Gentle Everyday Life

Amelanchier in blossom

The high thin whistle of returning swallows and martins swooping joyously in the sky is everywhere, it is definitely spring. Finally. It’s still none too warm and I haven’t taken tender plants, the lemon and olive trees and ferns out of the conservatory yet but no night frosts have been forecast for the next week and I might risk having Paul carry them outside when he comes on Monday. I usually do this in the middle of May although there is always a warning not to do anything rash before the end of this month. In these ‘Franklin’s Days’ beware late and destructive frosts, thunder and unreliable weather.

According to a Devon legend, the sharp frosts which sometimes occur at about this time are the revenge of one Franklin, a beer-brewer put out of business by competition from cider. He therefore vowed his soul to the devil in return for frosts on each of the three Franklin’s Days around May 21st hoping that these would kill the apple-blossom and ruin the cider crop.

It will also be time to strim swathes of spent daffodils before the beginning of June. So many plants die untidily, leaving a horrible mess for several weeks but as they need the dying foliage to replenish their stores of energy to produce next year’s flowers we must put up with the yellowing flattened carpets. Having lost old gardener I am in a bit of a pickle. There is no way I can do all of it myself, certainly not the really hard jobs like dealing with compost, with digging, pruning trees and shrubs. I have an area of nasty plum tree suckers. Old gardener cut down the tree last autumn but the suckers have spread and infested a large patch. I have no idea how to get rid of them. It’s a problem. If I can find someone to dig them up and maybe poison the remains I could level the area off, put in what is known hereabouts as a “water feature” (very fashionable, a kind of fountain with a built in pump which allows for the water to rise and fall and produces a pleasant sound) and use bark chip or gravel to cover the earth. There is a very beautiful acer in the same bed which I want to keep. A water feature would be just the thing to set it off.

I am gently forcing myself to meet people, for lunches at a cafe, supper at the pub, a movie being shown at the village hall, a coffee here and there, a friend popping in for an hour, a poetry reading evening, and so on. Very mild, non-threatening and non-tiring entertainment. I think it must be doing me good. Once Millie is gone I won’t have the automatic daily conversations with other dog walkers.

Talking of dog walkers: I was in the High Street the other day on my way to the surgery when I passed a man and a woman standing by a gate, gossiping. I said “good morning” as I was passing them. The man turned, said good morning back and then: “Ursula? It is Ursula, isn’t it? I didn’t recognise you without your dog.” I expect I shall have to get used to people do a double take. Having said that, a long time village acquaintance came down towards me as I was going up a steep lane the other day. Again I said good morning; she stopped, looked at me closely and said “I didn’t recognise you with your head down.” Hm, have I become a changeling? It is said that mortal children are often substituted for a changeling during May, perhaps that goes for some adults too?

. . . . a little western flower . . . . .

After all the raving and ranting I’ve done recently, not forgetting moaning and whining, perhaps it’s time I turned my attention to gentler topics. How about the humble pansy? Anyone interested? Thought not. See what I can do.

Let’s start with the common European wild pansy, viola tricolour, also known as Johnny-Jump-Up, heart's ease, heart's delight, tickle-my-fancy, Jack-jump-up-and-kiss-me, come-and-cuddle-me, three faces in a hood, or love-in-idleness. And that’s just a few of them in English.

 wild pansy

In German the wild pansy is called, inter alia, Ackerveilchen (viola of the field), Muttergottesschuh (Mother of God’s shoe), Maedchenaugen (maiden's eyes), Schöngesicht (beauteous face) or Liebesgesichtli (Lover’s face).

The English illustrator, Cicely Mary Barker (28 June 1895 – 16 February 1973) was best known for a series of fantasy illustrations depicting fairies and flowers. The wild pansy is one of the flowers used by her in her rather whimsical drawings.
Shakespeare mentions the wild pansy in two of his plays:   In Hamlet, Ophelia, who is mad with grief at the death of her father, rambles on about strewing herbs:  “And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts…” (Act IV, Scene 5.)
And in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Oberon commands Puck to bring him “…a little western flower / Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound / And maidens call it love-in-idleness.” (Act II, Scene 1.)   It is the effect of this natural aphrodisiac that causes the mayhem and entertainment of the entire play!  You could say that A Midsummer Night’s Dream is woven around the magical properties of heartsease.

Georgia O’Keefe produced a very beautiful painting of a black pansy and followed it up with a depiction of a white one.

Wild pansies were used as herbals, to cure venereal disease for instance, acc. to Culpepper; ditto headaches and dizzy spells. The ancient Greeks used it as a love potion and a symbol of fertility.

The violet has ever been the emblem of constancy. There is a French proverb which goes something like this: “Violet is for faithfulness, which shall in me abide, hoping that in your heart too, it shall not hide”.

The German name for the garden pansy is 'little stepmother’ Stiefmutterchen. There is a very sad tale attached to it:

Stepmother, symbolised by the large lower leaf, only allows her own children
to adorn themselves in colourful array.
Her stepchildren, the upper two leaves of the flower, have to remain in the background, clad in modest colours, or plain white.

Sorrow at the poor treatment his own children receive has turned the pistil, representing the father’s hair, white.

Lastly an explanation for the name in English, which is, as so often, a mispronunciation of a foreign name.

A small bouquet of pansies, given by a lover to his love, was called a pensée, - hence pansy - a thought, symbolising devotion and faithfulness, remembrance, honour, even humility.

But mainly it means: "I am always thinking of you".

In other words, the pansy is an all-round excellent fellow; humble though it is. we should plant many more of them, in spite of their dowdy image with some gardeners. The pansy will brighten any spot and is at home equally in the ground as in any kind of container.

Still reading? Well done. I’ll stop now.

My Friend The Tree Is Dead*

For the average German the forest is more than just the sum of the trees. When trees are threatened, Germans go on the warpath. I well remember the time of the late 70s when “sour rain” (i.e. acid rain), supposedly coming from Scandinavia, caused the great dying of the forests, particularly coniferous forests like the Schwarzwald (Black Forest). At the time the damage was thought to be irreversible. In Germany the forest is not only a cultural landscape formed through forestry and the result of modern recreational activities ranging from GPS-guided hikes to treetop trails. Much more than that, the woods and trees possess great symbolic, spiritual and fairytale-like charismatic powers and have always been celebrated in German poetry, art and music. Many of the fairy tales collected by the Brothers Grimm are set in Enchanted Forests.  In this way the forest is deeply rooted in the German consciousness – not only when we are using the woods for recreational purposes.

Two millennia ago, when Germany was 90% woodland, (compared to about 20% now) the army of Hermann defeated the then greatest military power on earth, the Roman army, by setting an ambush in a narrow corridor between  impassable swamps on one side and hilly, thicketed forests on the other, the great battle of the Teutoburger Wald in 9 AD. The victory gave the woodland warriors a symbol of invincibility in the forest.

Even hard-headed German politicians subscribe to the cult of trees; in a 1983 interview Chancellor Helmut Kohl said : mythology,  Germans and the forest, they all belong together.

still standing - beech and truncated horse chestnut

Which brings me to the death of our own ancient horse chestnut. It has been sickening for some time - a few years ago we lightened its load by having the sail trimmed drastically - but during the recent gales on two consecutive days and nights it finally gave up the fight. During the first night the left hand fork came down and the next night the long branch on the right collapsed. No one was hurt but the garden beneath took a direct hit. My heart broke when I saw the terminally damaged giant.

the left fork

There was no help for it, the tree had to come down completely. Tree fellers moved in and set to work, trimming what was left of the canopy, power-sawing, chopping and chipping mercilessly, and carting the slaughtered remains away.

There is now a great gap in the hedge, allowing clear views across the valley; you’d say that’s not so bad, but it also allows the wind coming up the valley funnel newly opened access to the garden, probably bringing down several smaller trees which were damaged in the giant’s fall in the process.

The damage to the woodland garden is considerable, tree fellers trampling all over it during the removal of the horse chestnut hasn’t done it any favours. Fences are down, the leaf mould enclosure is no more, and a few terracotta pots have been shattered, their contents lost in the general mayhem.

As a dedicated tree hugger minus one very special specimen I am very sad.

*Title borrowed from a German song by Alexandra
 "Mein Freund Der Baum Ist Tot".

Pills, Potions And Piety

The Guardian

The remnants of Gonzalo landed on these shores last night and today. It had long blown out its destructive fury across the other side of the world and the gales and rain storms it brought our way were unpleasant but not deadly, although a woman was killed when a tree fell on her.

Sitting in the conservatory this morning,  looking out at the high winds playing with trees and shrubs and listening to small twigs, beech mast and leaves cluttering on the glass roof, I felt snug and warm and safe. Breakfast over, but the day not fully begun I was counting out pills and capsules - all supplementary vitamins, minerals, fish oils, plant sterols, glucosamine and chondroitin, etc. etc. for the next twenty days, thinking how soon daylight will end at four pm again and I will once again struggle to cope with SAD.

It’s my name day today, Oct 21. I don’t celebrate it as I would in Germany, in fact, I usually forget it. Ursula was adopted as a Christian saint and a great embroidery of innocence, piety and sacrifice was stitched around her in a long, involved and frequently changing legend, (depending on who is telling the story).

A more interesting story can be read in a 6000 year old script, 'Old Europe Script’,  symbols invented by ancestors of the Celts,  seen by some as the earliest proto-language. which refers to the ‘Bear Goddess’ : The Bear Goddess and the Bird Goddess are the Bear Goddess indeed. It could mean that the bear goddess and bird goddess merged into a single goddess.  Some archaeologists have claimed that the bear is the oldest European deity. I like this historically equally unproven story better than the legend of the holy maiden who was martyred for her piety.

Looking into the Perpetual Almanack for inspiration I found this short entry for Oct 22:

**By Tradition, the anniversary of Creation:

“In the beginning God created Heaven and Earth. Which beginning of time, according to our Chronology, fell upon the entrance of the night preceding the 23rd day of October, in the year 4004 before Christ.”

James Ussher  -  The Annals of the World 1658**


I thought that William Blake’s work “Europe a Prophecy"
The Ancient of Days, copy K from the Fitzwilliam Museum, would be a fitting end to Ussher’s pronouncement and to this rather cobbled together blog post.

It’s been one of those days.

Self Pity And Other Vices

When delving into the philosophy of how best to live life in midlife and beyond, many bloggers stress the importance of remaining productive, being positive, keeping busy, working for others via charitable deeds, and practicing gratitude for everything life hands out, every breath we take, every additional day we are granted. Idleness, self-indulgence, a bout of self-pity, a moan about ’the unfairness of it all’, some healthy self-interest, are castigated as unworthy, foolish, sinful. There’s that little word ‘self’ again. Perish the thought it should get a foothold!

Well, I don’t agree. Not in the blanket, no-deviation-allowed-ever way.

What did the ancient Greeks call a person who takes the afternoon off instead of concentrating on filing her (overdue) tax return? A lotus-eater! A diet not to be sniffed at in my opinion. What’s the point of having reached that famous midlife and beyond point if I’m still flogging myself into a frenzy of activity?

I am looking up poems for tomorrow’s poetry group meeting. The subject is ‘Happiness’, which, according to the advocates of all those virtues mentioned in the first paragraph, is the sure-fire result, if only you practice what they preach.

Guess what, not a single poem on Happiness I found, praises relentless positivity, busyness, rattling through the days on a quest for achievement, aching muscles and a to do list with every item crossed off. A bunch of lotus-eaters if ever there was one, these poetry merchants. They are happiest lying on their back in the grass, watching drifting clouds,  their reverie interrupted by the cries of a flock of geese. That’s all they need to set off a train of thought ending in something as fleeting and immaterial as a poetic idyll. (Unless they are enclosed in an attic, starving and warming their hands on the pitiful flame of a candle stub.)

I’m all for it. (The lying in the grass, not starving in a garret)

As for the most vilified sin of all, self-pity, who can say that they are entirely free of the occasional bout? Why is it considered to be particularly disgraceful? I see it as neither a virtue nor a vice, but simply an inevitable emotion. Others may sympathise with our misfortune, but the moment affairs of their own divert their attention, we are alone again, unconsoled. We have to be sorry for ourselves: nobody else can sympathise with us as steadily, as loyally as we, and it is from such sympathy that we draw strength to put a decent public face upon our misfortunes.

I’ll allow gratitude. Aesop, another ancient Greek, said ‘Gratitude is the Sign of a Noble Soul’. But I doubt he meant it in the sense of being grateful for all the nasty surprises life has in store for us. When the people of Delphi sentenced him to death on a trumped-up charge of temple theft, he cursed them. After they’d thrown him to his death off a cliff, the Delphians suffered pestilence and famine.

The Wonders of the WWW

or How to Spend a Profitable Afternoon. (It’s still raining)

What started me off I no longer know.  I remember I was idly looking for poetry by Wilhelm Busch, to enliven a meeting of the German Conversation Group next week.  Heinrich Christian Wilhelm Busch (1832-1908) was a German humorist, poet, illustrator and painter. He published comic illustrated cautionary tales from 1859; the one most people know is the tale of Max Und Moritz, a Rascals’ History in Seven Tricks:

Ah, how oft we read or hear of

boys we almost stand in fear of.

For example, take these stories

of two youths, named Max and Moritz

. . . . . . .

Busch was a wise old bird and I enjoyed my trip down memory lane. How Busch led to Tannhauser I have no idea now, but Tannhauser was the next port of call. I am frequently surprised that the obscure subjects which interest me can be found on the internet at all;  I am duly grateful, nevertheless.

Wagner’s Opera Tannhauser is well-known; I wasn’t after Wagner, I was after the legend on which Wagner based his libretto. Tannhauser was a knight who,  based on his Bußlied, (song of atonement) became the subject of legend. The story makes Tannhäuser a knight and poet who found the Venusberg, the subterranean home of Venus, and spent a year there worshipping the goddess. Not from afar, either. As these things go, he duly became aware of his sinful behaviour, left the Venusberg, asked Pope Urban for forgiveness but was told that forgiveness was as likely as it would be for the papal staff to burst into blossom. Which it promptly did, it’s a legend, after all. But Tannhauser had already gone back to ground with Venus and was never seen again.

Tannhauser wasn’t only a legendary figure, he was an active courtier at the court of Frederic II in the 13th century,as I found when I clicked on a learned text, the Codex Manesse, the single most comprehensive source of Middle High German Minnesang poetry. The manuscript is famous for its colourful full-page miniatures, one each for 137 minnesingers.The Codex was compiled in the first half of the 14th century and lists the names of Minnesingers of the mid 12th to early 14th century, Tannhauser among them. (How he became the stuff of legend is not immediately apparent. I expect somebody somewhere knows but I’d have to go on clicking for a lot longer to find out.) The Codex itself has had a very turbulent destiny, having changed ownership in many wars, disputes, a succession of rulers and even for filthy lucre at times. Now it’s back in its spiritual home of the University Library of Heidelberg.

The www is a wonderful tool, but rather lonely. Beloved and I used to do this sort of journey of exploration via books in the old days; ending up with piles of them, each reference leading to another, until books and time ran out. So, come suppertime, I told him of my researches and we instantly fell into the old habit, minus the pile of books. Wagner’s Tannhauser came first, Beloved being knowledgable about opera, but then we went off at a tangent, confusing Tannhauser with Lohengrin, who is a character in German Arthurian literature. The son of Parzival (Percival), he is a knight of the Holy Grail sent in a boat pulled by swans to rescue a maiden who can never ask his identity. His story, which first appears in Wolfram von Eschenbach's Parzival, is a version of the Knight of the Swan legend known from a variety of medieval sources. Wolfram was a German knight and poet, regarded as one of the greatest epic poets of his time. As a Minnesinger, he also wrote lyric poetry. (The miniature is taken from the Codex Manesse, as is the one of Tannhauser above.)

Naturally Elsa, the maiden whom Lohengrin rescued and who became his wife, asked after his origin, which made Lohengrin take up boat and swan and disappear back down the Rhine, never to return.

We hadn’t quite finished with our exploration; having been to Kleve (Cleves) and the Schwanenburg with the tower from which the legendary Elsa espied her knight in shining armour floating down the Rhine to rescue her, we briefly revisited our memories of the trip but soon got back to more ancient times, i.e, Anne of Cleves, the Flanders Mare, who became Henry VIII 4th wife from January to July 1540. They clearly didn’t hit it off and the marriage was speedily annulled. Holbein’s painting of her is said to be more flattering than realistic.

Having arrived at Henry VIII, about whom we know far too much to feel the slightest interest in exploring him further than in theatrical plays on the stage, we finally gave up.

I had a lovely time, we both did. I even enjoyed writing this post.

Advent Diary, day 9 - Herbs and Advent Wreaths

Every year I put candles on a large wooden plate,

and arrange pine cones and small pieces of tree bark, sprayed golden, around them.

The proper thing to do would be to make an advent wreath

and either hang it from the ceiling if it’s very large,

or put it on a table which is not used for anything else.

For me, my plate suffices.

This year I decided to snip up some herbs and add them to the plate. Both bay and rosemary grow in the garden and both have a lovely scent when rubbed between the fingers, or simply placed in a warm environment.


Evergreen rosemary - the rose of the Virgin Mary -  is one of the special plants for Christmas. There is a lovely legend connected with it: it was believed to blossom at  midnight on Christmas Eve, and to have acquired its scent from the garments of the Infant Jesus, which the Virgin hung out to dry on a rosemary bush. Rosemary does indeed flower in winter.

‘Rosemary comforteth the brain, the memory and the inward senses. The distilled water of the flowers, being drunk morning and evening, taketh away the stench of the mouth and breath, and maketh it very sweet’.

Gerard’s Herbal 1636

Also:

Where rosemary grows, the woman rules the House. Anon

Advent Diary, day 6 - The Feast of St Nicholas

Jan Jiri Heinsch

1647-1712

St. Nicholas giving alms to the poor and needy of his diocese.

All good children in mid-European countries had a lovely surprise today: St Nicholas brought them presents. Children who had been well behaved and never told fibs and never irritated grown-ups and were most unchildlike during the previous year were finally rewarded for their creepiness.

They might have saved themselves the trouble, the naughty ones had presents too, of course. They just promised to be good in future.

Jane Collier in her The Art of Ingeniously Tormenting (1753) had a splendid use for real pests:

‘There is no better use of having your children noisy and troublesome, than this of plaguing all your acquaintance. For you may suffer them, when you have visitors, to make such a racket that you cannot hear one another speak. Let them also, with their greasy fingers, soil and besmear your visitors’ clothes; put their fingers and dirty noses into the cream pot, and dribble over the sugar............... in short, be more troublesome and offensive than squirrels, parrots or monkeys.

Fair enough; but wouldn’t it have been easier not to invite visitors in the first place?

The Wedding Feast

Resurrection Reunion 2, 1945, Sir Stanley Spencer

The Mag 192

Provided by Tess Kincaid.

Many years ago, I received an invitation to a very grand wedding; a beautiful young princess, with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood and hair as black as ebony, was marrying the King’s son and all the people of the land were to come and join in the celebrations. You can imagine how delighted we were to attend the festivities and see the happy pair be joined in holy matrimony. After the ceremony, tables were carried in laden with all manner of glorious food; there were capons, geese, larks, chickens, beef, bacon, lamb, salmon, herring, eels and other fresh water fish; the dairy had contributed cheeses and butter and great mounds of eggs.  There were huge bowls of sweet and spicy mead, there was ale, cider and perry, while the courtiers themselves drank wine. In short it was a feast to make the heart sing.

When all had eaten and drunk their fill, a band of musicians entered the hall and a space was cleared for dancing.  Prince and Princess led the courtly dances with a Quadrille, but jigs and country dances soon took over and we ordinary folk joined the fray, kicking and hopping until our faces turned red and the sweat poured off the peasant’s brow.

It was then I saw her: a beautiful woman, no longer young but well preserved, dressed in courtly finery and glittering jewels, dancing in the centre of the throng. I had had to take a breather, my heart was pounding fit to burst and while I looked round to find a way out and maybe a stool to perch on for a minute, my eye was drawn to her. She danced wilder and faster than anyone else around; other dancers had opened up a circle around her and as they backed away, I saw horror on their faces. Curious, I edged nearer, the better to see her: her feet fairly flew across the ground. Her shoes! Oh, Lord have Mercy, her shoes! they were of iron, red-hot iron and no matter how hard she tried to shake them off, they were stuck to her feet.

And now I recognised her.

I had, of course, heard of her and her envious, malicious and murderous deeds. Not content with banishing Snow-white she had then thrice tried to kill her; first trying to lace her to death, then by combing her hair with a poisoned comb and lastly by making her choke on a poisoned apple. Three times her plan failed and Snow-white was resurrected, twice by the dwarves with whom she had found a home and lastly by the Prince, who fell in love with her instantly, the moment he saw her lying in her glass coffin.

The wicked stepmother’s machinations had finally failed and now she was paying the price. Condemned to dance herself to death there was to be no miraculous resurrection for her.

Whoooooo

that was scary!

Just at the mirk and midnight hour

The Fair Folk will ride

They that would their true love win

At Miles Cross they must bide.

The Ballad of Tam Lin

Last night was the best night of the year to divine the identity of your future husband or wife. If you missed it this year, here’s what you do next Halloween:

Take a candle and go alone to a mirror in a darkened room; eat an apple while looking into it, combing your hair all the while, and the face of your lover - or of the Devil - will appear over your shoulder.

Do try and remember, I won’t remind you again.

The Day of the Little Bear

The Martyrdom of St Ursula

German art - 16th century

It’s been my name day today. In mainly catholic countries in Europe as well as Latin America, somebody’s name day is at least as important as their birthday, sometimes more so. In olden days a child was christened the day after birth and given the name of the saint who had died or been martyred on that day. For instance, Martin Luther was born on the 10th November and christened on the 11th, the feast day of Martin of Tours.

Birthday celebrations have taken over in secular life and when I mention name days I always get “what’s that?” in return. But for my aunt Katie and her friends, who lived in a small rural community on the Lower Rhine, name days were the highlight of their personal year. Each one of them baked cakes and pastries in advance of their  own great day and invited the others and anyone whom they valued, brothers and sisters and cousins, to ‘Namenstag Kaffee und Kuchen’ and a little something home brewed to round off the festivities. They made fruit liqueurs in those days, potent enough to redden checks and loosen tongues; wine and ready bottled alcohol was beyond their means. Everybody brought flowers, often pot plants, and a small present. The more friends and family you had, with whom you were on good terms, the more often you were part of this harmless indulgence. My father disapproved and when he made his usual dog-in-the-mangerish remarks, my mum said “nothing to do with you; let them have their fun”; living in town she wasn’t part of aunt Katie's jolly circles. I am sure she often regretted it.

I got my Christian name quite by accident. Mum and Dad had lost their first child and may therefore not have wanted to be too certain that the second child, i.e. me, would live; anyway, they didn't discuss names. When the nurse came to enquire, they looked at each other and said “we don’t have a name for her.” (Good start, wouldn’t you say?) Babies were kept away from mothers in communal nurseries until they were handed over to be fed.  The next time the nurse distributed her squalling and hungry charges, she said to my mother: “and for you I have a little Ursula”. “So be it”, my parents said, “one name’s as good as any other.” That’s how I became “the little bear”.


The legend of Ursula is based on a 4th- or 5th-century inscription from the Church of St. Ursula (on the Ursulaplatz) in Cologne. It states that the ancient basilica had been restored on the site where some holy virgins were killed. St Ursula is no longer wholeheartedly endorsed as a Christian martyr, too many different versions of her story exist and there is little evidence that any of them are true. Ursula and 11.000 virgins were supposedly killed by the Huns when they overran Cologne. The figure of 11.000 is probably a misreading of the Latin text, and the 11.000 virgins were more likely 11 ladies of Ursula’s royal train.

Be that as it may, I quite like the idea of being named after a Romano-British royal personage, who did good deeds and led a short but exemplary life. Granted, her ending wasn’t much fun, I’d have probably married the Hun prince rather than opted for martyrdom - where there’s life there’s hope of getting out of a sticky situation - but she wouldn’t have become famous if she had.

I didn’t celebrate my name day but I had a lovely present anyway: the absolutely delightful Frances of City Views Country Dreams came all the way from New York to Ludlow, in the pouring rain, to spend a glorious afternoon with me, no sacrifice required.

PS: that’s Ludlow in the UK, so from New York, NY to Ludlow, UK, is quite a distance.

Epic Journeys

The time has come for swallows, martins and swifts to leave the UK and embark on their epic migration to South Africa, so make the most of the last few in the skies. 

A final preen . . .

Swallows indicate the end of the summer when they depart for warmer climes and that is where our swallows are currently headed.  They undertake an impressive 6000 mile migration between the UK and South Africa twice a year in search of food. They nest in the UK in the summer, but as they only feed on aerial insects (the majority of which are large flies, such as horseflies and bluebottles), their food source starts to run out in the autumn.

Faced with the prospect of little or no food, they start to head south during September and October. 

It’s no walk in the park for these tiny birds as their extreme migration takes them south through Europe and across the Sahara desert.

They cover approximately 200 miles a day, generally at about 20mph – the maximum flight speed recorded was a whopping 35mph. 

During their epic journey, swallows easily fall prey to starvation, exhaustion and extreme weather conditions, not to mention being trapped and killed in Southern Europe, the Middle East and North Africa in their hundreds of thousands during the migratory period.  (The July issue of National Geographic covers the slaughter of birds in detail - don’t go there if you are at all squeamish)

 . . .  are we ready . . . 

. . . let’s go.

See you on the other side of the world.

The disappearance of swallows and other migrants in the autumn was for long a great mystery. Some firmly believed that they hibernated at the bottom of lakes or ponds, and others that they hid and remained torpid until spring.

“In the Northern waters, fishermen often draw up in their nets an abundance of swallows, hanging together like a conglomerated mass. In the beginning of Autumn, they assemble themselves together in the reeds by ponds, where, allowing themselves to sink into the water, they join bill to bill, wing to wing and foot to foot.”

Olaus Magnus, History of the Northern Nations, 1550

But in 1776, in the Naturalist’s Journal, Gilbert White asked:

“But if hirundines (swallows) hide in rocks and caverns, how do they, while torpid, avoid being eaten by weasels and other vermin?"

Golden Potatoes

photo Agustin Berocal

Tess Kincaid’s Magpie 177

In the days when people undertook long journeys overland on foot a goldsmith and a tailor were travelling together.  One evening they had reached the edge of a wood when they heard music and laughter. They decided that such jolly sounds meant jolly company, so they entered the wood and soon came upon a group of little people, dancing and singing in a clearing, by the light of the harvests moon.

The two travellers stood full of astonishment, watching the dance. The tallest of the little people, an old man, who whirled and stomped the hardest, beckoned them to join in. The goldsmith, brave as only a hunchback can be, jumped at the chance whereas the tailor held back at first, but when he saw how merrily all was going he plucked up the courage to step into the circle.

The travellers sang and danced and leaped about, all fear having vanished. Then the old man drew a large knife from his belt, whetted it and jumped upon them. Instantly terrified the pair crouched and cringed but from within the circle of little people there was no escape. The old man seized the goldsmith and with the greatest speed shaved the hair off his head and then did the same to the tailor. The little people laughed and slapped the travellers on the back, as if to say how brave they had been and what good sports. The old man laughed the hardest and then pointed to a heap of potatoes to one side and urged the travellers to stuff their pockets with them.

Not knowing what to make of it the travellers did and then continued on their journey. They found a poor inn where they spent the night on straw pallets, covering themselves with their coats. Waking up hungry in the morning a baked potato seemed a good idea. They went to the fireplace and were just about to put a potato each into the ashes when they noticed a golden glow: the potatoes had turned to nuggets of pure gold!  They had become rich beyond their wildest dreams. Happily, too, the hair on their heads was there again, thick as ever.

The tailor wept tears of joy but the goldsmith, being a greedy man, instantly wanted more. He belaboured the tailor to go back with him when night fell and bring back still greater treasure from the old man with the knife. The tailor refused. He stayed at the inn and promised to wait for the goldsmith to return from the wood.

In the evening the goldsmith hung a couple of bags over his shoulders so that he could stow away a great deal and took to the road they had travelled the day before. He found the little folks at their singing and dancing, and the old man again shaved him clean and signed to him to take some potatoes away with him. He was not slow about stuffing as much into his bags as would go, came back to the inn quite delighted and covered himself with his coat. He fell asleep with the sweet anticipation of waking an enormously rich man.

O the folly of greed! The potatoes in his bags remained potatoes and what’s more, the previous night’s gold had turned back into nothing more than wholesome, earthy tubers. The goldsmith wept bitter tears, and his wailing became even louder when he rubbed his head and found himself as bald as a coot. 

The good tailor felt sorry for him. He comforted the goldsmith who was as contrite as any poor sinner facing up to the error of his ways and promised to share his own wealth with him. He kept his word and the two of them continued on their journey, steering well clear of singing and dancing and all such temptation they might later come to regret.

(With a nod and a wink in the direction of the Brothers Grimm, two old men who might well have told a morality tale along similar lines)

Green Man Day 2013

The Green Man may have won the battle for supremacy over Frosty, the cruel Ice Queen, and installed the May Queen on her throne for what is laughably known as summer hereabouts, but there’s no guarantee that he can defeat regular English weather gods, who have been throwing bitter winds and driving rain at us today, just three days later.

The Battle on the Bridge is the dramatic focal point of the Green Man weekend, and always takes place at noon on Mayday (Spring Bank Holiday Monday). The Green Man and Ice Queen each have their entourage and approach the Bridge in procession from opposite sides. The Green Man comes down the hill from the Church with the May Queen, whilst the Frost Queen descends Bridge Street with her little icicles. Thousands of visitors come for the weekend to join in the spectacle, while half the inhabitants barricade themselves in and don’t appear until the last teacups and beer mugs have been fished out of the river and village dogs have retrieved and eaten all remnants of burgers, stuffed bread rolls and ice cream cones.

The weather was glorious, the crowds lively, and the many different bands, canned music, the man with the chainsaw carving animal shapes, and whistling public address systems, all competed with each other for attention.

 Mid-morning stallholders set up tents and gazebos.

 Getting in supplies for the tea tent.

 Portable toilets handily placed behind the large beer tent.

One in - one out, 

quick turnover assured.

 Let the fun begin.

St George And The Dragon

St George is the patron saint of England and each year his death is celebrated on this day. John Aubrey of Brief Lives, 1626-1697,  English antiquary, natural philosopher and writer, composed the following ditty on the matter:

To save a Maid, St George the Dragon slew

A pretty tale, if all it told be true

Most say, there are no Dragons and tis said

There was no George, pray God there was a Maid.

St George And The Dragon
Paolo Uccello - 1397-1475

“It happened that George once travelled to the city of Silena in the province of Lybia. Near this town there was a pond as large as a lake where a plague-bearing dragon lurked; and many times the dragon had put the populace to flight when they came out armed against him, for he used to come up to the city walls and poison everyone who came within reach of his breath. To appease the fury of this monster the townspeople fed him two sheep every day; otherwise he would invade their city and a great many would perish. But in time they were running out of sheep and could not get any more, so, having held a council, they paid him tribute of one sheep and one man or woman. The name of a youth or maiden was drawn by lot, and no one was exempt from the draft; but soon almost all the young people had been eaten up. Then one day the lot fell upon the only daughter of the king, and she was seized and set aside for the dragon…when, weeping, he had blessed her, she started toward the lake.” (The Golden Legend)

At which point the gallant St George, who happened to be passing at the time, decided to intervene.  According to Uccello, he is a knight in slightly shining armour with  the face of a very young insurance agent,  holding an inordinately long lance (very useful for dealing with plague-breathing monsters). He goes straight to the root of the problem and spears the halitotic dragon in the back of its foul-smelling throat. Gouts of blood drip on to the rocky ground.  As the beast ducks away,  the remarkably unruffled heroine, not a hair out of place and not a stain on her royal garments after her ordeal,  snares it with her girdle. She holds the dragon as you would hold a dog on its lead, her hand telling the cornered and fatally wounded beast to ‘sit’.

I am not sure what happened afterwards; St George being a hero and a saint, he probably had no time for dalliance, never mind matrimony, and returned the haughty maid unsullied to her father’s protection.


If you want to see what the English poet Ursula A. Fanthorpe had to say about the whole thing, painting as well as tale, take a look at Friko’s Poetry and Pictures. Fanthorpe gives each of the three protagonists ample room to voice their innermost thoughts.

The Crafty Peasant

Chilmark Hay, 1951
by Thomas Hart Benton

Tess Kincaid's Magpie Prompt No. 125

Once upon a time there was an honest peasant who was also particularly crafty, even more so than most of his kind. He took on, and beat, the devil at his own game, which was no mean feat, I can tell you.

One evening, after a hard day's work, just as the church bells rang for vespers, the peasant was making his way home to the village, when he saw a heap of steaming manure in the middle of his field. He went to investigate and, to his utter astonishment, saw a little black devil sitting in the midst of the live heap.

"You sit upon a great treasure there," said the peasant.

"Yes, indeed," said the devil, "worth more than all the gold and silver you have ever seen in your life."

"It's my field and therefore the treasure belongs to me," said the peasant. "Be off with you this instant."

"Not so fast, young man," said the devil. "I'll let you have it under one condition: give me half of everything your field produces for two years, and the treasure shall be yours at the end of it."

The peasant did some thinking. He didn't want to go telling lies but gaining the treasure was very tempting. "Wait a minute," he said to himself, "half of everything? Fair enough, there are halves and then there are halves."

"You're on", the peasant said to the devil. "Let's establish some ground rules first, though. Everything above ground shall be yours and everything below shall be mine."

The devil was satisfied with that, but when it came to harvest time, the devil was left with a pile of yellowing, useless, leaves, for the crafty peasant had sown turnips. While he made away with a wagon load of them, the devil danced about in fury, swearing he would make sure the rules were reversed the following year. 

"I'm willing," the peasant said. He had been planning a change from turnips anyway, so he sowed wheat. The grain became ripe and the peasant went into the field and cut the stalks down to the ground until there was nothing left for the devil but the stubble.

Realising he had been outwitted by the simple peasant yet again, the devil, in his shame, spontaneously combusted and sizzled and fizzled down into a cleft in the earth and was never seen again. The peasant spread the manure over his field, thus making sure that his harvest would be excellent for years to come.

PS:

Last night I saw Henry IV. Part I, in which Hotspur says to his cousin:

And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil

By telling truth: tell truth and shame the devil.

And then there were the Brothers Grimm, elements of whose tale I may have borrowed, not quite accidentally.

On The Banks of The River Acheron

Tess Kincaid's MAGPIE PROMPT No. 95

On the banks of the River of Woe,

Forsaken by the gods,

I await your return from Hades,

O Charon.

Sullen and wrathful my life,

In death condemned

 To wander

These shores,

My soul yearns for release.

I beseech you,

O Charon,

Ferry me across the dark river

To the mouth of Hades,

And the Adamantine Gates

Guarded by Cerberus,

Take me to

Eternal bliss

In the Elysian Fields.

My Obol be your reward.

THE FEAST OF ST. NIKOLAUS

This is an article I wrote for a local paper.

Normal service will be resumed shortly.

I've been ill and without a computer. Although back home and feeling much better,

I haven't got enough energy to come and visit all my lovely friends; it'll take me a while 

to get round to all of you.

And there I was, hoping to collect enough stories, reminiscences and poems for another

Advent calendar for you and maybe reach four hundred followers by the end of this year. 

Ah well. 

Maybe next year.

Knecht Ruprecht

Agios Nikolaos , better known as Saint Nicholas, was a fourth century bishop in Myra, now part of modern Turkey. Historically, there is very little more that is known of him, except that he is generally seen as a charitable man with a social conscience.

Legends however, abound. Nicolaos saves his home town from famine by miraculously providing grain;  he saves three maidens from shame and ignominy by secretly leaving three pieces of gold in their hovel, while they sleep, thus providing them with a dowry. He saves sailors from a watery grave and leads a young man imprisoned in a distant country back to his homeland. His most famous legendary miracle is that he is said to have revived and reassembled three drunken  students, who had been murdered, chopped up and pickled in a vat by an evil innkeeper. No wonder that Nicolaos became the patron saint of, among others, children, students, sailors, travelling merchants and apothecaries.

The feast day of St Nicholas falls on December 6th and is still celebrated in many western and eastern European countries; during  the night of December 5th  he arrives to bring gifts to the children of Germany.

These gifts had to have been earned, only ‘good’ children were the lucky recipients of Sankt Nikolaus’ presents.  'Nikolaus' was one of those saints, like St. Martin, whose feast days we children awaited with great excitement, but, in the case of the former, a modicum of uneasiness. No matter how good we may have been, there were always those disturbing memories of having been naughty at some time during the year since he last visited,  which had caused parents or teachers to be displeased. Nikolaus had a golden book in which he carefully noted all our good and bad deeds, and even thoughts. Good children were rewarded with presents on Nikolaus Eve, but bad children were punished. Nikolaus had a special companion for the purpose, his servant Ruprecht; Ruprecht carried Nikolaus' heavy sack filled with presents but he  also carried a switch made of birch twigs, with which he beat the air occasionally, making us hold on to mother if the switch whistled by too close for comfort.

During early Advent, father occasionally brought sweets or some biscuits home after work. "I saw Nikolaus today and he let me take these from his basket". I thought that was a good sign; we children believed every word adults uttered.

We were also busy writing wish lists for Nikolaus. Times were still very hard and presents were not then taken for granted, as they are now. Our requests were modest compared to today’s. A wooden toy, perhaps a rag doll, sweets and biscuits, nuts and fruit and a picture book or two, those are the presents I remember.  I never had to wear wooden clogs, like my father did as a boy, but I had a pair just for Nikolaus Day, because they were the appropriate receptacle for Nikolaus' gifts in the Lower Rhineland.

Until we were able to travel again to family living in other villages and celebrate the day with my cousins, Sankt Nikolaus didn’t come to me in person. “He has to visit too many other children to make time to come here, he may not come at all”, mother said.  Obviously, I was very disappointed but also just a little relieved; my conscience was never totally clear. As the evening progressed, the atmosphere in the kitchen, where I was sitting with my back to the large, old-fashioned range, with a picture or colouring book, grew quiet, with a slight tingle of tension in the air. I kept my head down firmly over my book, all the time listening for sounds from outside.

The noise, when it came, did not come from outside, but from right behind me. With a great clatter a wooden toy, a tin of hard boiled sweets and toffees, apples and  gingerbread biscuits came flying into the room. Sankt Nikolaus had thrown all these goodies down the chimney for me and they had survived coming down into the kitchen via the big black stove pipe and the fire in the range. It was a wonder mother hadn’t been hit because she was standing right there, in the way. On the other hand, it was good that she was standing there because she said she had heard Sankt Nikolaus  shout down the chimney that he might come again, later in the night, on his way back home and if he had anything left in his sack he’d put it into my clogs, if I left them out for him. Which I did, naturally, just in case.  And Sankt Nikolaus was as good as his word: in the morning I found that he had left me a book and a teddy bear and more sweets and sticky gingerbread and apples than could fit into my clogs!

One particular year, before I outgrew my belief in  Nikolaus, we spent the feast day at my aunt Johanna’s house; my cousin Dieter was the same age as me, about six or seven. He and I had been told to get ready for a visit from Nikolaus and that he would expect us to sing a song or recite a poem. That wasn’t a problem, every child knew the traditional songs and poems; the problem was, would our nerve hold? Dieter opted for a song, which meant I had to recite a poem. I remember it well “Von drauss vom Walde komm ich her. . . . . .”  We practiced all afternoon.

When male members of the family, disguised with beard and in appropriate costume, i.e., a magnificent coat with a deep hood and boots for Sankt Nikolaus and all enveloping dark rags for the Servant Ruprecht, roughly knocked on the door and demanded entry, many a child’s heart beat furiously, fearfully remembering a small lie, a naughty deed or a hidden shame. December’s early darkness fell, but before the lights in the cold, outer hallway could be lit, my older cousin Helga rushed into the kitchen, shouting “ Nikolaus is on his way, he’s already been next door, he’ll be here any minute.”

Both Dieter and I went into hiding. But it wasn’t any good, we had to come out; there was Nikolaus and although he sounded gruff and a little hoarse, he looked quite kindly on us. Dieter croaked a verse of his song and I managed to stumble through the first two lines of the poem which I knew off by heart, before I gave up. Nikolaus then asked “What do you say, have you been good children? Do you think you deserve a present?”

Quick as a flash my cousin Dieter said: “I have, but Ursula hasn’t. She always spits at me.”

I couldn’t let him get away with that. I said: “ Dieter does it too, he spits first.”

Nikolaus appeared to have been overcome with emotion at that, as evidenced by his heaving shoulders; we both got away with it.

I am glad to say that the custom of frightening children with the spectre of a vengeful Knecht (Servant) Ruprecht ended during my childhood. It was usually my uncle who dressed up as Nikolaus and it didn't take us children long to work it out for ourselves. Knecht Ruprecht was said to be waiting outside by the sleigh, but the adults gave up the pretence of even that.

Sleeping Beauty

Tess Kincaid's Magpie Tale No. 92

For other responses, click on the prompt.

Once upon a time, in a far distant kingdom, there lived a beautiful princess. Beautiful princesses live in castles, and Dornröschen,  for that was her name, was no exception. Life was good, Dornröschen was not only very pretty, but also a good girl. As in so many far distant lands of the time, a very wicked witch also lived in the kingdom. It is well known that witches were usually extremely envious of pretty young maidens, who also happen to be princesses, and this one ran true to form. She cast a spell on Dornröschen, which made the girl fall into a deep sleep destined to last for a hundred years. Just so that nobody would notice her evil deed - although quite what she hoped to achieve by turning Dornröschen into a sleeping beauty, is anyone's guess - she caused the thick thorn bushes around the castle to grow to enormous heights, much like my hedges, when they haven't been cut for a year.

Time passed, the thorn bushes gradually encroached on the lawns and pleasure gardens, until the long tendrils had almost swallowed up the castle itself. Dornröschen slept the sleep of the just, on and on, blissfully unaware of the world around her. Nobody had set the alarm, lucky girl.

And then, one day, out of the blue, a young man happened upon the thicket of thorn bushes. It was summer and the bushes were covered in the sweetest smelling blossom. He decided to investigate. He was a prince, not only handsome but also courageous - they always were, calling a prince cowardly just wouldn't do, would it ? -  so he hacked his way deeper and deeper into the thicket until he came upon the enchanted castle. He made his way inside and found the princess' bedchamber. She had slept so deeply and peacefully, that she had hardly rumpled the sheets, after all this time they still showed the marks where they had been folded after ironing. I wish somebody would do that for my bedlinen.

Dornröschen looked so very pretty and inviting, that the prince just couldn't help himself, he kissed her. He was, of course, meant to do just that, that's how you wake a princess.

Dornröschen stretched and yawned and stretched again. She opened her eyes.

"Hallo there, you've awakened me, who are you?  And how did you get in here?"

"I am the handsome prince, come to rescue you from the spell of the wicked witch." He must have had a sudden flash of inspiration, or perhaps he remembered a tale which his old nurse used to tell him; anyway he got it right. (If you, dear reader, are not satisfied with this explanation, you may make up your own.)

"Oh, thank you, thank you so much," Dornröschen cried. She vaguely remembered seeing the witch approach her with a malicious glint in her eye and cackling something unintelligible - we know it must have been the spell - . She remembered nothing after that.

The prince lay down on the bed but, as he had been brought up properly, he tenderly held her head in his hands and kissed her sweet lips. He remembered again the story his old nurse had told him and knew what would happen next. "We shall be married," he said, "we shall be prince and princess together and live happily ever after."

The princess quite fancied him and had no objections to the plan. But one thing bothered her, would he turn out to be a fortune hunter? In spite of her innocence she had seen the way of the world before she fell asleep. Her father - where had He been all this time? - had often enough warned her.

"Before we go any further", she said, " how about getting the lawyers to draw up a pre-nuptial agreement?"

The Rainwitch

Tess Kincaid's Magpie No. 84

Woman In The Rain

The land was burning.

There had been no rain for the whole of an exceptionally hot summer;

grass on the hillsides turned dry and brown, leaving sheep and cattle without feed;

hedges and verges grew dusty and trees lost their lustre.

Desperate and exhausted, the people turned to the Rainwitch for help.

Their plight moved her heart.

(She was one of the good witches, always willing to do her best for those in need)

She saw livestock dying in the meadows, 

 crops withering in the fields,

rivers running dry, 

and fish suffocating in shallow pools which had been shimmering lakes. 

She called her familiar, Old Raven, and bid him fly up into the  skies.

"See where the rainclouds have gathered,

and bring me news of those ready to discharge",

she ordered.

When Old Raven returned he had a gossamer thread of the finest silk tied to his wing.

" I have found the clouds ,

see, I have brought a flock of them , enough to refresh the land."

he  croaked.

The Rainwitch

duly did her magic.

Soon, 

lakes and rivers were overflowing,

bursting their banks.

The sky was black and heavy

with a flock of clouds,

 darkness swallowed light. 

day became night.

At first the people rejoiced.

They danced in the rain

as they watched their wells fill up with life-giving water,

and grasses, fields and hedges recover. 

"Thank you, thank you", they cried.

"You have saved our lives and our livelihood.

We will be forever in your debt."

But by and by, as the rains continued to fall, new voices were heard.

"Enough already", they said. "Enough of a good thing.

Are you trying to drown us?"

Roads flooded, and the people couldn't drive their livestock to market.

Fields were sodden and crops in danger of rotting.

Bedding grew damp and mouldy and depression set in.

"Will these dark days never end?"

Old Raven brought the news to his mistress.

"They are fed up down there", he croaked.

"You know that humans are never satisfied, whatever you do for them."

Old Raven was a wise old bird, he'd  seen it all before.

The Rainwitch was a little annoyed.

"Very well, then," she said, 

"I shall return to them and stop the rain".

She climbed up on her rock rising from the lake, spread her arms wide,

and told the rain to end

and the light to return.

"But I'll tell you one thing, Old Raven," she said, 

while the rain eased and daylight once more returned to the land,

"this was the last time I've come to their assistance. 

From now on they can make do with the seasons."

She was true to her word

and the picture above was the last anyone ever saw of her again.