, 

unwanted,

unused.

Except that now it is reborn, 

resurrected,

recognized for what it is:

a symbol for the new beginning,

the rounded curves of new life,

polished hollows and shiny studs

to thread and pin and follow

the winding road of a new year.

Meditation

This infant year, how very young it is.

So much to learn, so many steps to take

Into the dark unknown.

The light of Christmas gone, 

Into the deepest, most impenetrable forests.

And yet, how old this year is, so many aeons old.

Standing by the window, 

Watching blackbirds and thrushes shiver in the cold

And small birds scrabble for crumbs on the bird table,

We are slowly growing old, the years and I.

The world is black and white and muddy brown,

Winter flexes his muscle, 

His white coat hiding the land living in want of colour,

Fields yearning for crops, for new growth and abundance.

January proudly dancing on ice 

Leaves me hesitant and timid, afraid to miss my step.

They say the days are lengthening, 

I cannot tell.

Yet it is true, there’s hope.

They say that things will change,

That kindness and good sense will now prevail, 

I cannot tell.

They say we’ll live in peace and gentle harmony

With our Earth, our neighbours, and ourselves.

We can but dream.

How young, how very young this new year is.

And Now It Really Is All Over!

St Barbara's Branch
cut and put in water on 4th Dec

Apart from the usual corny wishes for Peace on Earth, Food and Shelter for all Mankind, Kindness and Consideration for the Planet and All Creatures, great and small, who dwell on it; in other words everything I have wished for for countless years, without much visible success, I would really like some peace and quiet for myself now, please.


Today was the last of the parties, the smartest, largest, most opulent of them all, held in a wonderful house in the hills; and Beloved and I never even went! We simply couldn't face yet another round of 
"did-you-have-a-nice-christmas-where-with-whom--when-and-what-were-the-roads-like".


Instead, we got up late, had a leisurely breakfast, walked the dog, had an even more leisurely lunch, snoozed for a bit, and generally let the world go by without us lifting a finger to help it on its way.


I am not a great believer in New Year's Resolutions, I have never yet managed to keep one for more than a few days, so I no longer bother. Besides, if I haven't learned to live with myself by now, with all my faults, fantasies and foibles, I never will.


What I'd like for myself is the strength to continue standing on my own feet, with the occasional helping hand, offered and given, when the going gets rough, for me or others, and a sense of humour when yet another overly ambitious undertaking or plan comes to dust.

In the days to come

Let me be able to accept joy with simple gratitude

Pain and sorrow with fortitude and courage

Let there be a friend beside me on the path

Let my spirit be content with what I find ahead

Let a kind heart and hope be my companions along the way.

A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR

TO ALL MY DEAR

BLOGGING FRIENDS

sincerely,

FRIKO