My World - Mitchell's Fold

Taking you to Stapeley Hill and the Bronze Age Monument of Mitchell's Fold I am transporting you more than 3000 years into the past, into a time and a land of Celtic power and myth. Mitchell's Fold is a stone circle, a focus of many legends, set in dramatic moorland on Stapeley Hill; the area is a large and important remnant of common land, where all men had the right to graze their animals; today the stones and the area are maintained and cared for by English Heritage. 

Even on a misty day in March you can get an idea of the wide open spaces, where  sounds are as important as sights. Prehistoric man probably felt his heart uplifted as much as I do by the trilling of skylarks, the bubbling of curlews and the croak of the ravens. Up here, listening to the silence and the calls of the wild provides solace for the spirit too often and persistently beset by the noise of modern life.

It is difficult to photograph the fifteen remaining uprights out of the original thirty, millennia of unfettered wind and rain have worn them down to stumps, with only a few standing proudly erect. The circle measures 23 m in diameter. Why these circles were built, nobody knows for certain, but they were probably of religious and astronomical significance.

The site and the surrounding hills are exhilarating walking, with splendid views to the west, and you are never far from ancient history. There are burial sites up here, barrows and tumuli - there are remains of a tumulus no more than 20 m away from the circle itself;  nearby is  Cwm Mawr or Hyssington Axe Factory, where Bronze Age man quarried a distinctive volcanic rock which he worked into axes.

Legend has it that a cow was enfolded in the stone circle, destined forever to give a pail of milk to all who asked for it. One day the wicked witch Mitchell milked it into a sieve, whereupon the cow disappeared and the witch was turned into a pillar of stone. The stone remains to this day, much worn, alas, but still imprisoning the spirit of the witch.

This is instalment No 3 in an occasional series of posts on the hidden beauties of the South Shropshire Hills on the border between England and Wales in the wider context of That's My World.

Mona Lisa Smiles

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 59

Sheepishly, 

he crept into the flat, having first taken off his shoes outside the door. 

Hesitant, 

with infinite care, 

he put down each foot and froze every time a floorboard creaked. 

He hardly knew now what had made him accept the woman's 

invitation

to come in for a coffee.

All he had planned to do was to see her home,

safely;

she wasn't even his concern,

she had been  his friend's date.

Soon,

it would be morning.

The love of his life lay, fast asleep, in their bed;

it was hardly worthwhile joining her there,

he'd only wake her,

an inconsiderate thing to do in the small hours,

he said to himself.

He would lie down on the sofa in their living room instead.

By the thin light of early dawn filtering through the half-drawn curtains

he saw La Gioconda on the wall above the sofa;

She knew

and he knew she knew.

Who Am I To Moan

Seventy-nine hours of sunshine so far in Shropshire this month! And I feel I have been out in every one of them. For those of you who live in countries where you can rely on your annual quota of sunshine this probably means nothing, but for the inhabitants of the South Shropshire Hills, where mist, rain and grey skies seemingly hang about forever, it is the difference between slouching from place to place, head down in misery and a spring in the step and a smile for everyone.

So, who am I to moan.

I live in a part of the world which is not shaken by earthquakes, which suffers no tsunamis, which does not groan under the heel of a tyrant; water and food are plentiful,  I have a house to live in, a roof over my head. My loved ones are safe,  we need not cower and hide from bombs or guns, we can speak our mind freely. If we don't like our government - and who ever does? - we simply say so at an election, where we can freely exercise our civic right, without let or hindrance. Many of us take this right so much for granted that we ignore it, we hardly even bother to go to the polls. We make it a national hobby to complain about the weather, we moan about the rain, we say "They" should stop rivers bursting their banks and then we go and build houses on floodplains.

All we need to do is look around us and see, really take in, what is happening in so many parts of the world at the moment, the suffering of innocents; read Anne Thomas' blog from Sendai, about the quiet dignity of the people of Japan and the truly inspirational way they are dealing with the greatest catastrophe the country has suffered since WWII; watch the pictures from North Africa and hear the voices of doctors and other medical staff who are working under impossible conditions in shelled and damaged hospitals.

We have so much to be thankful for.

I am not really one for homilies and wagging forefingers; I do my share of moaning and complaining; but for me the mood of the moment is one of gratitude and humility; I would urge a spirit of compassion on all of us and for all of us to let this spirit guide us to do all we can, be it ever so little, to help alleviate the suffering of the innocents.

My World - The Spring Equinox - The Sun enters the House of Aries

Few people, even in the UK,  know about the beauties of the English Border County of Shropshire; I feel privileged to live here and  have decided to sing its praises in these pages. South Shropshire is a particularly quiet, very rural part of the world,  far from busy crowds and the hustle and bustle of modern cities. The Shropshire Hills have been granted the status of AONB (Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty) as well as Area of Tranquility.

That's My World Tuesday

will help me.

The large pond in Colstey Wood between  Clun and Bishop's Castle

in the South Shropshire Hills

Beware

'Here Be Dragons'

The Dragon's Head

And the Dragon's Foot with Long and Vicious Claws

The Sun enters the House of Aries:

He that is born in Aries shall be of good wit, and neither rich nor poor. He shall be soon angry and soon pleased. He shall have damage by his neighbours, he shall have power over dead folks' goods. He shall be a liar and unsteadfast of courage, and will take vengeance on his enemies. Unto thirty-four years he shall be a fornicator, and wedded at thirty-five; and if he be not he shall not be chaste.  He shall have great sickness at twenty-two years, and if he escape he shall live seventy-five years after nature.

The woman that is born in this time shall be ireful, and suffer great wrongs from day to day. She shall lose her husband and recover a better. She shall be sick at five years, and in danger at twenty-five, and if she escape, she shall be in doubt until forty-three years, but afterwards prosper.

Kalendar of Shepheardes 1604

Sigurd and Brunhild

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 58

Sigurd spurred on his horse. The journey had been long and arduous. He and  Grane, his horse, had overcome many perils, ridden through desert and swamp, wrestled crocodiles and bears, wild men and loose women. Now the journey was almost over. Fast as a bird, Grane carried the hero towards the distant mountains of Hindar. But still the dangers had not ended. They came to Hindarfjall, a terrifying waterfall cascading from a great wound in the side of the earth. Hero and horse, as one, flew on, riding day and night to overcome the monstrous waters, until the naked rocks of Hindar appeared before them in a mist, red as fire.

There, on the highest mountain, atop the bare rock, lay Brunhild, in deep sleep, banished by Odin to this forbidding fastness for disobedience, condemned to sleep until the bravest knight on earth, risking his life in the quest, should wake her.

Brunhild lay, in full armour, encircled by gold-shimmering shields, surrounded by a ring of blazing fire; gigantic flames spread a wall of unbreachable heat. The roaring inferno could be heard from mountaintop to mountaintop.

Grane  trembled. Man and horse made one last supreme effort, and took a mighty leap through the flames. Exhausted by their heroic struggles and the labours of many hazardous weeks, man and beast came to rest in front of Brunhild.

Sigurd saw the sleeping Brunhild and fell in love with her. Her armour encased her like a second skin; Sigurd, unable to free her with his hands, drew his faithful sword, Gram, which cut through plate, leather and chain like a knife through butter.

Brunhild awoke, the flames died down and Sigurd tenderly lifted her to her feet. Odin’s spell was broken, Brunhild was free.

She raised her head and gazed at the knight who had rescued her from a deep sleep lasting an eternity, a sentence she herself had called down upon her head.

“You took your time”, she said, “ what kept you?”

We've Made It Through Another Winter

"Come, sweetheart, listen, for I have a thing

Most wonderful to tell you, news of Spring".

Chaenomeles flowering on a sun-kissed, sheltered wall.

One more sleep and then it's official: it's Spring. Every year on this day Beloved and I congratulate ourselves and each other that we've made it through another winter. Winters are hard for me, I need daylight to keep the black dogs of depression at bay; although Beloved doesn't suffer from SAD he too is always very glad to see the lengthening days and feel the ever more warming rays of the sun.

"The loveliest flowers the closest cling to earth, And they first feel the sun".

Miniature Tulips

Miniature Daffodils

The leaves of this red Euphorbia glow in the sun.

And so do gardener and I, back in the kitchen, after a full day working outside.

Quotations:

The Miracle by John Drinkwater

Spring Flowers by John Keble

85th Birthday Party

Hello, lovely to see you, how are you. You are looking well”.
Thank you, I am well. Are you well?”
Thank you for coming, may I take your coat?”

Greetings are effusive. Kisses are exchanged. The pre-lunch, drinks and nibbles, 85th birthday party is in full swing when we arrive, or should I say, gently swaying; ‘swing’ is quite definitely the wrong word; most of the guests are very elderly and their swinging days are long over.

“Would you like a drink?” The attractive dark haired women asking is the host’s middle-aged daughter. “What would you like? We have wine, sherry, juice?” She raises a black-painted, inquisitive eyebrow.

Glass in hand we enter the birthday room. The hostess, the birthday girl, is sitting in a comfortable armchair, looking frail. There’s so little left of her, you feel that the gentlest breeze could blow her over. Or perhaps her thin body would allow  unhindered passage through. She smiles a watery old woman’s smile, her manners are still intact. “Thank you for coming”, she quavers, “ I’m afraid I can’t get up, I don’t have enough blood to the brain, I get dizzy. I have been told that I must stay in this chair.” First things first, ill-health is a very important topic at these gatherings.

I can hardly believe that this is the same woman who, ten years ago, ‘volunteered me’ to serve on a very difficult and unpleasant committee and, even more astounding, that I let her bully me into accepting the office.

“Happy Birthday, my dear”, I say, bending over her, receiving and returning a delicate embrace.  “Glad to see you looking so well”, I lie and kiss her papery yellow cheek. Eighty-five is not an extreme age in these parts, but some weather less well than others.

As I look around I recognize many other faces, nod to them and exchange “how are yous”. If you can’t see their spouse, you ask after his/her well-being too. Unless you are quick at turning and politely smiling at the next in line you will receive up-to-the-minute information on the reason why the other half couldn’t be here. “He’s had the operation, but his knee is still bothering him, he finds standing very difficult.” I know what she means. “I’m sorry to hear that, do give him my love, won’t you.”

Platters and platitudes are being handed round in equal measure. I help myself to a mini meatball and choke on the spiciness. I search the area round my feet for a sign of the small white terrier whom I caught earlier stealing a cocktail sausage, including stick, from a plate left on the lower shelf of a serving table. He is back, his wet black nose exploring other delicacies. Shooing him away, and lifting the plates out of his reach, I surreptitiously drop my spicy meatball. Now it’s his turn to cough and splutter.

I‘ve done the required circuit of the room and find a space on the sofa next to two ladies in animated conversation. With a bright smile I interrupt them, they turn to me and very soon we are discussing the
rapidly ageing population of Valley’s End and the consequences this has for the social life of the village. 

“Social life used to be so much livelier”, we say; “when we first came here  - most of us at this gathering are incomers - there were parties all the time, we were always entertaining or being entertained; remember those lovely concerts we had in the summer ?” We remember them well.  “Of course, we are all so much older now and, frankly, I don’t have the energy”, my neighbour on the sofa says. We decide there and then that we must do something, that we must organize a party where everyone invited is asked to bring a plate and a bottle. The ladies look to me expectantly. Our house and garden are of generous size and I have had many such parties in the past. “Of course”, I say hastily, “winter has been so awful this year, the roads were so bad, nobody thought to do very much. Besides, these endless grey skies hanging over us these past two weeks have made everybody feel miserable and depressed”. The danger is not over yet, so I excuse myself and make for the dining room. I have two major dinner parties planned during the next two weeks and can’t possibly have a bring-a-plate event as well.
I make a mental note to review the situation later on, in April or May maybe.

The dining room is witnessing important business, by the look of things. Six or seven men are standing in a circle in the middle of the room, their faces serious, earnestly plotting parish politics. All of them have reached the end of long years of dedicated service; they find it hard to relinquish the reins and let younger men take over. As they are all conservative in outlook and political preference, they might be discussing matters of national concern. The cabal breaks up as I enter; I seem to have a knack today for getting in the way of established conversations. They know that I am one of these wishy-washy liberals, my opinions are definitely the wrong sort here; besides, these are gentlemen of a bygone age, serious talk must be kept away from ‘ladies’. The group breaks up, several leave the room to mingle.  Others turn to me politely. Well-bred, old-world charm takes over until the ensuing flirtatious banter makes my teeth itch and I welcome the attention of a pompous old chap, an ex army colonel, who has heard that I mess about on this internet business and write stuff for other people to read. “What do you want to do that for”, he barks, “and what have you got to say anyway? That you go for walks with the dog?”  “Something like that”, I reply. “Does anybody want to read that sort of thing?” He isn’t finished with me yet. “Oh, one or two”, I say. “Harrumph, what a lot of nonsense, if you ask me”. He is probably too polite to tell me what he really thinks. I beam my brightest smile at him. His eyes narrow and frown, he is clearly cross with me and a little unnerved.

I move on into the kitchen where I just catch the hosts’ daughter, granddaughter and niece discussing family matters; another member of the family recently confided to me that problems over an inheritance had caused bad feelings; the slightly forced smiles greeting me tell me that I am interrupting unresolved mild hostilities. Wrong place, wrong moment, again. I am not going to get it right today.

I give up, put my empty glass on the kitchen table and leave the room. At any rate, the party is almost over. I thank the hostess, hug her good-bye, wave to everybody else and make for the door. “Eleven to One” means eleven-thirty to one-thirty, it’s one-forty now and we can go. On the way out I see the one person with whom I would have loved to have a longer chat, catch her eye and we stand in the open door, blocking the way, and make a quick date for coffee.

If we discuss the party at all, we will say how nice it was to see everybody again and how well the hostess looked, considering.

That's My World

There are so few people who know about the beauties of the English Border  County of Shropshire, that I have decided to sing its praises in these pages. When we first came to live here and told people in London that we were moving to the South Shropshire Hills area, most of them asked: "Where's that near then?" Although I don't particularly want great hordes of people to come and join us, it would be nice to spread a little envy at our good fortune. I hope that That's My World will help me to do that now and again. Although the new issue appears every Tuesday, there are one or two reasons why my contribution will not appear until Wednesdays. I hope they will let me join them, nevertheless.

To whet your appetite, let me show you a few sights of the ancient town of Ludlow, our nearest town of any size, to begin with.

The place name Ludlow, then spelt 'Ludelaue', is first recorded in 1138. It means 'hlaw' or 'low', i.e. hill or mound, beside the 'loud waters', i.e. rapids. 'Hill' may refer to the 'hill within a valley' on which Ludlow stands, or to a tumulus or burial ground.

Lower Corve Street

Broad Street

The Castle and Dinham Bridge over the River Teme

The Feathers Hotel (from a postcard)

Mill Street - The Wheatsheaf Inn and Town Wall

The Market Place with the Tower of St Lawrence's Parish Church

And here is where other people are showing off their world.

Stout Encounter

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No 57

At the 'Shamrock' Inn in Kilburn, north west London, the preparations for St. Patrick's Day were well in hand; extra bottles of Irish Whiskey and barrels of Guinness had been laid on and several regulars were practising what they meant to do well on the day itself: getting gloriously drunk.

One mighty old labourer proved particularly successful; having reached that stage where it is obligatory to burst into song, that's what he did, at the top of his voice and, for an Irishman, remarkably unmelodiously and raucously:

"did ye mother come from Oireland, cos' there's something in ye Oirish, and the Oirish in ye steals me heart away . . . . " he bellowed.

At the other end of the bar sat a little chap, crying softly into his pint of Guinness.

The large, buxom barmaid noticed his sadness, leant over the bar and took his hand into her plump fingers.

"Poor lad", she said, "have ye just come from the old country yourself then?" She hadn't seen him in the Shamrock before this night.


"No, I have not,  the little man sobbed,  I am a musician".

Madam, can you cook?

Butcher's shops are wonderful places to do a spot of people-watching. If you are a vegetarian or vegan, click off now.

We buy our meat from a very grand butcher's; the shop itself isn't grand, it looks pretty ordinary, but it sells mainly free-range, outdoor reared, organic and, in the case of pork and beef, many varieties of rare breed  meat. It makes you feel less guilty when you know that the animals had a reasonably happy existence while they were alive. They also taste better after death.

The butcher's shop is famous for miles around, many of our local restaurants buy their meat there and are proud to proclaim the fact.

We often recognise other customers; people stand in a long line on Fridays and Saturdays waiting to be served and while you wait you exchange comments on cookery, the kind of meat you hope to buy and what you are going to do with it.  It's a water cooler kind of place where people meet to discuss recipes rather than last night's TV.

The unusual thing is that many of the customers are men, big burly, red-faced, weather-beaten chaps, farmers and outdoor workers, not at all the  type you would associate with cooking, not a bit like the precious, full-of-and-up-themselves TV chefs, who faff around with fancy ingredients, producing airy-fairy bits of foamy fluff and nonsense.

So when this new women customer appeared, driving up in a brand-spanking new Land Rover which had never seen a muddy track let alone driven up one,  we all perked up.

"Yes, madam", said one of the butchers serving, "what can I do for you?"
"Erm, I'd like some meat?" Not a good start.
"Yes, madam, what would you like."
"Well, we are having this party tomorrow, some people are coming down from London and I'd like to give them a Sunday roast". A bit better already.
"A nice bit of roast beef, Madam, or lamb perhaps?". The butcher was all friendliness.
'Yes, that would be nice", she said. Back to square one.

The butcher has been serving long enough to recognise a duffer. He turned and went into the cold store and came back with a magnificent rolled joint, nearly as long as his arm from shoulder to wrist. We gasped in admiration and envy. She was going to have first choice.

"Oh yes", she said, "that looks lovely, I'll have that, please."
"Erm, madam, how many people will you be entertaining?"
"There should be eight of us", she replied.

The butcher laid the joint on the block and proceeded to cut it, ending up with a larger and a smaller piece.  Madam pointed to the large one.

"Are you sure, madam", butcher is still friendliness and helpfulness personified. "This piece will feed about fourteen people. I would suggest you have this piece", pointing to the smaller one.

'O, very well, if you think so".  All this time everybody else stood transfixed; nobody stared directly, sniggers were kept discreetly behind raised hands, eye contact was carefully avoided, but no other transactions took place.

Butcher wrapped the meat, handed it over, madam went to pay.

She had nearly reached the door on her way out, when she hesitated.

"Erm, excuse me, what do you think ? How does one cook . . . . . . . . . . .?"

A great sigh of joy went up. That was exactly the question we had all been waiting for.
Butcher obliged and the rest of us all went back to minding our own business.

Searching for Spring

Friko's Manor end-on

Leaving the house to go for a walk in search of signs of Spring the omens are not altogether favourable. Dark clouds have been brewing all day, the river acts as a funnel for the sharp wind, aiming it directly at the garden and pushing tree branches eastwards. The weathermen promised that there will be no rain, perhaps the wind won't allow the heavens to discharge their load over Valley's End.

The River from the Bridge by the Ford

Stepping down the bank from the garden I can see the river shivering in its bed, mirroring the slate-grey cloud. Reflections of thin, leafless trees fracture the flow.

"The Bar is Open". Two opportunistic lambs assess the possibilities.

But new life is all around, lambs are bleating in the fields, on the look-out for a free helping from another lamb's mother; the grass still growing sparse. There is need for farmers to augment the feed now that the ewes are grazing for two and three at at a time.

A day or two of warmth and these daffodils will split their hoods and open.

At this time of year daffodils grow everywhere; we are close to the Welsh border here and the Welsh have a great fondness for them. It won't be long now before the trumpets open and blast their bright yellow song from every verge, lane, hedgerow and roadside. There are so many thousands of them everywhere that eventually they will become an unsightly, aggressive, intrusive spectacle; I will wish them gone, dead, and their rotting leaves out of sight before long, but for now I can't wait for their bright lanterns to lighten the dark days. 

I will pick great bunches of them and bring them into the house. They grow in my garden too although gardener and I have been digging the spreading clumps up and 'distributing' them to bare areas on banks close to the house, but outside the garden. It is possible to have too much of a good thing. Daffodils have  a lingering, messy death, that's their main drawback. And if you want the bulbs to retain enough strength to flower again next year, do not cut the leaves off before they are fully rotted.

Another welcome sign are the golden leaves of the weeping willow which has its feet permanently washed by the flow of the river.  Red and golden dogwoods grow on the bank. Soon the leaves on willow and shrubs will turn green, providing shade for trout and a family of otters who play here very early in the morning. 

March is the time for White Rock Cress to start flowering in rockeries. It is a very enthusiastic little plant, willing to escape from gardens the minute the gardener takes his eye off. Tumbling over walls and rocks it is a very pretty sight, flowering profusely and with great abandon wherever it can find a foothold. This clump is a garden escapee, flowering in a hedge which has been allowed to choke a beautiful ancient stone wall. Arabis (its botanical name) is welcome to become a permanent resident here, as far as I am concerned.

Not a garden escapee, but a plant very firmly kept tethered inside my boundaries: the beautiful Lenten Rose, or Hellebore. This is a particularly pretty specimen. The flowers are delicate and nod downwards, hardly visible from above. Hellebores are amongst  the treasures of the garden which demand close attention and admiration. I have propped this flowerhead up so that I could bring the camera close from above.

Hellebores will self-seed profusely and produce many new seedlings. Unfortunately, they rarely come true from seed and even the most unusual plant will rejoin its common, usually pale purple, brethren.

Count Drackie and the Character Forming Qualities of Garlic

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 56

Count Dracula of Transylvania, Drackie to his friends, had had great fun tormenting his English visitor, the solicitor John Harker. Harker had given him plenty of legal advice regarding a proposed purchase of land over the border in Bukovina and was becoming a bore. Drackie wanted to visit England but for some reason Harker was totally opposed to the idea. He said it had something to do with Drackie’s best lady friends, also known as the ‘Brides of Dracula’ and Drackie’s habit of spending the night over a flagon or two of wholesome Dragon’s Blood. Drackie had had to lock Harker in his room for his own safety. There was also the question of Harker’s intended, the insipid Mina, who insisted that she should join Harker and fetch him home to England.

Drackie took one look at her; usually very fond of the ladies, he shuddered at the thought of nibbling her neck amorously, too bloodless by half, these English women. He much preferred the buxom, lively gypsy girls he employed in his castle. The castle was another reason he wanted to go off on a visit to England; the place was a crumbling ruin, falling to bits while he watched. It was high time he found himself one of these English builders who advertised themselves as specialist renovators and refurbishers of ancient monuments. A spot of interior decorating wouldn’t go amiss either.

Harker’s objections notwithstanding, Drackie took passage on the Demeter which was sailing to Whitby. He took a box of his favourite silver sand and earth; both were needed to acquaint English workmen with the kind of material they'd find in Transylvania.

Once in England, Drackie made his way to a group of friends of Harker’s and a couple of girls. One of the girls, Lucy, was no better than she should be, if I tell you that she was keeping three men dangling after her, you’ll understand what I’m saying. Drackie had a go too, they soon hit it off and Drackie was up to his old tricks, imbibing merrily. The other chaps were very jealous, as you can imagine and planned to do away with Drackie once and for all.

To this end they hired a Dutch chap, Van Helsing, who had form and knew all about assassination. In order to lull Drackie into a false sense of security they invited him to dinner at Quincey’s, an American chap, who was one of the conspirators. Van Helsing suggested the menu and they agreed to feed Drackie on mushrooms in garlic butter, garlic chicken and red onion marmalade, and for dessert a delicious garlic-cranberry-orange ice cream. A very fine old Burgundy was poured with a lavish hand. Candles flickered, a fire burnt in the deep grate and bouquets of flowers, artfully arranged and tied to polished, sharpened stakes stood in tall vases.

Drackie ate and drank like never before. He was amazed at the flavours he was experiencing, the ambience of the room knocked him for six. He looked round admiringly, taking it all in avidly. Exactly this is how he saw his castle, he must find out who had been the guiding hand behind this lavish décor. Hang the expense, he must have the finest workmen and take them to Transylvania.

He sucked on a garlic clove. As the succulent flesh melted in his mouth, his whole being mellowed. One by one, he gazed at his fellow diners. His throat constricted and his eyes misted over. A single tear ran down his cheek, try as he might to control it.

“My dear friends,” he croaked, “ my heart is heavy with remorse. Forgive me for treating you and your hospitality with disdain. Never again will I hurt your feelings, nay, the feelings of any man, woman or child. You have shown me such kindness, such generosity of spirit, that my shame overwhelms me. Henceforth it shall be my one desire to emulate you and do all in my power to take your civilising influence and apply it to every walk of life in my poor, backward country.”

When Drackie finished his speech, the conspirators looked at each other.

Van Helsing spoke. “Damn”, he said, “now what”.

Loneliness

Abstract Crowds moblog.net

My life is spent in perpetual alternation between two rhythms, the rhythm of attracting people for fear I may be lonely and the rhythm of trying to get rid of them because I know I am bored.
C.E.M. Joad



In the midst of a big crowd, I felt very lonely last night.

A coach party left Valley's End at 6.30 pm to attend a performance of the Russian State Ballet of Siberia's Romeo and Juliet. I have mentioned me and coach parties before; this trip was relatively pleasant because I sat next to another woman on her own who was as happy to be silent for most of the journey as I was. We exchanged pleasantries at relaxed intervals, but most of the time were content to think our own thoughts and look out at the gathering gloom.


The rather bizarre performance was not one I would highly recommend; I felt no emotion apart from a slight irritation at the overly energetic dancing and the poor playing.


But it’s not the ballet itself I want to talk about.

Several bloggers have used the oxymoron ‘gregarious loner’ which is what I would say describes me too, although the term doesn’t really exist, of course. The theatre was sold out, there were other coach parties present as well as audience members who still manage to go to such venues under their own steam. The place was heaving, animated groups standing around, queuing three deep at the two bars, a happy bustling hum in the air. All the things I love about theatres.

And then there was me.

I knew most of my fellow coach party travellers and could easily have joined one of their little groups; except I couldn’t bring myself to do so. I had been listening to the subdued chatter around me on the coach; I lack the gossip gene, I would have been unable to make any contribution or pretend an interest in what was being said. When I am on my own, I adopt the observer mode. Normally, I would have stood somewhere on the fringes of the milling crowd, glass in hand, and watched, picked up a snippet here and there and felt only very mildly conspicuous by my obvious air of being an outsider.

Last night I felt decidedly lonely. It was not a good feeling. The crowds were too dense for moving about easily. For a few minutes I joined the husband of a couple both of whom I know well and like; when she returned from the bar they were quickly recognised by former acquaintances, and there I was, alone again. In the end I fled back to my seat.

Beloved more and more opts to stay at home. His arthritis makes walking, standing around for a long time or sitting in a cramped seat very painful; to get him to accompany me, the occasion has to be worth the effort. He’s played Romeo and Juliet so many times himself that he’d have been very cross about the ‘squawking and honking’ of the orchestra.

For twenty five very happy years we have thrown ourselves into a busy cultural and social life as a couple. Before I knew him, solitude was a reasonably happy state of being; besides, bringing up children and working for a living left little time for anything else.  I enjoy solitude, which means that loneliness should be easily conquerable. But this intense feeling of loneliness is very  different.

My social graces are well developed, in spite of difficulty with mundane gossip. I know I am a popular guest and enjoy having people at my house too. So what makes crowds so different?

How am I going to overcome this inability to join in? Should I bother? Is it worth it? For weeks now there has been this black cloud of depression hanging over me. It is as if I am mourning something indefinable, something that hasn’t happened yet.

Soon I will have to go to many more places on my own, including going on holiday. The prospect is anything but cheering.

Fight to the Death

WILLOW'S MAGPIE NO. 55

The orange and lemon were lying side by side in the fruit bowl. There wasn't much to do, except lie around and argue about which of them was the more useful, more important, more widely travelled, and allround champion. 

"You're no better than me", said the orange, who thought that she'd win easily, being very fruity and full of herself. "In fact, I think I have the advantage over you because I can be peeled and eaten fresh, straight from the tree, whereas you are a sour, acidy little thing nobody in their right mind would want to eat raw. Ever heard the expression 'sucking on a lemon' ? That tells you all you need to know, doesn't it?"

The lemon was hurt and thought hard and long. True, nobody had ever complimented him on his gorgeous taste, but he was bright and shiny, like sunlight at its most intense. That must count for something.

When he mentioned that, the orange laughed. "My sunlight is hotter than yours, an orange sun burns brighter than a yellow sun". "We both come from the Far East, we have both been around since before the Crusades, we are both called citrus, so you can't trump me that way", the orange continued. "Besides, I can not only be eaten raw but I also make delicious juice, jelly, conserves, marmalade, syrup and salad".

The lemon cheered up when he heard that.  Not only could he become everything the orange had claimed for herself,  - well, maybe nobody really wanted to eat him in a salad except as part of the vinaigrette, but, hey, when it came to food, he definitely had the necessary zest, and to spare.

"I'll have you know, you pathetic, useless little upstart, that I have been used by the greatest chefs in history", he bragged, "let me remind you of chicken with lemon, fresh and preserved, duck with lemon, every kind of fish with lemon, lemon meringue pie, lemon tart, lemon drizzle cake." He was on a roll now."And how about every bit of me, from zest to juice, top to toe, in marinades, stuffings, sorbets, butters, creams, custards and curds. 

The orange was silent; there was duck and orange, of course, and orange curd; but she was unlikely to be used in quite as many dishes as the lemon obviously was. Both their skins were turned into candied peel, there was no point mentioning that.

The lemon had won the argument. There was nothing for it, the honourable thing to do was to admit defeat, and commit hara-kiri. They'd both be disembowelled soon enough anyway.

As  a member of the blood orange family her death stained fruit bowl, the instrument she'd used and the lemon itself the colour of blood.